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Notre Dame de Namur University

Bohemian 2006-07 The Cast alan toy

er

Ultimate Web Develop

pauline lim

inaire

Procrastinator Extraord

katie bliss

Intellectual Ditz

y shantea julian huer

Therapuetic Poet

brien hopkins

The Gate Keeper

conrad clevlen

frances gatchalian Submit your title ASAP

john larsen

The Enucleator

bianca nery Hyphy Hepburn

erik oeverndiek

Old Guard

sergio patterson

Black Mamba

jennifer castillo

M W (12:00 PM–12:50 PM)

A man among monkeys

book design & production :: www.weihercreative.com


Table of Contents

Sam White

Cathy Barber

Shantea Julian Huery

Shantea Julian Huery

Melissa Koh

Darla E. Rojas

Claire Karoly

Adam Wickham

Cathy Barber

Katie Bliss

Daniela Kantorova

David Baird

Frances Iyoyo Gatchalian

Pam Brown

Anthony Huery

Zerlina Lim

Sr. Kay McMullen, SNDdeN

Nora Mercer

Ashley Bart W.H. Linton

Kelli Murata

Lucyann Murray

Ashley Bart

Anthony Zedan

Nora Mercer

Daniel Gleeson

Alden Dean Pam Brown

Isidra Reyna

Frances Iyoyo Gatchalian

Peter Young

Jessica Rine

Sam White

Daniela Kantorova

Robert Bechtle’s “’68 Nova” Scared of Life Blackness Flight 2007 Body and Mind Artwork Cancer for Dickie Close the Door Again & Again Artwork A Reflection Culpability of Congress for Iraq “Cream” (RIP 4-17-06) Artwork A Deeper Listening Autumn Artwork Black Sun: Last Note, South Rend Artwork Escape from Flight 657 Artwork Paul Ponders Five Miles from Nowhere Artwork Painted Hands George W. Bush President of the United States Artwork I Rembember Childhood…and Later Artwork In the Presence of God In Training Love…an old poen dating to February

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3 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 10 11 12 13 13 14 15 15 16 21 22 24 25 26 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

20

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Sarah Rose Butler

Cyndi Castor

Nora Mercer

Lisa Leong

Sam White

Peter Young

Anthony Zedan

Alicia Otis

Kelli Murata

Pam Brown

Sarah Rose Butler

Ashley Bart

Jill L. Ferguson

Sam White

Yuping Pauline Lim

Quinton McCurine

Sam White

Conrad Clevlen

Shantea Julian Huery

Pam Brown

Kelli Murata

Alicia Otis

Frances Iyoyo Gatchalian

Sarah Rose Butler

Sarah Rose Butler

Alicia Otis

Erica M. Spacher

Quinton McCurine

Kelsey Lynn Walsh

Alden Dean

Guy Tiphane Deon Sharps

Patricia Ryan

Nora Mercer

Jessica Rine

Katie Bliss

Ashley Bart

Love is Mine

Sr. Kay McMullen, SNDdeN

Artwork

The Book of Enchantments of Milinark

Sr. Kay McMullen, SNDdeN

Artwork

Conrad Clevlen

40 40 41 42 42 43 44 44 45 46 48 51 52 52 53 54 54 55 56 62 63 63 64 64 65 66 67 67 68 68 69 70 71

“Mr. White”

Anthony Huery

Artwork

Quinton McCurine

On Fire

Anthony Zedan

She Twists Her Hair

Cathy Barber

Artwork

Alicia Otis

My God Aren’t I An American?

Daniel Gleeson

Her

Jessica Rine

Artwork

Bianca Nery

IM Friend

Andrea Colangelo The Gift Is Only As Grand As The Hand That Holds It

On the Battlefield Paper Cranes Artwork Presence Artwork Noises Our President in Wartime Artwork Recollecting Her Untitled Play Sing-Song of the Naturally Thin Fragments of an Evening Together Worry Bones Standing Artwork She is Gone Slipping Off The Hook Solstice Artwork Flower(s) Artwork

Daniel Gleeson

Artwork

Riverwalk

74 74 75 78 79 79 80 81 82

Stress Free

Pauline Lim

John Larsen

Isidra Reyna

Diana Enriquez

Sarah Rose Butler

Sarah Rose Butler

Shantea Julian Huery

Elisabeth Eros

Adam Wickham

Jessica Rine

Lisa Marie Wong

Amanda Holland

Shantea Julian Huery

Marcos Garcia

Muriel Lynch Calegari

Deon Sharps

83 85 86 86 87 88 92 92 93 94 95 96 96 97 98 100 101 101 102 103

biographies

104

Katie Bliss

Peter Young

Katie Bliss

Peter Young

The Angel Stan

72 72 73 73

Artwork Sacred Mystery Artwork

Artwork The Ballad of the Red-Blooded Un-American The Dollhouses of Tahiti The Excitement Passed Artwork The Beach There’s No Place Like Home

The Rooms Artwork Unclaimed Baggage Artwork Words Uncle Jimmy’s Suicide Untitled Photo of Isidra Reyna Why My Sweetheart Cries in the Night-time Sun Who Would Have Known? Tree of Knowledge Artwork Unavoidable Embrace A Kiss in the Woods Rain Let’s Runaway Artwork Remotely Romantic! Artwork

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20

sam white A shattered heart: that’s what I get, messing with 20. Should’ve known better than to think that I could have something real with you; that you could be as crazy about me as you are about you. Messing with 20 at this age. Foolish to hope that my phone calls—not to mention my feelings, would be returned by you—perhaps when you weren’t doing something important like hanging at the mall. Ridiculous, imagining it was more than the fleeting lust my head told me it was. “Stupid!” my head screamed loudly. Your beauty screamed louder. Imagining this was something different—that YOU would be different. It’s my fault; I stored in my heart, promises whispered that night and broken by next day’s light. And still I believed this time things would be different. While you, drunk with youthful indifference, continue hanging at the mall.

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Robert Bechtle’s “’68 Nova”

Scared of Life

My work speaks for itself— “’68 Nova” is a lithograph of a car in an apartment carport. The building is designed around the car—it is the residents’ ticket to this building—there is nowhere to walk. I wanted to highlight American automobile culture in which everything is the same. Even the materials in the building are found in the car—glass, metal, fabric. The colors of the building and the ground are the washed-out color of the cars. Only the lights and the license plate, an indication of identity, have color. The further you park the car in the carport, the further you enter the shadow; just as when you enter your apartment, you pass into initial darkness, walk out of your building— pull the car out to drive, and you are back in the light.

Surrounded in the darkness, and held captive to my luck and circumstances I sit here trapped, and mentally all alone fighting in the night looking up at the starry skies Praying, praying, and searching for hope, victory, and mercy to be bestowed upon me

cathy barber

shantea julian huery

Far greater movements have been made in this world and far more burdens have been lifted Today God I stand here naked and bare in front of you asking you to show me your greatness show me your will… Lord I only have you…I only want you Please help, please help, please Lord help…………

Blackness

shantea julian huery You don’t understand me, and guess what ? You never will! I’m too complex and I am too unique I know that my presence frightens you And to tell you the truth I don’t quite understand you I know that my caramel skin threatens you and my husbands blackness is a threat

Simply this right here “ I am black, I was born in America and so were my parents Ramona and Kevin not Abdul and Sarabi everything I know is being “black” not African I understand that you call your self Caucasian or White, and I call myself Black Just as Tumba from Africa is an African and becomes an American citizen he is African American I don’t understand you and there are a plethora of things you do not and will not understand about me I live in another land, I eat different food, and I walk a different walk in a path Toward the direction our maker, the one who made me who I am and you as you are!

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You say Why is it that I don’t want to be called an African American And I say “why is it that you don’t understand the meaning of the word” I am not talking about slavery and plantations I am talkin simple

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Just sounds like a personal problem to me A personal problem perpetuated day to day, person to person May ‘be I think too much or maybe you don’t think enough


Flight

2007

she stares out the window imagines the brick roof of the apartment complex is clouds that streak across blue space that space between his shoulder and her right ear is electricity: she can tilt her cheek towards his skin but just doesn’t want to

The door is ajar The door is coming open from afar

he opens his mouth,     if we had met before her, do you think, she turns, surprised

As the light of the New Year floats on in!

he sees the cliffs in her eyes

In anticipation In 2007 a veil is lifted! There is hope, there is joy and a glimmer of every wish to be revealed by the new advent of coming days.

melissa koh

he closes his mouth he imagines time is inside his hand he flexes his fingers, once, and imagines the world has spun away that he can give her stories without closing his eyes when he looks at her, she sees her reflection  in his eyes behind the pupils whirl tornadoes and shacks she feels the thousand year old trees inside her gut uproot, wants to throw up the wreckage in the kitchen sink but says instead,     so, i guess you have to leave now? 

darlia e. rojas

The room becomes bathed in a radiant glow—

Coming days radiant with good tidings for each. 2007 harkens to our hearts to find perfection in the mundane to find those secrets long held dear-—  Open those lost treasures & make them real.  Sit quietly in one’s radient hope. 2007 shines its brilliant light in.

he is afraid to touch her afraid he will become weightless and forgetful afraid of the possibility of rebirth afraid of his skin crumbling away, leaving him raw he feels a strong breeze between them realizes the air comes from his own lips she feels the wind on her shoulders and spreads her arms like she is falling

The door has now opened and we are in! In Luck, In Money, In Health, In Spirit, In Mercy, In Joy!

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she senses the length of his body, long and limber like wood she swallows, hard

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they both imagine the other is standing, and then climb to their feet  


Body and Mind claire karoly

my first breath is in vain. in my bed lies a twin, the loved one. i am weak, dependent, neglected. we reside side by side. as you thrive, the epitome of strength, i struggle to hold on to any scrap of breath you spare me. you know me, but you ignore me for your only truth is the tangible. i sit in darkness.

leave me behind. i collapse inside. you collide withe the asphalt, just a body, no more, laying in a pool of blood and tears. i watch you for awhile, the ground drinking your emptiness. i watch you depart, take a breath, my last, join you in your grave. we died side by side in the darkness. you the body, me the mind. when you walked out that door, you closed our life. you sealed our fate and left us to perish. for the mind cannot live without the body, nor the body without the mind.

my feet make their advance. you, the fountain of beauty, offer your hand. i am lesser, obsolete, but appreciation has grown, not because of love, but because of need. you need me to be complete. i am just thankful to see the sun, my skin pale from being locked away so long. you watch me, writhing in pain, as the light licks my cheek. i look into your eyes.

the door opens. the night floods in. you’re leaving me forever. we’re not compatible, not agreeable. you walk out that door, a stake driven through my heart, feet striking the cold pavement as it begins to rain. without a second thought you leave it behind,

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you won’t listen. i don’t see your eyes anymore, you always conceal them. we still share a room, but never a word. i try to get through to you, show you the truth. you shun me and run off with them. they used to look down upon us, treated us like traitors to our kind. now they hold you up, praise you as righteous. you’ve turned on me, left me shivering in the cold. i dissolve into darkness.

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your fingers stroke my cheek. you embrace my value, you hold me to the highest esteem. they talk about us, whisper about our bond. we are a scandal, they can’t handle us. you stand up for me, make me proud, defend me from their scorn. we are a couple ridiculed by the world. they can never understand the depth we possess. it is beyond them. i hold you close to my bosom.

adam wickham


Cancer for Dickie cathy barber

If you’ve seen a zodiac, you know. Cancer is the crab. From the Greek, carcinos for crayfish. Hippocrates, premier coiner, used the term even then for ulcers and growths. Later, the Romans translated carcinos to cancer. What an odd juxtaposition of meanings, those tiny creatures and tinier menaces. I used to catch crayfish in a clear stream that ran under a narrow, metal bridge. My sister, a few years older. Me, in my shorts. Jars in hand. The trick was to scoop quick and deep with the jar. The water sploshed as the jar brokc the surface. That method worked for the first crayfish. I can’t remember how we got the rest. We must have rooted them out by hand, moving their hiding places, the small rocks. They were such scuttlers! Fast! And they wiggled their tails in the bottom sand, as though it were a blanket or living tissue that would settle back over them. We didn’t keep them. We emptied our jars in the stream. I’d throw them back now if I could, I’d throw them all back.

Close the Door katie bliss

You say you need more time You need some space away You don’t know how you feel And you can no longer be mine My eyes plead for you to stay I reach out with a whimper of hope But you walk towards that door And we linger in the hallway of our love. The door is closing I rush to keep it open But it has a persistent rush A desire to abandon The walls move inwards The lights grow dim In this once exuberant room Where we first were ignited. The darkness seems to swallow The air turns thick I can hardly breathe And that door is moving faster The touch of your skin Your breath next to mine So close to my lips But you pull away

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I crawl inside I bury my mind in folds of grief The lights blow out And that door surrenders.

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Again & Again

frances iyoyo gatchalian

It is autumn and I see the light. I see the devils dancing around the fire, swinging their pitchforks, Heating the blades, swallowing the hearts, blood dripping from their mouths I sit by the fire. I see the witches tearing at my flesh, I feel their teeth biting deep, I feel their claws in my brain, ripping it apart; blood dripping from their mouths I become the fire The heart, the brain are no longer there. Their shreds, their blood sunk into the soil, and it feels like it has rained. The world is new again. Had I known this before, I would have cherished the pain.

I’m standing in front of the bathroom sink counting the pimples on my face. Today, I am twenty years old. Seven years ago, I was doing the exact same thing…and I was the exact same height. I lie down to think of my life in retrospect. I feel like things have almost come full circle and not in a good way. I’ve been keeping a journal over the past two years in order to rightfully track my emotions and reactions to certain things. Of course, one would thing that with the shit I’ve been through, at least some sort of emotional progress would be made. However, this is not so. I’ve found myself coming to the exact same revelations about the same situations. 3:19. As I turn to my head to the left, the words of the Trainspotting poster pop out. “wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning.” Technically, it is a Sunday morning. And I’m fucking drunk. I hit the play button on my laptop. “You’ve got your ball, you’ve got your chain…” I think about freshmen year of college, sitting in Golden Gate Park with good company watching Dave Matthews play. It was the first time I got high. I run my hands through my hair. I had it all at same point. At least, I thought I had it all. I had the boyfriend, the grades, friends. I was going away for college. You could see things going downhill from at least a mile away. Maybe it’s a feeling. Maybe you subconsciously know it at the back of your head. And you sabotage it because you know it’s coming. Or maybe it just hits you in the fucking face. And you don’t know when or how the hell it happened. I hate those people. I’ve been one of those people. I fucking hate being one of those people.

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daniela kantorova

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david baird

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A Reflection


Culpability of Congress for Iraq

“Cream” (RIP 4-17-06)

Grasping hands together Standing on the steps of the House Hot and sweaty facing the Nation after hours of protective custody Following the destruction of towers, The destruction of confident continental conceit.

The presence of a Black woman can lift a room Inspiring all to do the best that they can do Feeding a family of ten through the hardest times Ands with the shortest ends   Raising a povern stricken family in the toughest hood alone Without dropping a tear nor showing fear No one starved at all   The presence of a Black woman can lift a room Doing the best that she can do No hopes of payment or presents of gratitude Instead humbly doing what she was called to do

by pam brown

Democratic and Republican Faces representing the heart Of personal terror. Immobilized By shock, wanting to fight Back, only happy to sign the Patriot Act: That personal need for action. Oblivious to the power Given to an impotent leader

anthony huery

Racing into war, True reason unfounded, Revenge leading the pack.

Bent on irretrievable error To tread a path lined with the death of Our sons and hard won credibility on the World stage. Americans see that Their words meant nothing.

zerlina lim

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Yet, today, those representatives spoke Not for us but for fear Of career ruin as the propagators of the Patriot Act. Not one Senator or Representative states…I was wrong. The fear of Culpability Allows a rogue President

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Years of death, billions spent, a whole Muslim country divided By Sunni, Shia, and Kurdish Ancient hatred. A place we will never belong And, to top it all off, The American people represented open their eyes to see their country being led into a bottomless bog of Failure. They vote to reverse the pattern of revenge But Democracy states That their elected officials speak their voices.


A Deeper Listening

Autumn

Be present, quiet.

Falling leaves of green and gold Tumble to the ground. The winter chill begins to frost Over summer fields, Coating the grass with ephemeral stars That glisten in the morning light.

sr. kay mcmullen, sndden

Quit your hurry and wait for a deeper listening to become possible.

nora mercer

Care for your garden and learn the steady turning of the planet. Rest against a redwood and feel the heart-beat of its thousand years. Take off your shoes and play with white surf laughing on golden sand.

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Walk out into the storm with the ease of meadow grasses bending with the wind.

ashley bart


Black Sun: Last Note, South Rend w.h. linton

Everyone has a story, and if you read mine, you’ll die with me... july 25th, 2004 Last night was a dream. But I’m afraid to write it down because the past few months have been a hell. I’ve been the lid of a can under the can opener. Too bad for the glutton, underneath is nothing but rotten meat. I’ve tried everything. Every imaginable physical, mental, emotional, spiritual, psychedelic element has suggested itself to me as a spark of hope. I’ve tried it all. And it all gets squashed. Beetle under tractor treads. july 28th, 2004 I’ve had the dream for a week now. It’s so strange. I’m used to nightmares. I have a recurring one where my... unit... has a seam, comes off I’m not careful. If dreams mean something, that one fucking scares me.

august 11th, 2004 The dream. It started simple. Me, standing in a field. Barley. Wind’s blowing, sky’s purple. Sun is black. I don’t know if it’s really even the sun or a tunnel in the sky. I think I hear a howling and the only thing I notice is a pair of footsteps, fifty feet in front of me. I step closer and see more footsteps. Each time I take a step, another appears further down the trail. I follow the prints and just as I start to see something, I wake up. That was the dream the first few nights. Each time I got a little further. Then, the next time, the grain starts to part in front of the footsteps. I realize someone’s walking ahead of me. I can’t see the person. I walk faster. Next time I dream, I watch as grain is torn off the top of its stalks, clutched by an invisible hand. It’s like a kid trailing a hand through the grass and ripping stuff up. And then everything’s different. The lines twist, the atmosphere is a torrent, everything bends toward the hidden person in front of me. I try to walk faster. Black sun looms over the hill.

july 29th, 2004 Why am I even writing this down? Been through that way too many times and been killed way too many times. I know better.

I walk as fast as I can and realize I need to catch up to this person. No idea why. I never have thoughts like these and it scares me.

I HATE this. Who’s playing with me. Some bastard with a spiritual sword is hacking away at me. Why can’t I just die. Or feel.

I’m not surprised it’s sorrow I feel. But I’m stunned I know what the person, what she, feels. At this point I know it’s a she. I break into a sprint. Don’t know where or why she’s running but I must reach her.

yes, tool. july 31st, 2004 This dream’s really starting to scare me. I get this poison feeling of significance. Oil pumping through my veins, spreading out from my chest, and pounding my brain.

august 10th, 2004 The dream goes on. Tried to kill it but it didn’t work. Problem is, this seems like a spiritual thing and when spiritual things happen they usually win out. Blocking a spiritual thing is like trying to block a train with your outstretched hands. I’m fucked, I think. august 10th, 2004

august 14, 2004 Didn’t expect this. My spirit’s in shock. I was not prepared for this. Tonight: after a day of fighting for control of my feelings, I walked outside, delirious and completely deaf to anything but the moaning in my head. I heard strange ambient music, a vast throbbing ocean of sound. As I looked for the concert, all I found were scattered leaves. Almost yelled when I thought I saw a black sun that was actually a building. I’ve stopped resisting the urge to write. august 15, 2004 How can I know her how do I know her I’ve never even seen her but I’ve known her since before I was born. She is a part of me. I have been numb and she has been in pain. I hate this shit but I feel manipulated. I don’t even have a choice. I’m starting to wonder who she is and if I will ever meet her. The black sun’s always beyond reach.

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august 8th, 2004 I tried drowning out the hope with despair. The way I usually do this is first I hit the streets and find a ribcage to sink my fists into. Then, lose or win, I destroy my mind with deadly music and something like magical fungi.

Just as I am about to meet her, I wake up.

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Five hours later, I got home and burned it.

This one’s a little different. It’s haunting but not revolting. It creeps me out but only because I don’t know what’s going on.

“why can’t we not be sober i just want to start this over why can’t we drink forever i just want to start things over”

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Can’t stop writing about this. I usually hate writing in journals. I loathe the way I write, the words I use. Reading them is revolting. But yesterday I woke up and wrote a 10page account of the night’s dream.


august 18th, 2004 I have always shivered violently when first messing around with a chick. My soul knows my other half and rejects any and all posers. She is so beautiful, so delicate and complex, like a song, tiny slivers of angelic voice carving among each other and twining a weaving of sound that cries of a broken heart, sorrow, and yet love... a deadly beautiful face that smiles. I want to explore...

In last night’s dream, I meet her. Meeting eyes is a confessional of everything deepest inside us, with her I am raw and exposed.

august 21st, 2004 Kill it, I hate hoping. This better die soon because the longer it lasts the worse the end will be.

Twisted palm trees full of shamanic energy, black against the evil purple sky. They loom and we’re only humans, only children of the god. We can only take so much but we fear together, frightened as one. We step toward the black sun.

august 26th, 2004 Maybe not. Maybe this is something good. Maybe it’ll last. Look at my entries before. She’s with me in the blackness. Maybe this is EXACTLY what I need.

september 15th, 2004 And while I know that I can feel my most intoxicated when I am with you, what is really below that at the depths of our touch is the harrowing familiarity. Songs I hear for the first time can stun me with their power but they’re nothing compared to songs that dwell in my soul.

august 27th, 2004 Fuck no. Kill it now. august 30th, 2004 Heart full, conscience empty. I need to open my veins. All my life I suppressed emotions and thoughts from the world. Finally I share them. august 31st, 2004 She explores with me We are always going ahead Remember the black sun? Last night we heard the pounding of drums, the whining of bass and sweet soprano gold, slicing our intentions, knowing what we truly wanted, like the eyes of the person you both love and fear. Then we realized we’re the ones making the music, sending sweet sound, a flood of warm ivory golden reds cut through with fuzzy steels, afloat on a storm of drum and as I reach out my hand to touch it, I wake up.

september 8th, 2004 I’ve learned, changed, doesn’t quite matter what I used to be afraid of... Both understandings collided, extracted the synthesis... It’s strange, watching myself change. Meeting her has made me see myself and I’ve lost my despair. Embrace the emptiness now... september 10th, 2004 I love you, but to me this is the embrace of blackness

Call me a twisted freak but I find existentialism romantic

Last night, we hit the cliffs again. Black sun ahead, hanging howling and we take a step forward. We see the tunnel ahead, the nothingness hole. We walk across the dark grinning ocean, malevolent under our feet and we are now at the tunnel, our feet bumping its rim. Side by side, hand in hand, we touch it. We take a step forward and, as I see her begging me not to leave, I wake up. september 20th, 2004 Unleashed. He has been hiding under layers and layers of dirt and my own poor pathetic stone floors and he’s tearing everything apart. What a strange time of life. september 23rd 23rd 23rd, 2004 this was one of those days a haze woke up in a daze stumbled out of bed totally awake but not sober ate nothing put pants on fucking backwards didnt know what was doing wandered around apartment to understand where was all time in the air in the background in ears a moaning like whales sober would have been maddening ominous got freaked walked outside around went back to bed took nap needed sleep woke up neck in agony couldnt turn head shitty sunny day went outside the glaring sun appreciating attempts to be healthy in the blackness, there is no sun ignored it got in car backed out of parking spot drove through parking lot, came to exit, cars parked always blocking view of street,

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That’s what true life is That’s what my love is This is the love that will survive anything because it assumes death It’s already died

I don’t know why, but I know that I was made for some things and some things were made for me. And it breaks me. My spirit yells out in delight peace and agony. But now I have someone to share my agony with.

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august 31st, 2004 I am screwing myself.

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september 11th, 2004 Last entry’s bizarre, I’d never write something like that except spiritually drunk, like I was that night. But it’s not a sick hope because it doesn’t feel “UP”. I don’t feel “filled”. Instead I am ultra-aware of everything inside.


cant look neck stiff pain chest, yelling no no no bare foot pressed gas pedal, go ahead anyway body thumped front of car fell on to pavement moment of shock and dread immobilized in front seat of car stay in car trying to make it go away a dream, right right right no dream get out of car leaden doors go over to mess lying on street, look down the face i know it is the girl i know in my dreams she is dead lying on the street september 26th, 2004 oh god october 2nd, 2004 oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit october 11th, 2004 try to forget reality pendulums up like feverdelirium october 15th, 2004 it was her what was she doing there she was so beautiful what was she doing on my street was she coming to visit me had she seen me and was coming to look for me she was just dead on the street no expression but shock on her face did she even know me did she have the dreams too the last dream i left her and she begged me not to go

i am sorry why isnt she in my dreams what did i do what did i do i should have listened to the whales i shouldnt have taken the nap where are you where are you i need you come and stop the abyss from clawing my bones to shreds it hurts i need you to touch me again ??, ??? i am ocd now i feel sorry for inanimate objects, if i see a rock lying alone on the road i must put it back with its companions i went back to my old apartment today and my guts came spilling out when i saw the spot where it happened, she was there, her body was there, she was physically there she affected that place in the world and now gone. no one will know, she is lost now. ????? today i didnt get to work because there were 316 isolated leaves that needed help ????? I hate feeling compassion, it is such a degrading emotion, pitying someone is seeing them as shit that needs your sympathy new age, year of dawning I remember the blackness. The tunnel, the nothingness in my soul. That is what I will embrace. She is there. I loved her. Now it’s time to know the true full meaning of the nothingness I thought I knew. I’m so lonely. When she died she stepped into the black sun. She did not leave me. I pushed her and now I will follow her. Love. She looks out from the other side. I know that when I cross she will be there. I am coming, now. Wait for me…

october 29th, 2004 xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx october, 2004 i hate you

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october 25th, 2004 oh i killed her

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october 20th, 2004 fuck there’s no way she had the dreams, this all is bullshit makes no sense at all, i’m a freak this is stupid i’m long gone, out of my old apartment

october, 2004 oh i miss you november, 2004 where are you i miss you my soul needs you come back in my dreams why did you leave

kelli murata


Escape from Flight 657

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“Only one hour, and we’re on our way to coconut heaven,” Gary shouted as he danced me around the airline ticket counter. “Yeah, only one hour until they strap me down in a tin can and hurl me into space!” “You’ll be fine,” he said, beaming. Gary didn’t accept fear, nor would he allow mine to dampen his mood. He’d recently been promoted to a vice presidency, and his company was sending several executives and their spouses on a gratis vacation to Hawaii. Nice perk, but unfortunately this spouse looked upon any trip involving flight as a potential kamikaze mission. The trip itinerary read like a white knuckler’s nightmare and involved so much island hopping I figured someone would have to club me over the head to get me through it. I would have to endure the agony of nine plane trips, eighteen takeoffs and landings and hours of suspension in space. Bottom line: Gary’s coconut heaven was my pineapple hell. I had elevated fear of flying into an art form for a lot of reasons. Claustrophobia topped the list. Also, I had a mechanical aptitude score of zero which made me distrust all machines. Then, of course, there was terrorism, though it was well before 9/11. While other passengers watched movies or slept on flights, I spent my time searching out suspicious looking passengers, listening for signs of engine failure, and keeping an eye peeled for spontaneous flames leaping from the wing. Why, I’d wonder, didn’t the plane drop out of the sky like a rock as gravity intended, and how could I stick my head out the window to suck in fresh air? By the time I reached my destination, I wanted to check into a recovery center, not the Piña Colada Hilton! Gary snapped me out of my negative thoughts to announce it was time to board the first of my nine-flight nightmare. This first trip from San Francisco to Palm Springs was to drop off our two young children with my parents, who would care for them while we were frolicking in paradise. The plan was to then rent a car and drive to L.A. the next day where all of the employees would gather to fly to Hawaii together. I was proud to make it through the first flight without hyperventilating into a paper bag, though the flight attendant, who was smiling so hard I thought her lips would turn blue, didn’t help matters when she pointed out the duality of the foam rubber cushions we were sitting on. She informed us that they served as a seat while flying and a flotation device after crashing into the water. “Oh, great,” I muttered, “the airlines are cost efficient.” That night at my parent’s home, I drifted in and out of a troubled sleep, tormented by nightmares of downed aircraft. Sitting bolt upright in the darkness, I made a decision. He can’t make me go. I’m a grownup! I’d come out of my closet of terror and admit I’d rather have brain surgery than get on eight more airplanes. Heck, I had recently read in a self-help book on fear that humorist James Thurber’s grandmother was afraid of empty light sockets. Now, what was a little fear of flying next to breaking into a panic over an electrical outlet? Yes, at first light of day, I’d tell Gary all this! He’d understand. It was a pathetic ploy to hope to look normal by such extreme comparison and when I delivered my little speech, I was greeted with a look that should have been reserved for someone who poisons dogs. “I can’t believe you want me to take a romantic free vacation for two—-alone!” With that he started throwing his luggage in the trunk of the rental car with a fury, tossing mine aside. My mom, the woman partially responsible for my phobia and who had delivered weekly updates on all airline disasters in the known world for most of my life, seemed in total agreement with him.

the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

lucyann murray

“Go! It will be fine,” said the woman who had never boarded an airplane in her 60 years on earth. Defeated, I kissed the children goodbye and threw myself in the car along with my luggage. “Your enthusiasm overwhelms me,” Gary said sarcastically. “Just drive,” I replied, as I stuck my tongue out at the back of his head in childish fashion and gave him the silent treatment all the way to Los Angeles. In L.A. I had to endure a posh company party, schmooze with pompous executives, and feign excitement over a free vacation to coconut heaven. Sleep eluded me that night after the party, and when morning arrived, I was awake to greet it. I went through the empty rituals of grooming and emerged dressed in an outfit I looked upon as my shroud. A person ravaged by fear of flying needs on-time flights on new planes, good weather and enough alcohol to dull reality. This was sheer fantasy, for the airline had something else entirely in store for me. A record breaking rainstorm played havoc with the flights, rendering an airport full of backed up planes. In fact, six hours after our scheduled departure time found us still waiting to board. Everyone was growing impatient and angry, anxious to get to the hula dancers and balmy breezes. I just wanted to go home and hug my kids! Then suddenly, without so much as an explanation, an airline agent announced our flight would not be going directly to Hawaii after all. “We will be making a small detour to San Diego. Boarding will be delayed.” “Can you believe it? They’re adding another trip to my nightmare” I shouted at Gary, who by now was pretending he didn’t know me. A fellow white knuckler named Zachary, who had sought me out the night of the party, took me aside and whispered, “I hear they’re having mechanical problems with the plane.” That was all I needed to hear. My brain paced inside my skull, searching frantically for a way to scrap the kamikaze missions. But not yet over the edge, I stuck it out, hands clammy, heart racing. After more time fell into the black hole of oblivion, we finally took off and landed safely in San Diego. Two down and eight to go. We were told to remain on the plane, that takeoff for Hawaii would be immediate. That was some joke! “We should have been slathering suntan lotion on our bodies hours ago,” I quipped to Zachary. “Immediately” turned into another hour with no explanation forthcoming for the delay. Zachary began trudging the aisles and calling our vehicle the death trap. The poi and coconut set of flight attendants attired in “let’s have a luau” fashions surfaced to lift the rotten mood their airline had put us in. They chattered on about beckoning Hawaii, but I no longer believed anyone connected with this trip. I broke into a silent barrage of Hail Marys, as my latent Catholicism surfaced. Gary, meanwhile, continued to read the Wall Street Journal, and pretend he had a normal wife. Finally, ten hours after our official departure time, they announced we were ready for takeoff. The engines started up, and we began to taxi out to the runway. I said a quick prayer for the sobriety of the pilot and leaned back in my seat. I could do this. Then suddenly they cut the engines, and the pilot’s voice filled the cabin, “Folks, we’re experiencing mechanical problems, and we’ll have to return to the hanger for repairs.” Aha! Zachary was right. This was the death trap! Horrified, I knew the scenario. Nobody was going to give us a shiny new plane and throw this broken heap in the garbage like I wanted them to. Oh, no! They would march out the recent graduates of jet mechanic school, armed with hammers and scotch tape, patch up the old plane, herd us back on, and toss us back into space. And up there over that cold ocean, there was no shoulder to pull over on, no detour to San Diego. There were only seat-sized cushions to float on after crashing into the water. NOW I was over the edge. Fear had consumed me and emerged victorious. My free vacation cohorts could sit on this runway until the next ice age hit Southern California,


but I was out of here! I bolted from my seat, a raw mass of power and energy surging through my body while the theme from Rocky played in my head. My children would not be orphaned! I glanced back at Gary who was sitting in a cloud of gloom as he watched his wife escape from flight 657 and a freebee to coconut heaven. They let me off the plane with the instruction that I would not be allowed to return if I left the flight. “Works for me,” I yelled back. With terra firma at last under my feet, the cool air brushing my body and rain running down my face, I was high with delight at having pulled off this delicious escape to freedom. It wasn’t until much later in the day as I boarded a bus to my parents’ home to retrieve my children that I realized the magnitude of what I had done. I abandoned my husband on a flight, that in my fear-crazed mind, I believed to be doomed. I left him to suffer public humiliation before company employees in this quirky version of being dumped at the altar. He had thousands of dollars in traveler’s checks that were in my name only. Worst of all, I stuck him with three pieces of feminine luggage which he would have to lug with him on all those plane trips. The maids in the hotels would think he was a transvestite. I smiled at the thought and then laughed out loud to the drunk passed out on the seat next to me. I snuggled down and gazed through the rain-splattered window as the landscape floated by. Freedom never felt so good.

Paul Ponders

anthony zedan Paul ponders the fate of the feisty turtle in his blotchy palm and wonders in his cleanly shaven head where the smelly critter swam to once released into the murky pond of moving shells and flexing nostrils, wonders where his disciplined mind if also released would instinctively struggle toward, what safe bank or dangerous depth—veiny hands that spent hours executing martial arts moves mercifully open and release

END

Paul thinks about things so deeply that the world pulses, respires, almost doubles-over in excruciating pain and gives up its secrets, momentarily stops; he has an eye for delving deep and seeing things clearly, without excessive artifice or oppressive ego, his marked vascular forearms and inked flesh a testament to ideas, to self-control, to listening, to a real compassion rarely found outside of the Lotus Position

NOTE: My buddy Zachary anointed me the folk hero of Flight 657. The angry and frightened passengers didn’t arrive at their destination until late the next day. Gary and I divorced a few years later. He remarried a woman with airline benefits who has flown to Hawaii 27 times. I remarried a man who harbors a romantic love for the train and road trips across the North American continent. We have all lived happily ever after.

Paul cups the turtle in his hand, pets it following the pattern on its back and carefully returns him to his temporary home of seamed glass and gravel, coming face-to-face to our many deeper selves encoded in its shell, encountering our common ancestral drives in ragged claws and sharpened bite interrupted by unintelligible moments of surprising compassion

the bohemian 2006-07

Releasing the tiny creature after weeks of confinement into a pond of rough heads breaking the surface, hungry ones paddling toward the edge, Paul sees the whole world mirrored in the cloudy moat pond, the lethargic clawed paddlers, the hovering hawk and branch, starved cranes balancing themselves on one leg and scattered sparrows, delicate feathers brushed in ink wash

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ashley bart

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Trapped and strangely comforted by these ancient solid syncretic shells of Confucius meets Christ on a lonely dusty path, these yellowed classroom walls where generations of students have opened dog-eared textbooks to English lessons and minds to places far from this remote archipelago, Paul plays the conversation like a slow game of beginner chess, convincing his students that winning is not as important as playing.

the bohemian 2006-07

After three weeks of silent meditation, Paul awakens to the world as it really is, rarely seen much less imagined, giddy with living, and subsisting on ideas behind every chirping rock, calm insect and muddy drop of rain, swimming in a sea of the possible, monk-like, watching the darkness turn to light across the horizon of the mind, stillness in brooms and rakes that will prepare this temple for another day. My eyes become misty seeing so many spiritual mountain men and so many muscular generations lost to time, so much sweat spent, so many lifetimes compounded into dust, so much vision fading


Five Miles From Nowhere nora mercer

Painted Hands

Study on the oil painting Nonchaloir (Repose) by John Singer Sargent

alden dean Went five miles from nowhere Just to see what was there. I’ll tell you what I found On the cold, dusty ground. That is to say, I would If what I found I could, But I’ve no words to say What I found there that day.

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the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

On the cold, dusty ground Was a man that I found Looking up at the stars Dreaming dreams and memoirs Which he told then to me As I sat on my knees, And he told me so well Of his time down in Hell.

every stroke of the oil laden brush blots the painter’s canvas with questions capturing secrets of life held within, each curve and flush of color bleeding through the pigment fleshing out the young sleeping woman silhouette shapely as the light at dusk yearning for things beyond reach, brush traveling hurriedly down the face nose pert with nostrils slightly flared in sleep—a warning? revelation? roughed lips emerge unparted in unconscious decision her core incompletely drawn in strokes broad and chopped clear to the observant, scent imagined like an awakening rose within aside the unlined luminescent cheek aglow in nature’s gift of youth, soft not-yet-determined chin curving down to her black beribboned throat dreaming of a necklace of pearls being strung along her neck sure as dew on a spider’s web at dawn, bushes of her hair lie brushed back against the pillow in dark, thick luxurious waves covering entirely her ears and framing her face, the girl sleeps on the summer sofa draped beneath creases of dull gold cloth the suggestion of bosom underneath, a paisley print shawl belonging to her aunt sprawls across her lap having slipped from her shoulders, hidden from view are her feet perhaps bare tucked beneath the puffed skirt of stylish green gown, her hands basking in late afternoon repose contours of flesh, bone and muscle lie idle, resting loosely clasped on her lap tapered fingers blushed the color of innocence loved for what they are, satisfied beauty not yet complete

daniel gleeson


George W. Bush President of the United States of America pam brown

I have protected my mother, My country, and proved my father right. Sadaam is dead, taxes have not been raised. The throne has been righted….my father can stand proud And I am the one who did it all.

And, one day I grew up A determined fanciful man Careless of my foundation For, that was a given. My father roared in my imagination As I wiggled amongst a Throng of siblings all grasping For the limelight that was my mother. I drank, I smoked, I married a librarian. All, in hopes that I would be the pride of the flock, A soaring eagle, certainly not the one who made the nest. One day I held my mother’s Hand as she wept for her dead child. I never left her side, I, Became the protector and somehow, For once shared the limelight

My father’s throne became mine The legacy of my family gripped firmly In my every decision, my every move The force of a great nation hurled behind me. Now with the fate of privilege My hands are dirtied with inestimable harm Caused by a crudeness that shocked and delighted My well-bred family but is devastating to The well being of the country once thought the best Or at least the strongest on earth.

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One day I found my voice As governor of independence, Resilience and superior partition I rode the range lone and proud, The plain and my spurs bloody.

the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

One day the country laughed At my father and called him A liar. I became the protector Who would revenge the deeds of those Who dared to remove my father from His throne, my throne

isidra reyna


I Remember Childhood…and Later

I remember the first time I consumed alcohol. It was at my aunt’s wedding when I was 15 years old. My brother kept sneaking me little cups of champagne under the table. I spent the rest of the night puking in the honeymoon suite. My family didn’t speak to me the rest of the weekend.

I remember my first pet, a goldfish named Flounder. He lived for two days. Mom found him caught in what appeared to be a soggy loaf of bread that had been stuffed into the fish tank. Apparently, I didn’t know how to feed him.

I remember my first one night stand. I was visiting my roommates in L.A. and we were at a party. It was a guy who everyone referred to as “Silent John.” He was a real asshole.

frances iyoyo gatchalian

I remember the first time I was ever scared. I was three and my brother and I were stuck in the sewers looking for the Ninja Turtles. I remember scooping up lady bugs in the park with a Dixie cup. Mom found me at 9pm. I was in big trouble that night. I remember boating with my family. We were in the middle of a lake and I dropped my Barbie in the water. That was a bad day. I remember Duck Hunt. I remember my first detention. I was in 1st grade and taped a “Kick Me” sign to the back of a girl I hated. She stole my swing. I remember the first time I was grounded. I was three and my dad was trying to teach me the alphabet and the numbers 1 through 10. I couldn’t remember Y or 5. I remember my third week at tennis camp. We were playing singles and the boy I had been partnered with wouldn’t stop talking shit. I threw my racket at him and, shortly after, was asked not to come back. I remember the first time we went to Marine World. Actually, we didn’t go in. My parents couldn’t afford it so we took pictures outside.

I remember my first kiss. I was 13 and it was at a high school football game under the bleachers. My brother saw and later beat the shit out of the guy. I remember my first serious boyfriend. I would sneak him into my bedroom window every other Friday night and turn the music up so my mother wouldn’t hear us. Later, I would find out that she knew all along. I remember the first time I had sex. I was 15 years old. It was at Speech and Debate Tournament in the back of the school van. On the way home, the guy later lectured me on how God was frowning on us the whole time and how I should attend his church to redeem my sins.

peter young

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I remember my first babysitter Leila. I was playing in the front yard with her son. He was two years younger than me. We were playing house and wanted to make soup so we took one of those big Rubbermaid containers and a half empty bag of Doritos and a hose and mixed it all in. Leila came running out wondering what the hell we were doing.

the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

I remember the first time I roller skated. It was also the first time I peed in my pants. My mom didn’t want the roller skates in the house and because I was only four and still learning to tie my shoes, I didn’t know how to take them off. I stood in the middle of the driveway crying as the pee trickled down my legs.


In the Presence of God

To be a poet, they say you must think. What must you think about? How often? I’m always thinking, so does this mean I’m a poet? Or does this depend on what you think about? I think about food. I think about sex. Does this make me a gourmet poet who is sexually aware? Or a typical male? Thinking, thinking: Have to do laundry. Return books to library. Go to post office. Go to bank. I’m hungry. Nice jeans—come here often? Don’t come over here lady! No, I don’t know which bus stops downtown. Couples couples everywhere. No kissy-kissy in the library, kids! Is that what Mommy and Daddy sent you to college for? If I can’t have a kiss, then nobody gets a kiss. I see you looking. What are you looking at? What are you thinking? Are you a poet in training too? If so, tell me please: what must I think about?

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My knees hurt. Hands clasped together resting on the dark-stained wood before me, My chin anchored to my chest in reverence, Eyes squinted shut so my prayers have a little more leverage My clothes are itchy and My knees still hurt. Voices bellow ancient hymns using their instruments to rejoice. Babies cry because of what? The Fear of God? I think it’s boredom. Elderly women in their floral dresses shake their husbands, old men with hearing aids, forcing them awake to express their faith. My mother takes my hand and we shuffle single-file toward the man of the hour To taste the fruits of a Savior we never knew. The stale, tasteless wafer dissolves slowly on my tongue as I return to my place and sit ever-silent in my seat. My heart swells with hope– it’s almost over And my knees don’t hurt anymore.

sam white

the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

jessica rine

In Training


Love... an old poem dating to February

Love is Mine

Love, the word freezes at my lips, Love leaves my mouth dry, Love fills it with rose petal pot pouri, Love that i breathe, and the breath emanates as mist, and shrouds everything in a hazy gown and then i feel the snow crunching under my feet.

The soft swishing of the hay, the glow of the stars, the moon, itself a reflection, shining on your reflecting face that face that is more familiar to me than my own now— and an oak providing a staid shield from the warm light emanating from the demure farmhouse in the semi-distance, moves me to move you within me; knowing that such is no “match made in heaven” but that we are making this here and now and of such coarse fibers as the hay, stars and moon were made of. Such love I have for you and yet care not for “meant to be,” for I make you mine and you choose me.

daniela kantorova

Love, golden, liquid, and warm, Love the unknowable, the elusive veil, Love that explodes within, Love that i cannot grasp, Love that passes me by quietly as a train through the night across a prairie ferrying coal to warm someone else’s home

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the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

Love, that One beyond, Love the madness whose prerequisite is sanity, Love that plays music from an open window, Love that makes snow flakes fall fall fall and dress my face in their caresses, Love forms an exquisite lace, that disappears, but leaves a trace

sarah rose butler

cyndi castor


The Book of Enchantments of Milinark

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A complete stillness fell about the forest. Nothing moved, not even the air. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, there came a voice. It was soft, melodious, and seemed to float through the air. Kyle could not make out the words, however, for they did not sound like English. Then, another voice joined the first one; it was coming from Kyle’s left. He looked, but there was nothing there. In his confusion he rose to his feet again and took two steps in that direction. Then the first voice sounded again, from behind him this time, and the young man turned around. There, holding the leather bound book he had left on the path, stood a strange creature no taller than two feet. It appeared to be human, though. It dressed in leaves and what looked like rabbit skins. Its hair was a dirty blond that appeared to have streaks of pale green in it. Its skin and eyes were the same color as the tree bark. The creature stared up at Kyle in wonder, holding the book that was almost as large at itself. Then, slowly, it held the book out toward him and said something in its own language. Too dumbfounded to do anything, Kyle merely stared at the creature. This confused it, and it spoke again; but this time Kyle could understand the words. “Wizard forgets his book.” It spoke English, but Kyle was still too amazed to register the words. A silence fell over the forest again. “Wizard forgets his book,” the creature repeated, walking over to Kyle and holding it up to him. “Not good leave book where nasties can find it. You lucky Nibz find it for you.” Dumbly the man bent down and took the heavy volume from the creature. It smiled up at him. “Uh…” Kyle stuttered, “Where am I?” The creature cocked its head to the side in confusion. “Wizard is lost?” it asked, “Nibz never seen lost Wizard before.” It stared up at Kyle for another moment, “But this Wizard is still in training,” it realized, “in training Wizard does not know forest paths yet. Nibz will show Wizard out of forest.” With that, the creature grinned as though proud of itself, spun on its heel, and started off down the path. “Wait,” Kyle called after it, still confused beyond belief. The creature stopped and looked over its shoulder at him. “Why do you call me a wizard?” “Because… is Wizard,” the creature answered uncertainly, “Look like Wizard, have book of Wizard.” “But I’m not a wizard.” “Of course Wizard. Nibz saw appear in forest.” Kyle realized then that this… whatever it was must have seen whatever brought him here. So maybe it knew how to get him back. “Listen… Nibz. I don’t know how I got here, and I’m definitely not a wizard.” Nibz frowned at that, “But if not Wizard, then how get into Spirit Forest?” “Spirit forest?” Kyle exclaimed. “Wizard does not know Spirit Forest? Wizard is very much still in training,” Nibz looked very concerned now. “Nibz probably not to help in training Wizard… But Wizard is lost…”

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Kyle was just off lunch break, standing at the back of the restaurant in his white shirt, black slacks, and not-quite-white apron. It was nearly 1:00; the lunch rush would start any minute, but right now there was only one person in the restaurant. It was an elderly man. His hair was white, and he had a beard that nearly reached his waist. The man must have been at least eighty, if not ninety. He ate his food slowly, and read while he ate; a book even older than himself. From what Kyle could tell it was an antique: leather bound with yellowing pages. He wondered what was in it that had the man so entranced within its pages. Then, just as the first few lunch regulars walked in, the man stopped. He put down his book, tossed a few bills on the table, stood, and left. His book still sat discarded on the table. Kyle noticed this immediately, and while one of the other waiters began to clear the plates he headed over to the table and picked up the books. It was even older than he had assumed. The leather was faded and cracked in places, the pages stiff and yellow. It must have been worth a fortune. Catching the other waiter’s arm he quickly explained that he was going to return the book. The other man nodded, and Kyle headed out. Once on the street he looked both ways, but there was no sign of the old man. Odd. He didn’t seem able to move that fast, and there weren’t that many people on the street. He couldn’t have just disappeared, could he? Odd. In confusion, Kyle looked up and down the street once more, but there was still no sign of the old man. Oh well, if the book was that important to him he would return to pick it up. Still, Kyle was curious. Why was someone carrying around a book like this? What was in it that was so intriguing? And why would someone just forget something so valuable? Unable to contain his curiosity, Kyle opened the book. It was blank. Kyle flipped through the yellowing pages, but there was nothing on any of them. That didn’t make any sense, the old man had been so immersed in it only minutes before, how could it be blank? The young waiter stared at the yellowing pages as though he could bring words to them by sheer force of will. He stood stock-still, eyes fixed solidly on the ancient pages. People walked past him without casting him a second glance. Then fewer people passed by, then fewer, and then none at all. But Kyle did not notice any of this, not even the shouts of his coworkers calling him back inside. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the pages; they were somehow drawn into them. Further and further, until he thought he could almost make out lines on the pages. Then there were lines on the pages, not words, but symbols. Symbols he couldn’t understand: a foreign alphabet. As he stared harder Kyle found himself able to see meaning in the symbols. He could make out words and understand sentences. Abruptly, he slapped the book shut. His breathing was ragged, though he hadn’t done anything to make it so. His eyes remained fixed on the cracked leather cover, but now he could make out the title. It was written in the same alphabet as the rest of the books. The Book of Enchantments of Milinark Milinark? What on earth was that? This book, no matter how old it looked, was probably a fake. Annoyed that he had spent so much time preoccupied on this book Kyle turned around to head back into the restaurant. But it wasn’t there.

the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

nora mercer

In the place where it should have stood there were only trees. Surprised, Kyle looked around, but he only saw more trees. Below his feet was not the cement sidewalk, but a soft dirt path that lead off to his left and right. This does not make any sense, he thought worriedly as he looked about him. Everywhere he looked there were only more trees. How had he gone from a busy city street to the middle of a forest? For a minute he squeezed his eyes shut, but when he opened them he was greeted by the same sight: a forest. Frightened now, Kyle sat down heavily on the side of the path. So, he was in the middle of the forest. That in itself was not frightening, but what was he doing there? What was he supposed to do? ......


the bohemian 2006-07

lisa leong

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as though held back by an invisible wall, was the fog. And within that fog, looking out at him, was a pair of glowing red eyes. Without a second thought, Kyle spun around and ran toward the light at the edge of the trees. Not once did he pause or glance back, for he knew he would see those eyes again.

the bohemian 2006-07

The tiny creature now seemed horribly confused. It looked both confused and frightened, and it was all Kyle’s fault. “Uh… Well, if you can’t lead me out, could you at least point me in the right direction?” Nibz looked up at him again, “Suppose that alright,” it answered. Then it looked up and down the dirt path, “Wizard should go that way,” it pointed down the path into the trees, “To get out of Spirit Forest. Remember always stay on path. Not leave path, or have to deal with nasties.” “Nasties?” This was the second time Nibz had mentioned them, “What d’you mean?” “Nasties live in forest, do not like Wizard kind,” Nibz warned him, and glanced nervously into the trees on either side of the path, “Be warry, Wizard, nasties come out at night. Must get out of Spirit Forest before dark.” Before dark? It was nearly dark now, how was he supposed to get out before the sun fell below the horizon? “But it’s nearly dark already!” This seemed the first time Nibz had noticed the day was growing short. But the little creature made no attempt to further help Kyle. It merely shrugged its shoulders, “Will have to go fast,” it decided, “Hope nasties do not come.” And with that the creature disappeared with a small flash of light and a tiny puff of smoke. Kyle stared at the now-empty space where Nibz had stood only seconds before. Then he looked around, but there was no sign of the tiny creature. Great, now he was left alone to escape whatever strange creatures came out at night in this foreign land. The sun fell even lower in the sky, shining nearly horizontal now. If he wanted to be out of the forest before it was completely dark Kyle would have to run. And how big was this forest anyway? Even if he ran the whole way he might not make it out in time. He probably wouldn’t, but he had to try. Holding the ancient book under one arm the young man began to run down the path. He ran, and he ran, and he ran, and the light grew dimmer, yet the forest showed no signs of ending. So he kept running. By the time true darkness fell Kyle could run no longer. It felt as though he had gone for hours. Panting and gasping the man stopped. He leaned on his knees as he caught his breath. It was horribly dark, the only light provided by the sliver of moonlight that made its way through the thick canopy of leaves. The forest was silent. Not the peaceful silence of the previous afternoon, but a cold, deathly silence that sent shivers down Kyle’s spine. The nasties come out at night, Nibz had said. And if they weren’t out already, Kyle could see where they got their name. As the young man’s breathing began to normalize, a fog started to descend on the forest. It was thick as soup, and low to the ground. It almost seemed to pool around Kyle’s knees. Within this unnatural silence Kyle began to think he could hear whispers. They were not the same as Nibz’s flowing, lyrical language; these were mysterious and threatening. Kyle knew now why Nibz had told him to get out of the forest before nightfall. A stick cracked to his left and Kyle nearly leapt out of his skin. The whispers were all around, surrounding him. Panicked, the man took off running through the trees. He had no idea if he was going in the right direction, of even if he was still on the path; but it felt as though something were following him. The fog grew thicker, so Kyle could barely see where he was going. Then, almost as suddenly as it had appeared, the fog dissipated. Kyle slowed to a walk; his breathing was starting to grow ragged again. Weird. Maybe he’d just been imagining it. He looked around, but the forest was completely dark. In front of him he thought he saw a sliver of light at the end of the path. Slowly he started toward it, almost too scared to hope for the edge of the trees. Then he heard the whispers again, though they seemed louder this time. They were closer. A stick cracked behind him, and Kyle spun around. There, looming behind him


“Mr White”

On Fire

You say my name is funny, especially for me? To be honest, I agree. Go ahead, laugh. But understand: this name was not intended for me. I already had a name; not White, Jefferson, Johnson or Jones. But Mandingo, Hutu, Ibo: tribes that during millennia before me, roamed.

Light reflecting between his small eager fingers and the rubber ball were interchangeable, moving objects animated by young muscles, giving

sam white

I had a name. But after Middle Passage and landing here, my name was too difficult for Master—plus it invoked fear. So my identity was stripped; as an extra precaution, my language was ripped. But my name is in me still. Proof of the enduring courage and will of those decimated by slavery-yet determined to overcome; like a whisper barely audible, I still hear the beat of their Tom-Tom. Black boy called White my whole life through. But knowing while they speak White, I hear Zulu! To me, it’s all the same: before I was called anything, I already had a name.

anthony zedan

blind to black dresses and pressed jackets, veils and covered heads, of recent ashes and chalky fragments passed between flames and chopsticks, gray plumes of dizzying incense hovering over everything like ineffable grief Unaware of symbolic cycles and real disappointments, unaware of patterns and the pain of deep loss, unaware of life ending in mid-sentence, the boy laughs. Ghostly ancestral glares reflected in the cloudy mirror— jealous of what the boy never misses Burning flowers, all fiery yellow and orange, banning those exiled spirits from lingering in these solitary rooms of despair silenced; hours after the family, all grief and panic-stricken in the wake of such an absence, are gone. Noxious black netherworld of denial—smoke billows and dissipates into the cloudless sky as two elderly attendants feed the outdoor furnace fire these wilting funeral flowers. A boy plays with his small yellow ball, an uncle he will barely remember as an adult is gone forever, but his generation grows stronger by the hour, grows more attentive

the bohemian 2006-07

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We will never know for sure how much the boy failed to see but probably not much

the bohemian 2006-07

He will grow to read the corners of lips, decipher the subtle flexing of nostrils, notice the stifled yawn, skim stolid eyelids, distracted, and summarize an unspoken passion in a glance to the infinitesimal degree and the moods and tones to the music once played in this very space a few hundred years ago— He will come to understand the darkness and discernable light held between his hands, the shades of desire

peter young


She Twists Her Hair

My God Aren’t I An American?

She twists her hair in the married woman’s knot

How long has it been that A majority of American voices Have not been heard? Has It been ten years, twenty, okay, God forbid, even more?

alicia otis

Those who live beside the sea say She’s married to a hollow in back of a cave beyond the crevasse where wonder emerges Touch Her you’re hand goes through Her All night She kisses you and you wake up recalling the crow you saw dreaming on the floor of a cave filled with crystal clear blue water

pam brown

Democracy, a majority of voices, Represented in the Senate, The Congress, a house so Divided the bipartisan Has become to mean Partitions of dissent: the whole. Remember, a house divided will fall Wispy saying of wisdom eluding leadership. I remember weeping that a House Divided creates space for a dictator. Perhaps a majority of voices Only means now the House of Voices who waste energy On making sure the women Politicians don’t have the Coveted bathroom just outside The House doors?

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the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

How long has it been That our voices have not been able to move The President. The President, our leader, our Protector? Or, how long Has it been that the President Ever heard our voices.

kelli murata


Her

IM Friend

I’m fine until I see Her, I am good until I want Her: the nymph-like form of Her lithe, lush, languorously youthful body. Every piece of Her flesh is a bit of the angst that’s lingering in me.

your yellow smile beckons me, lets me know u r waiting. i text hi how r u? & await ur reply. i check e-mail, stock prices, news— nothing good in the world 2day. im fine appears in the little box. & u? good. we catch up on dogs & husbands & weather in each of our cities, plans for the day until my yahoo freezes. i lift the receiver, punch the 10-digit code, respond w/the damn thing’s stuck again. U say, I figured. Now hang up & fix it, So we can talk some more.

sarah rose butler

Her feral and luminescent breasts Call to me. Her legs are very gazelles that tempt the full-bellied lioness and make her feel hollow again. Although she has long since eaten her fill, once eyes are on Her, nose stuffed with Her cloyingly sweet scent, all is forgotten of the feast that came before Her.

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the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

Even the chase has an uncertain allure, Like opening a pomegranate, Viewing the sweet seeds hidden among the thin layers of skin. Though I know I will be sick when I have done, I wish to seek out and devour each of those small gems that hide in the folds. Seeing Her is frightening each time, for I would soil, with the bright red juice, the beauty I’ve worked for.

jill l. ferguson

ashley bart


On The Battlefield sam white

I awoke fitfully the other night from an especially disturbing nightmare. I realized that at the end of the dream, I had been crying. The dream was about war and was apparently the result of my leaving the radio on at bedtime; I had fallen asleep to John Mayer’s “Waiting On The World To Change.” This is one of those ballads belonging to the genre known as protest songs-and inspired, no doubt, by the current crisis in Iraq. The radio was now silent—the timer having performed its duty some two hours prior. I lay motionless, eyes aimed toward a ceiling obscured by darkness. My breathing was slowly returning to normal but I knew that sleep would not come again until I had pieced together the details that had gotten me so worked-up. I allowed the song to return in my mind and with it, the first muddled scenes from the dream: I am nine-years old and sitting in the school library, reading a newspaper-the entire contents of which are devoted to coverage of the war in Vietnam. Page after page is crammed with photos of the destruction and carnage; unspoken testimony of the high price of war. Music, accompanied by the whisper of words, hangs in the background:

Instantly the scene changes. I am still nine, but am now sitting in our living room in front of the floor-model television we got from JCPenney that year. Thankful for the escape from the horrors of the newspaper, I frantically turn the dial on the TV, only to be ambushed by more sickening images— body bags and children running from burning villages, seeking the arms of salvation. In the distance, smoke rises in black and white spirals from the hills of Saigon. A plug pulled from the wall socket does nothing to silence the grenades detonating and M-16’s firing in lightning-fast succession. The TV has become a strobe light; the room is washed with light one second, black as pitch the next. I begin to run. Down a hallway, running, running, approaching my bedroom. Hurriedly I duck in, shutting behind me, double-doors that stand nine feet tall and have wrought iron handles. But it is not the sanctuary of my room that I have entered. I am in a much larger, colder dwelling. Chandeliers suspended from domed ceilings turn ever so slowly one way and then the other, like dancers performing a waltz in slow motion. I am walking down an aisle, flanked on either side by long wooden benches. High on the wall, the penetrating eyes of a doomed Jesus, praying in a garden, stare longingly from a stained-glass window. Though I move to avoid them, his piercing eyes attach; the hairs on the nape of my neck stand erect. Below the window, a robed figure leans on a podium, white pocket-square in hand, dabbing sweat from his brow while delivering a sermon. I take my place on the bench nearest me, joining my family. I am now seven years old, and Mama and us four kids are in our pew at The Greater Williams Chapel Baptist Church:

“Now if we had the power to bring our neighbors home from war, they would have never missed a Christmas no more ribbons on their door …that’s why we’re waiting waiting on the world to change

From several rows ahead of us, screaming can be heard. We see a woman’s arms flailing back and forth as she cries hysterically. Church Mothers, clad in white and resembling surgeons working desperately to save a dying patient, surround her, each holding a fan—some hold two. Frantically they fan, faster and faster, believing their fanning will exorcise the demon that possesses the distraught woman. The fans begin to look like wings flapping, only the wings have MLK’s photo on one side, and advertise a local funeral home on the other. The fanning intensifies and finally, the hysterical crying softens to gentle sobbing. The fans shift to a lower gear, and now resemble flags being stirred by a gentle breeze. Four heads turn to Mama. We search her eyes for clues but she discreetly gives us a “we’ll talk about it in the car” look. Tear drops like tiny birds perched on ledges, rest in the corners of her eyes. As she turns to face forward, one crawls down her cheek. Whispers slip through hands held to mouths and slowly jump from pew to pew. Soon, we all know the reason for the distraught woman’s condition: “She got the visit three days ago. They came right to the front door, drivin’ one of them official-lookin’ cars just like in the news. Gave her his dog tags, chile. Put ‘em right in her hands. Po’ thang…her only child.” My eyes return to the woman, who is now slumped in her seat, chin resting on her chest. She looks like a wilting flower. My eyes go up to Jesus, but come right back to Wilted Flower. Though she remains still, gloved hands continue to fan; insurance against another eruption. The robed figure mutters something about weeping enduring through the night, and joy coming in the morning. He directs us to pray for our ailing sister, and for the soul of the hero lost on the battlefield. I slide to my knees, but I don’t know what to pray for. Suddenly, I too begin to cry hysterically. The music returns, followed quickly by the words:

“One day our generation is gonna rule the population so we keep on waiting waiting on the world to change yeah we keep on waiting waiting on the world to change”

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“Now we see everything that’s going wrong with the world and those who lead it. We just feel like we don’t have the means to rise above and beat it So we keep on waiting. Waiting on the world to change”

we keep on waiting waiting on the world to change”

the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07


Paper Cranes

yuping pauline lim Panicking, I dug through my wallet trying to find my receipt. Shoot! Where did I throw it to? I knew that she was staring at me, her impatient glare boring a hole through my back. I could feel beads of perspiration trickling down my back. How did a store employee have so much power over me? The lady started drumming her fingers against the red countertop, and I felt a flash of annoyance. Placing my bag on the counter, I spilled the contents and shifted through it as methodically as possible. As I flipped through a sheath of crumpled receipts, I stumbled upon a paper crane. Suddenly, I could not breathe; it was almost as if someone had punched me in my gut. For a few seconds, my mind went blank while my vision darkened. I was stunned. “Miss! Miss! Are you all right?!” Stupefied, it took me a few seconds to realize that the Target lady was calling me. I blinked and nodded vigorously. I quickly stuffed the contents of my bag back, grabbed the crane and ran out of Target before I lost control. I reached my car just when tears started pouring out of me. I plopped down on a bench in the deserted car park and bawled like a child. Looking at the crane in my hand, I suddenly missed my mum so much that it hurts. Where or how do I begin? ==

I was twelve when my parents divorced. Within two weeks after the judge grant my mum full custody of me, she moved both of us to Tokyo, Japan while my father was left behind in North Carolina. I never missed my dad; he was a cold, aloof stranger whom I hardly met except on my birthdays and Christmas. On the other hand, my mother was always there for me through my first menstrual cramp, my first breakup, and my first job interview. She was a vivacious, talkative and loving mother. She was also my best friend. At first, I found it difficult to get used to Tokyo’s busy and fast paced lifestyle, but my mum soaked it up like water to sponge. Her new job was the perfect antidote for any post-divorce depression; she hardly mentioned dad and threw all her energy into work. Subsequently, she was too busy to start dating and devoted all her free time to me.

My mum supported our marriage and gave me much advice on relationships. She was there for my wedding gown fitting and even threw me a bacholerette party. On my wedding day, my mum took me aside and gave me bouquet of paper cranes. She whispered to me, “Anna, I made a wish. I wished that you and Jed will live happily ever after.” I remembered crying then and telling my mother how much I loved her. Sadly, all dreams have to end sometime. Mine ended much earlier than I had expected. Barely two years into our marriage life, Jed and I argued constantly; he wanted to start a family but I was still bent on furthering my career. The proverbial last straw for Jed came when I miscarriaged. I did not know that I was expecting until that day, but Jed accused me of hiding the news and then losing our baby on purpose. When Jed confronted me in front of my mum, I saw a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. I knew that although my mum loved me, she believed Jed’s version of the story. I felt betrayed. Three and a half years after my fairy tale wedding, I ended up in front of my attorney’s office, ready to sign my divorce papers. My mother tried to persuade me to go for marriage counseling but I refused. I never admitted it, but I was never ready to settle down and start a family with Jed; all I wanted was to make my mum happy with a ‘happily ever after.’ Naturally, she was upset at my impending divorce, and did her best to dissuade me. In the end we argued bitterly and I stormed out on her. I did not realize it but freedom comes with a heavy price—guilt. Underneath all my anger and betrayal, I felt mostly guilty as I knew without a doubt that I had let my mother down. Each time I saw those paper cranes, I could feel my mother’s sharp disappointment. It was no secret that she had hoped my marriage would last, unlike her own. I tried to live up to her expectations but I failed. I did not know how to face her knowing that I had let her down. After my divorce, I stowed away the paper cranes and moved back to the United States. For the next four years my career went into full swing but mentally, I was a mess. I never admitted it but looking back, I realized that my self-esteem took a nosedive after my divorce, and I blamed it on myself. I kept thinking along the lines of, ‘Maybe if I had gone for counseling, then the divorce wouldn’t have happen…’ What I never realized all along was that I was afraid of my mum’s disappointment. One winter night, I received an unwanted call. Aunt Cheryl told me in halting tones, that my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. My mum had flown back from Japan and was promptly hospitalized. It took a while for the words to sink in and when it did, I alternated between panicking and worrying. I still remembered that afternoon as I walked into the hospital ward. For a moment, I could not recognize my mother. She used to have glossy red hair to match her spirit but now she

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I always thought of my mum as a superwoman who would defy death and illnesses. She was so healthy; I could count the number of times with my fingers when she came down with flu. When Aunt Cheryl told me that she contracted breast cancer, I could not believe it. She? My mum? Sick? Impossible.

In my last year of college, I met Jed, a fellow expatriate from America. Our romance was right out of a Hollywood script: he wooed after me with roses and candlelight dinners and proposed after dating for five years. It was a match made in heaven: he was a doctor, and I was recently promoted to a Public Relations Manager in a large, multinational firm. We were successful, financially comfortable and in love.

the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

The paper crane was born a year ago at the same time my mum was suddenly diagnosed with breast cancer. While my mum stayed at the hospital, the only thing she would do in her waking time was to fold paper cranes. I would watch her fold those pastel colored origami paper, her fingers moving weakly and slowly, as they painstakingly bent, creased and shaped each sheet.

Mikoto, my first friend in Japan, taught both of us the art of origami. My mum’s favourite form was the paper crane as she was inspired by the legend behind it. According to an ancient Japanese legend, those who fold a thousand paper cranes will be granted one, precious wish. She would often tell me as she was folding her paper cranes that she would make me a wish at my wedding. I never thought much of it and laughed it off as a joke.


was bald. She used to be plump with rosy cheeks but now she was all skin and bones. I did not know how to react. I just stood there watching her fold the crisp origami paper.

dredth time, I blinked away the remaining tears. Fervently, I tried to regain control of my emotions.

She lifted her head, looked at me straight in the eye, and said, “Hello, stranger.” She smiled and stretched out her hand. Right in the middle of her palm was a snow white paper crane. My eyes misted. I barely croaked out a hello as I stumbled to her side. Wordlessly, I sat down on the chair right next to the bed. It felt awkward as if no words could bridge the years between us.

Sighing, I looked at the snowy white crane in my palm while blinking away the unshed tears. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew the crane out of my hand, and I yelped out in surprise. I tried to snatch it back but it kept floating higher and higher, further and further away from me. As I watched it fly away from me, I realized that it was finally time to let go.

I just sat there watching her fold one crane after the other. Finally, unable to withstand the silence, I blurted out the question that had been burning inside me. “Mum, were you disappointed?” My mum stopped folding. Slowly, she turned and looked at me, “Why would I be disappointed?” I hesitated before I whispered softly, “I got a divorce, just like you and dad. I never gave you what you wanted the most, a happy ending.” My mother took a deep breath; she looked surprised. “Well…this is hard to say but yes. At first, I was angry and disappointed. I thought that I was a terrible, terrible mum. Sweetheart, I didn’t want you to go through what I did. But you know what? I learned to let it go. Now, I just want you to be happy. Are you?” I did not know what to say. The festering wound inside me had begun to heal. For the longest time, my mother held my hand and I never wanted her to let go. On the night before her last chemotherapy session, my mum folded the one thousandth paper crane. Smiling at her accomplishment, she motioned to me to bring the bouquet of multi-colored cranes to her. Quietly, I got up from my chair and passed the cranes to her. “Can you guess what I’m wishing for?” My mum asked. “Good health?” I ventured.

That night, I stayed beside her, folding one paper crane after another while she slept. With each crane was a pray that she would get stronger and healthier. I did not dare to sleep; I was afraid that my mother would be gone when I woke up.

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I did not know what to say. As gently as I could, I hugged my mother, feeling the faint warmth of her arms. It was then that I realized how frail she was and how much the chemotherapy had taken from her. The first lash of fear curled up in my chest and suddenly, I was afraid of losing my mother to this killer disease.

the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

Mum shook her head weakly. “Nope, I am wishing for you to be happy. I want you to learn to love yourself again.”

Two weeks later as I folded the one thousandth crane, my mother passed away in the afternoon due to internal hemorrhaging. I did not remember if I cried at her funeral but I did remember burying her with the paper cranes that I had folded. When my mum passed away, she left a Grand-Canyon-sized gap in my life. I had not only lost a mother; I had also lost my best friend. Blowing my nose for the one hun-

quinton mccurine


Presence

Noises

sam white

shantea julian huery

When in my dreams, I plummet to earth, but land softly—is that you? When I’m wronged but hold my tongue, and later receive justice—is that you? When I desire to do right, though no one besides me will know—is that you? When I go without, but finish with more than I could ever need—is that you? When I am moved to love, though I may not be loved in return—is that you? When a gentle breeze caresses my face, reminding me of nature’s wonders—is that you? When I hear someone’s tale of woe, and a tear forms in my eye—is that you?

Drip Drop Tick and tock It distracts and occupies my mind The Symantec noise I sit here in this hospital Trying to focus and concentrate The burden and pain is too heavy I am undone and overwhelmed These people pacing in anxiety around me Too much stress I feel my stomach tied up in knots And my thoughts swimming around in my head like little fish Fish lost, lost fish Damn, shit, what the f*** Damn thoughts damns cuss words Shit I mean darn Too much worry, innocence, and insanity Is all I can think about Damn theme song, damn Disney channel (my life has never been that “peachy“. just freakin’ peachy) This is a page from my diary Not the diary of our sweet little girl Ann Frank But of tough, bitter, sour Mrs. Angelic or otherwise spelled (Angelique) Do you want some fries the old lady asks her grandbaby? Fries, fries, chips, fries damn Murder, homicide, insanity, violence, hospitals, and victims

the bohemian 2006-07

Oh did I seriously just do that I guess I did Well I am not going to edit my life, not because I don’t want to but I really cant

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conrad clevlen

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I am powerless and weak Yet I have strength and I continue to fight But I will never beat destiny…so I will grab faith and hold her tight

the bohemian 2006-07

Shoot my battery is dying and I am falling asleep on this keyboard My mind has tired me out so for now I say goodnight Jfkkkfkddddiuyjnh kjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjhuyuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiunjoinj


Our President In War Time pam brown

Recollecting Her

Homage to the eternal Presence of the Unknown She

alicia otis Daily I see from the mirror standing, The son who completed his father’s unfinished mission Of unseating Sadaam. From the mirror I see my mother’s protector. That’s the mirror reflection I have accomplished I sleep well.

With blindfolded eyes Our antennae-like fingers Dipped in pots of remembrance Explore the contours of Her face

Daily I stand in angry disbelief My nay sayers, those who think I’m wrong. Well they don’t go to Kennebunkport in the summer Do they.

Oh, you’re like this, like that

I sleep well.

Longing sooths those hidden places Still out of touch

Singing hymns of longing Brings forth Her tones of sorrow and joy

Dust Her with rose and jasmine powders–– She’ll regenerate inside of you As green wind, clear sky, birdsong––forgiveness Light upon Light Anoint Her with the salt of your tears–– And Earth will resurrect inside outside By the Grace of trees That never grew here Now, their oils pool in palms of our hands–– We massage Her And She regenerates Heart to Heart

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Now we can see Her rocking the soul of earth In Her Wings of Light

kelli murata


Untitled Play

frances iyoyo gatchalian Narrator: People are always referring to a moment, a turning point when it all went to shit, when they fell in love, knew what they wanted to do with the rest of their lives. I’m not so sure I’ve had one of those moments. I’m 22 years old. I’ve never been in love, I still don’t know what to do with my life Things haven’t completely gone to shit yet, though. But I’m sure it all probably will. I have two brothers. I’m the youngest. My parents are Carol and Steve. Typical parent’s names. Whatever that means. I graduated college about 6 months ago and now live with 4 other girls in a house off Harrison. Six days out of the week I work at Macaroni Grill. Seven days out of the week I drink and watch In Living Color. I’m ready to just throw in the towel.

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(Next Scene) Kristin comes storming in, slams front door closed Kristin: So I’ve met someone. Heather: is it another one of those I think we have a connection but I was too drunk to tell situations? Kristin: No!…maybe. I don’t know. shut up. Anyway, his name is Zac… Heather: Zac? Kristin: Yes, Zac. He’s awesome. He works at a nursery. Heather: (mocking) A nursery? Kristin: Yes, a nursery, a plant nursery. His family owns it. And he’s awesome. Heather: We’ve covered the awesome part but go on. Kristin: He’s sexy…and he doesn’t give a shit. And he’s kind of an asshole. And he’s fucking weird. And an alcoholic chain smoker. Even though he has really bad asthma. Abby: God I’m attracted to alcoholic chain smokers… Heather: Well, he sounds…awesome? Kristin: He is. And I know you’re mocking me Heather: Me? No, never. (Next Scene) Kristin: I don’t know what it is with you. I’m better than you. I mean I go to school (went to school) and you. I mean you work at a plant store! A fucking plant store! Do you want to go to school? Do you want anything better for yourself? Zac: What? Why would you say…what are you saying? Kristin: I mean, I don’t know how I got here with you. I thought I was going to meet someone ridiculously amazing with this ridiculously amazing job and we would have this ridiculously amazing life together. But I mean fuck! I mean, I’m with you! Zac: Whaa? What is wrong with you? Why are you putting me down? Kristin: You sell plants!!!! You fucking sell plants!!! Zac: You know, your friends warned me that you were going to do this. That you were going to try to sabotage us if we got closer Kristin: My friends warned you?! What the hell are you talking to my friends for? You had no right talking to my friends about us! Zac: They talked to me! (Next Scene) Mike is sitting on the couch, relaxed, and watching T.V. while Abby sits across, nervously watching him. Mike: (feeling her staring) what?

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(Next Scene) Kristin: Do you love me? Dean: I hate it when you do that fuckin needy girl thing. Kristin: what needy girl thing?! Dean: you know what I’m talking about! When you ask those fucking questions and shit fishing for compliments, you know what I’m talking about Pause… Dean: Looks at her… my back hurts…pouts She glares at him… Dean: I love you Kristin smiles and sits behinds him and rubs his back Pause… He grabs her hand… .kisses her Kristin: you know, if you do love me you wouldn’t talk to me like that. Dean: well if you didn’t play you’re petty little girl shit maybe it wouldn’t be so hard Kristin: hard what? Dean: shrugs shakes his head, hesitant Kristin: stands up slightly pushes him Hard to love me? Why the hell would u say that? Dean: well fuck kristin! I’m sitting here minding my own shit and you play these stupid little games with me I mean fuck Kristin: well I don’t know I just…I need reassurance Dean: I’m not here to nurse your little insecurities… Kristin: you can be a real dick sometimes…grabs jacket, storms out, slams door

(Next Scene) Narrator: There’s no sane, normal way to go about love. Really. You could go through life with your head on straight knowing how you’re going to react things. Then you get into a relationship, think you’re in love with someone, and start doing all the crazy shit you used to make fun of people for. You know, the drunk dialing of where they are at 2 in the morning. Getting jealous if they’re looking at someone the wrong way, checking their phones…

the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

(yelling) Kristen: Who the fuck drank all my fucking milk? Narrator: That’s my roommate, Kristin. She’s a whore. I mean this in the best way possible. Abby: First of all, it’s our milk. And I used it this morning. And second, when you at the last banana last week. I didn’t say anything. Third, it’s your turn to go to the store. It’s been your turn for the past two weeks. And you still haven’t gone. Narrator: That’s Abby. She likes to list things. Kristin: What? I don’t even fucking like bananas Cory: She did eat the banana. You did eat the banana Narrator: That’s Cory. Ever since the first week we’ve been living together, Cory’s been leaving one grape in Kristin’s bed everyday. Sometimes when she’s feeling creative, she’ll leave one in her shoes, pockets, sock drawer, shit like that. Kristin still doesn’t know who’s been doing it. But it’s really starting to get to her. Genius.

(Next Scene) Girl opens door to movie theatre Abby: You’re late Mike: What? How am I late? I’m here aren’t I? Abby: Didn’t your mother ever teach you how to open doors for women? Mike: you pre-empted me! Abby: ah, of course (sarcastically)


Abby: I don’t know how we got here. Man, I don’t even know how I got here. Mike: (still staring at the tv) what? Abby: Before I met you, I had a plan. Tons of plans. I could function! Mike: (still watching tv…) what? Abby: (gets up) Do you know how frustrating it is to try to read something and not be able to comprehend any of it? Mike: (slightly looking up) wait what? Abby: A book! A magazine! Fucking captions on tv! Anything! I can’t process any of it! I can’t write papers, homework! You know why? Mike: (shakes head, still watchin the tv) Abby: Because of you! You mess me up! I can’t function with you! I’m so wound up, always thinking about you, always worrying if you even give half a shit as much as I care about you. And you can’t even tear your fucking eyes apart from the TV to look at me. Mike: what, where is this coming from? Abby: (sighs) you’re no good for me. (walks away) (Next Scene) Narrator: I think you’re allowed at least one freak out- oh my god- what the fuck am I doing with my life I hate myself sort of moments. Maybe two. Maybe several… I had it all at some point. At least, I thought I had it all. I had the boyfriend, the grades, friends. I was moving away from home. My 2nd semester of college, my roommate took me to go see Closer. Things pretty much fell apart after that.

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(Next Scene) Kristen: What?! Heather: What do you mean what? Kristen: You’re meeting up with him? For what?! Heather: what do you mean for what?! To catch up! He was my friend, too you know Kristen: Well do you miss him? Heather: Of course I miss him. We had a lot together. Kristen: You see! This is what the fucking holidays does to you. All that fireplace being with the one you love and marshmallow horse shit just clouds your fucking head. And the first person you run into that you had any sort of sentimental attraction to, you wanna fucking jump on it. Heather: Excuse me? Wow. That’s not fair. Kristen: I’m just trying to protect you. You remember how much it hurt. And come on really, he was never good enough for you anyway. Heather: What do you mean good enough? It’s not about who’s good enough for

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(Next Scene) Kristen: So that’s it? He just walked out?! Just like that? Heather: (looks like shit, lying in a bathrobe on the couch, obviously hasn’t showered, shrugs) I guess so. Cory: Well, you don’t know that. Maybe it’s just a phase. I’m sure it’s not over. He loves you. Heather: (shakes her head) Nope. It’s over. Cory: Oh but how do you know that? Heather: Because I found this in my mailbox this morning. (Pulls out a key and a piece of paper) Cory: He gave you his key back? And he didn’t even have the guts to bring it to you in person?! Well what does the note say? Kristen: “I am so sorry.” I’m sorry? I’m sorry?!?! What the fuck?! Heather: (shrugs) I don’t know. I don’t even know now. Cory: It’ll be okay. Kristen: No it won’t.

(Next Scene) Three months later… Street corner, walking down the street corner Chris: Hey! Heather: Hi! (surprised) Chris: How’ve you been? Heather: Great! I mean good actually! What about you? Chris: awesome! Awesome. I got a new job so yeah…it’s good. Heather: Oh you did? No plant store then. Chris: No, nope. Not anymore. Yeah I’m actually in the city now. Off Green and 4th? Heather: Oh right, right I know where that is. that’s great. Chris. Yeah, yeah it is. Anyway what about you? Heather: Well, I’m back in school actually. Chris: Really? You finally decided what you wanted to do. Heather: Yep, I’m making plans. Yeah there’s this, um great grad program for English up at State soChris: Wow. That’s great. You have plans… Heather: Yes. I have plans… More awkward silence Chris: Gosh. It is really good to see you. Heather: Yeah…yeah you too. Well I better get going Chris: Yep Back to those plans? Heather: (laughs) Yeah Of course! Chris: well, Happy Holidays! Heather: Happy Holidays to you too! See you around. (starts walking down the street, stops at light…turns around at the sound of his voice) Chris: So about these plans of yours Heather: (awkwardly laughs) Yes? Chris: Do you have any tonight? (taken aback, awkward stare at him) Chris: I mean, I thought maybe we could grab a drink or something. You know it’s been long enough. I figure we could catch up past the streetside small talkHeather: no… yea Chris: what? Heather: (embarassed, laughs) why not? the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

(Next Scene) Heather: Do you want me? Do you even want to be with me? Chris: Yes. (hesitates) I don’t know. Heather: I don’t know…I’m trying here. (starts to cry) I keep trying. I keep fucking trying and it’s like…(pauses) It’s like you’re not even there. Chris: What are you talking about? I’m here right now! Heather: You know what I mean. Chris: Well, I don’t know what you want me to say. Heather: I just need to know if you want to be with me, if you really want to be with me. I’m putting everything out there. And if you don’t want me, then just walk out right now. Chris: (stands up. Looks down. Hesitates for several moments, then walks out and shuts the door quietly) Heather breaks down into tears and buries her face in her hands

Heather: I appreciate your honesty.


anyone. Wait. Hold on. You have no right to judge me on the decisions I make, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. Kristen: I thought you guys were just going out as friends? No it’s a matter of the heart? Heather: You know what I mean! Kristen: You know what? I have every right to be concerned with the choices you make! It’s me who has to clean you up when some asshole hurts you. Every time! Every fucking time!!! Heather: God! You are such a hypocrite! Kristen: me?! I’m the hypocrite? What the fuck are you talking about? Heather: What about you and your relationships? Kristen: What relationships? Heather: You want a list of names? Kristen: (sarcastic, pissed off) yeah go ahead Heather: Dean, Zac, Alex, Jake, Chris. Shall I go on? Kristen: Fuck off (storms off) Narrator: I’d like to say that everyone is a hypocrite. Maybe not all the time, but it happens. If it’s anything that I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t judge people. In any context. That and you can’t say I would never do that. Because at some point you will. That being said, no matter how much of a nonjudgmental person you say you are, you make judgments anyway. Even when you don’t notice. Even if they’re not negative. Basically, you’re screwed.

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(Next Scene) Narrator: So it turns out that I did have one of those infamous self-defining moments. Actually, I had a few. I fell in love, made plans, got my heart broken, and here I am now. It’s funny how things always work out. Most people forget that there’s no designated amount of time that can change a person. It could be in a second. Or the change can be gradual. In some cases, there’s that split second defining moment. In others, the change could take years. Either way, we’re constantly evolving as people. Whether that’s a good or a bad thing, I’m not sure. It could even take a split second. My freshman year of college, I went down to L.A. with my roommates for St. Patrick’s Day. That night, we go to this club in Diamond Bar. As we’re standing in line in the parking lot, we hear tires screech loudly behind us. I turn around and see this Corolla hit a girl. You could hear the bones crack. You could hear her scream. Shit, you could hear everyone scream. She died. Right in front of us. The whole thing must have taken 5 seconds. Not even. But I was never the same after that. I don’t think any of us were. To this day, I still can’t get over it. The fact that a life just ended, my reaction, other people’s reactions. That was it. That was over. It puts things in perspective really. How much we treasure our lives, even though we don’t think so. How insignificant it is to other people…it really, really puts things into perspective…

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(Next Scene) Heather: Watcha reading? Abby: My little book of mental disorders. I’m highlighting the ones I have. Heather: Ah. And why are you doing this? Abby: I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. And I’m going to make a list so maybe he’ll put me on something. Maybe a few things if I get lucky. Heather: Oh that’s a fun game. Do me, do me! Abby: Grab a highlighter. But not a pink one or a green one. Heather: And why not? Abby: Because the pink is for the stuff I feel all the time. And the green is for the stuff I feel sometimes. Heather: Got it. I’m ready. Abby: Here’s one. Dysthmyic Disorder: Poor appetite or overeating, insomnia or hypersomnia, Low energy or fatigue, low self esteem, poor concentration or difficulty making decisions, feelings of hopelessness. Heather: That’s you. Abby: Pink highlighter, please. Heather: Next one. Abby: Manic Episode: A distinct period of abnormally and persistently elevated, expan-

(Next Scene) Heather, Kristen, Abby, and Cory are sitting outside on the deck. Each is holding a cheap beer and smoking a cigarette. Cory: It’s silly isn’t it? Abby: What is? Cory: Life. Everything. I mean you go through it, thinking that if you keep doing the right thing, being selfless, loving others, trying your best all that bullshit and the best will turn out for you. But somehow, somehow, you end up getting screwed over anyway. Abby: (nods) I’ve been making plans, lists my whole life. You know how many of those plans have actually followed through? Less than 1%. A lot less I’m sure. Kristen: Wow. That’s ridiculous. her: Raise your hand if you’ve hit rock bottom. All the girls raise their hands Heather: Raise your hand if you never thought you’d end up where you are now. All the girls chug their beers heavily Kristen: Should we cheer to something? Abby: To what? To Cory failing in school? To Kristen getting herpes? Heather getting her heart broken? Or how about the accident? Heather: You know, I usually embrace your quirky little habit of listing things. This time, I resent it. Cory: She’s right, though. Kristen: Yep. We’re all fucking failures. Abby: I’ll drink to that. Heather: So will I.

the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

(Next Scene) Abby: I’m pregnant. Kristen: Fuck off… prove it. Abby: Holds up pregnancy stick with one pink plus sign at the end of the tab) All the girls crowd around the stick staring at it Kristen: Holy shit. Cory: What are you going to do? Abby: (starts to cry) I don’t know. What can I do? Kristen: Who’s the father? Abby: (glares at her) You know the answer to that. Cory: Well can’t you just call him

sive, or irritable mood, lasting at least one week. Inflated self-esteem or grandiosity, decreased need for sleep (e.g. feels rested after only 3 hors of sleep). More talkative than usual or pressure to keep talking. Distractibility. Increase in goal directed activity, either socially, sexually, at work or school. Excessive involvement in pleasurable activities that have a high potential for painful consequences such as unrestrained buying sprees, sexual indiscretions. That’s definitely you. Heather: See now, that’s just being quirky. Abby: Are you mocking the book? I’m being serious about that. Heather: I’m not mocking anything. I’m just saying


Sing-Song of the Naturally Thin

Fragments of an Evening Together

I’m not anorexic I’m not “skinny on purpose” And I really don’t care that you used to be my size once Would you really like to hear from me that, at six months, I had a shape clearly resembling yours? I like healthy food Salmon salad, red bell peppers, hummus and babaganouj! sautéed mushrooms over rice with sweet carrots (add cinnamon!), falafel sandwich, freshly-made pesto fresh strawberries, sliced figs with bleu cheese, mango pudding and muscatel good ole two-buck or clean water to drink (trust me, Jesus would definitely have done it) I do eat, as you can see I find McDonald’s disgusting So if you are so happy with your own “more womanly” curves, why bother me about it? You can go finish your pepsi elsewhere.

Speaking softly Knowing life will leave time For shouting Never a need for it now Forgetting moonlight In the interest of thought Without letting words shut it out Dreaming sweetly Not out of desperation But for the taste of it

sarah rose butler

sarah rose butler

I’m not a child This is simply as “developed” as I’m ever going to get And no, you may not have my number. I am not, as far as I know, a freak of nature (or if so, there’s a vast group of us in Asia) and if it so disgusts you, why are you staring at my flat chest?

Last night my worries kept dropping their bones along the path leading to Emptiness I watched them skitter across the moon–– Venus caught one in her skirt tossed it to Orion’s dog I suppose worry bones too vanish in Silence–– Absorbed in Her vast embrace even Amazing Grace grows quiet As the threads She spins in Her Hand turn light into Light

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alicia otis

the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

America insists that women are made of curves (I do have them by the way, but mini-sized) The French, of grace and what inspires poetry Muslims (and Jews and Christians, too, if one goes far back enough) say we are made of temptation and mystery Buddhists, of the very same thing as men Scientists everywhere says we are made of estrogen Feminists, of roaring reasonable-ness

Worry Bones


Standing

She is Gone

Standing still in a moment in time. Space moves slowly, it feels so sublime.

As my strides through time carry me rapidly away I often think back to those older days Trying to forget yet always remembering The innocent skunks’ unfortunate dismembering The hollow feeling of emptiness and a fear so primal and so deep Robbing me completely of any desire for sleep Slowly, moment by moment I began to understand I would never again be able to hold her gentile hand The reality of it all hit so hard and suddenly As the trees outside the window dripped soddenly I remember the rain— As though the sky was crying tears of pain Wind whistling through the eves and singing­— A dirge like tune of the sorrows death was bringing Never before had I been so scared Never before had I seen such emotions bared Scattered memories like jewels sealed forever in space and time Litter my memory as a glittering coat of sorrowful grime Hidden away in the back corner of my psyche But ready to leap out all hot prickly and spiky Like a constant torment My endless lament All the things that we could have done All the words of which I said none The pain is too deep for proper expression This is my true and unfortunate confession But I must now move on, For now she is gone

erica m. spacher

You hear the sound of the wind and your heart beat so slow. Yet your thoughts move quickly and in your eyes it will show. The current euphoria of life as it is, may only smoke screen the vision that is deeply rooted, and lies within. The everlasting impressions that were once instilled into our souls, have never left our hearts, our minds, and in times of standing, can console.

kelsey lynn walsh

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Dedicated to the memory of my sister, Mariah Jean Walsh

quinton mccurine


Slipping Off The Hook

Solstice

like a coat snagged on a hook             I was un-free caught in the dark, dry             corner of the closet   in a place where             parched red-eyed demons breed in pocketed hollows             chewing at the soft-folded collars and cuffs hung on hangers               bracing for the inevitable snarl-bite decisions drawing blood             gelled in button-holed pools smearing my arm as I rummage   fooling my eyes             into a fixed stare alight on the little             brown and white shoes lying on tight curled-up sides   the child of my memory kicks             scuffed dreams aside in something like drama             snatching the coat loose   adjusting the garment to fit             over tender shoulders slipping just outside the doorway             raindrops soak clear through my skin

Our long shadows Precede our steps On a sparkling sidewalk. The squinted eyes of the people of the north Only see our shadows As if we were indistinguishable From their expectations.

guy tiphane

I see the shadow of our hands Risking an exit from our pockets Hesitating on the side And the slit of light narrowing Knuckles reacting to cold fusion Palms turning against each other. Our long shadow A two-headed creature Precedes our steps On a sparkling sidewalk. The squinted eyes of the people of the north Expect and assume And we let them.

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the bohemian 2006-07

alden dean

deon sharps


FLOWER(s)

The Angel

              I Why would you want to be a single rose in a lovely vase when you could be a field of tulips or a hill of daffodils

The girl sits, her blond ringlets hang greasy and heavy, screening her blue eyes clouded with stale tears, the color of a gloomy sky right before a storm. Her little thumb rests against her pretty lips her rosy, dirt-smudged cheeks focused on the only clean digit of her grubby hand. The other five sausage fingers clutch desperately to a dead stuffed rabbit with a button for one eye and no whiskers. Her dress of sunset tulips hangs from her bony frame shielding her from everything and nothing. Dry blood cakes on her snow white shins, leftover from her scabby knees. Her blue shoes are untied. She will trip on her laces later. She sees my face and looks into my eyes. Her tiny thumb pops from her mouth and makes a noise. Rose petal lips part to show a bright toothy smile and her blue eyes sparkle not from the tears and for a moment I see her soul... Or does she see mine? Then, it is like it was. The girl sits.

patricia ryan

             II An open rose its potential bared realized Its whiteness in the captured fire of all colors Each petal experiences wholeness

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Any plastic image fails in fragrance in fragility

jessica rine

nora mercer


Stan

katie bliss I remember days in the sun Walking by your side I remember the city streets Flash through the glass I remember your heavy sigh Followed by a comforting half smile I remember the rush to arrive, Driven by our rapid footsteps I remember rugged horseplay On an idle Saturday afternoon I remember the jumble of bodies Packed into chaotic commotion

I remember your persistent patience That I didn’t deserve I remember the pain rise in my throat And my arms shoot out to embrace you I remember the angst My adolescent years imposed on you I remember being alone with you In that pale hospital room I remember saying I was sorry And that I would make you proud I remember remembering you As you once were I remember saying Good-bye.

Dedicated in Loving Memory to Stan Bliss

I remember the blare of the Giants game, The swift crack of a home-run followed by sonorous applause I remember a shrill voice rise from the crowd, The cold fear reflected in my brothers eyes I remember your unwavering firmness Matched by your infinite kindness I remember the sirens powerful screeches And its melancholy wails

I remember a darkness swell, A state I thought I could never escape

the bohemian 2006-07

I remember the cool comfort of your eyes

I remember time stopped.

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I remember a resounding red, The vibrant hue of your cherished truck

I remember your soft sarcasm I remember Them say You weren’t coming back

ashley bart


Riverwalk

Sacred Mystery

The struggle here is to touch bottom to find a foothold in swift currents in flood waters stirring forgotten dreams, discarded hopes, events that shaped or scarred a life. The struggle is to risk going under to feel cold green water like a knife to be cut off, separated from comfort— the pebbly beach, the hot summer taste of blackberries, the fern’s earthy musk. But life is found in choices bravely made and every woman must one day turn aside and dive into her own deep soul to find within what makes her whole.

Sacred Mystery unknowable indescribable Near the end of his life the great scholar and theologian Thomas Aquinas put down his pen saying he could do no more. “Such secrets have been revealed to me that all I have written appears to be of little value.”

daniel gleeson

conrad clevlen

sr. kay mcmullen, sndden

Holy One All Silence known when I am silent Presence known when I am present Love known only when I love No-thing, no words The Summa remains incomplete. but there is music, perhaps, Bach, and the stillness of the mind, of the forest the rhythm of the heart, of the sea

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the bohemian 2006-07

sr. kay mcmullen, sndden


Stress Free

The Ballad of the Red-Blooded Un-American

At night when I lay in my bed attempting sleep I envision a place where I can escape to stress free No more worries of finances or stresses of where or when my next blessing will be No more casualties amongst the minorities Or the news bugging me Imprinting our minds from the media that minorities are only good for bank robberies A place where the streets aren’t covered with gangs and silly Oh No’s But instead the laughter of the innocent ones throwing rocks At the blocks of the chalk drawn hopscotch I envision a place of laughter Warm sunny days Or rainy showers topped with the colors that fill Crayola’s very own color box A place where races are in sync Getting along like the marshmallows floating in my hot coco you see I envision a place where I can escape to stress free  

Rome was built on sacred hills, but skyscrapers are our peaks, plazas, open market places and vertiginous cathedrals- all beacons to bankrolled progress. Natural wonders need no mention- sun-spilt canyons, old-growth forests, uncombed beaches and sand dunes, mindnumbing miles of mineral caverns and undisturbed deposits.

anthony huery

anthony zedan

On foot carrying precious loads on their backs, firefighters save survivors as swiftly as Aeneas shouldering his baby boomer father, frail from the epic war. The images were rewound and replayed ad nauseam in our minds building, story after story, dark bloody destruction Rome was built on seven hills, but high-rises are our feats, foibles and phobia, national blunders need no mention, just grassy wetlands, gorgeous sunrises over ravishing ravines and suicide gorges, sparkling geysers and hot springs, silent marshlands and tangling vines, savannas and swamps, great lakes, sweet or salty, guppy ponds and skipping streams. Old men savor the back page obituaries with their morning coffee; black death, naturally bitter, happens everyday, usually not as spectacular or dramatic as a tragic scene on stage, just suddenly, without meaning or purpose. We have enemies who would love to see us dead on CNN, see us swearing at the sky, demanding justice

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quinton mccurine

Romulus and Remus, bronze boys full of newborn ambitions, suckled under a she-wolf and wasted their mornings worshipping woodpecker cartoons until they were old enough to fend for themselves and fight and feud over dusty Rome and its many roads; we were nourished on good old-fashioned guts and guns, prohibitions and inhibitions, rifles and six-shooters, tar and feathers, riots and revolutions, fireworks and patents, mind works and militias, bibles and boot-straps, by the feral pack of

the bohemian 2006-07

Rome wasn’t built in a day, nor in five eight-hour ones, but over bloody battles retold in epic grandeur and rhyme, in the same way, our historic districts of façades and facts have been painted in romantic hues.  Faustian bargains need no mention, just grand valleys, canyons and vistas, growling prairies, ripe fields and opulent orchards, grassy parks and peaceful deserts, mossy boulders and stone gardens, and meditative forests, shady Redwoods and Sequoias, made for long peaceful hikes.


frontier philosophies, the pragmatics of elected representatives, democracy and social injustices Again and again, we play both sides, talking of compassion while dropping death by the billions—God Bless America. Who can trust us anymore?  Who will stand with us? Blood-shot eyes kept constantly awake by the daily bombardment of the media; What will be left of our soul if we duct tape ourselves off from the world and wait for the smoke to clear? Our towering glass monuments to progress have been destroyed but will be rebuilt, that is as certain as the stars above. We will rebuild ourselves of harder stuff while protecting our hearts from hardening. You cannot kill our compassion, ingenuity, generosity or collective ego. We will rediscover our innocence, even if it kills us. A crushed skull at the Museum of Natural History reminds us that violence is an old driving force, about seven million years old by most recent accounts; violence woven so tightly into our genetic code, prehistoric, pre-culture, primal. Our forefathers, in search of a place to pursue happiness and exercise their freedoms of speech and religion, pondered deep into the cloudless night for a real democracy, brilliant, singular and luminous as the approach of Dawn.

In flowing white beard and pressed gown, Charlton Moses was quick to descend the elevator of his mansion to greet the paparazzi outside and brandish his rifle from under his costume for an impromptu photo-op. According to the Burning Bush, the administration would continue to make war for whatever reason/s it sees fit. Rome was and is no more, all its art and thought could not support the weight of that incalculable arrogance, too much for its own good. And so that is how the West was lost- An end interwoven with a beginning, dark, bloody and peopled with questionable characters in a country of conquest, a nation of no middle ground, no middle class, rampant with mediocrity and miracles, the beautiful and the abhorrent, minimum wage and millionaires, all behavior barely legal. Who polices the lawless streets of Baghdad? The cancerous smoke from books burning in the streets signals a drop in readership. Who haphazardly patrols this spinning planet daily? Do the birds still sing in Baghdad? Do the trees still blossom over there? An armless man innocently ponders the stagnant clouds from his hospital bed and reaches out with his absent fingers toward the bowl of dried fruit on the dusty nightstand. In his narcotic morphine haze, he exists somewhere far beyond bullets and hot showers, past postcards and photos, cut off momentarily from memories and mixed emotions.

The Burning Bush told Grandma Moses that she had better pull out her rusty pitchfork and shotgun, American Gothic-style, ‘cause a war was a coming to our counties, all fire and brimstone, to take over our gentle way of life

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Drunk with executive power, patient No.43 found himself bemoaning the state of the nation and bearing his soul to his overpaid psychoanalyst. “Annie Leibovitz, get your gun... Which way to the White House bunker?” George Wallace demands to know in less than 60 minutes who is hiding behind those White House bushes. Just CIA, FBI, NSA and Homeland Security operatives or moles, of course, taping everything said, whispered, dug up or merely thought.

the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

Strolling through the musty maze of mental stacks and private library rooms, interrupted by the scent of burning whale oil and newly varnished cherry wood and sturdy oak, difficult decisions were constructed of wiry calligraphy and curling textured paper by aging erudite secret-handshake statesmen and business barons.


The Dollhouses of Tahiti

The Excitement Passed

are life size, not compact and cute, not grand or even adequate. Three sided, exposing their contents to the rutted road. A sink. Two dressers. Plastic toys, so many plastic toys. Thin rugs on the cement floor.

Winds drifting snow cleared out the debris

The Tahitians have more possessions outside than in. Lines and lines of shirts and shorts in deep blue, bright red, white. A stove. Lawn chairs. Wooden chairs. A dog or two, lumpy mutts of russet brown. Chickens and roosters vaguely attached to the property don’t wander too far.

Ravens and human scavengers go out there sniffing, shuffling stuff around, stirring it up with their beaks and pointed sticks hoping to impale something to eat, or to use shiny or worn

cathy barber

It piled up in the deep arroyo outside of town where people dump old cars, TV’s, mattresses, burned out desires

She stands there like a sign pointing in that direction which implies anywhere north of town, along the high desert drift ––

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By the roadside, camellias, hyacinths, coconut palms and weeds. A ten-minute drive to the beach and the calmest reefs in the world, maybe thirty to the cove where James Cook made landfall so many years ago.

alicia otis

daniel gleeson


The Beach

There’s No Place like Home

Waves crash against jagged rocks, a blue diamond blanket turns to white foam pulsating on still sand, warmth shines from above, an invitation to stay awhile. The screech of winged animals flying free is heard from overhead. A child plays with a hermit crab– poor hermit crab, its life will soon end

Do you ever have one of those nights where you could feel tension in the air? One of those nights were you knew the stillness would be broken by sadness, anger, and despair? It’s one of those nights. As the sun began to set earlier that day, a feeling of uneasiness settled over me. My dad made dinner. I knew he was having a not-so-great day because of his silence. My brother was watching TV, once again oblivious to the world. Or maybe he’s pretending to be oblivious. It does make any situation easier to deal with if you pretend it never happened. We sat down for dinner. We talked about the 1972 Olympics. Those poor Israeli athletes who were murdered was thoroughly discussed. This came up because of the upcoming 2004 Olympics in Greece. Needless to say, we engaged in appropriate dinner conversation. My mom was late for dinner again. That’s not much of a surprise. Her job requires her to stay later than most working moms. She didn’t miss much anyway, just our company and interesting conversation. I sat down to watch 7th Heaven. It’s the season finale tonight. I’ve been looking forward to see what happens in the end. So many TV shows are ending. So many things are coming to an end. Why does it have to be that way? Why does everything have to change? Why does everything have a beginning and an end? My mom gets home, finally. No one’s in the kitchen or the living room. No one’s waiting for her to get home. Everyone’s doing their own thing. My dad’s on the computer again, still looking for a new job. He’s sent out a couple of resumes already. Still no call back. I have a feeling that has something to do with his mood. Money is getting tight again. Knowing this, I can already see what’s coming. I’m still sitting in front of the TV watching my show. Whenever commercials come on I go to the kitchen to keep my mom company as she eats. I can tell she isn’t having a great day either by the way she’s quiet and snappy. I decide to lose myself in mindless television shows to try to forget the uneasiness that seems to increase as the night goes on. And that’s when it happened. The quiet night was finally pierced by voices arguing. And as the bickering intensified, the tension increased slowly. Then suddenly silence. Anger and frustration gave way to sadness. My dad left their room to sit in the living room. My mom stayed in her room, both of them keeping to themselves. My mom asked for a massage. As I rubbed her sore muscles, trying to ease her discomfort, she just lay there. She didn’t say a word. I was the one who broke the silence by asking, “Are you happy?” She gave me a sad smile. She said her job didn’t make her happy. She missed the Philippines. I understood that. She had many friends back home, a high profile job, money, power and connections. Although her job here pays a little more, she has nothing. Money isn’t everything. She started talking about how my dad can’t find a new job, how he didn’t listen when she told him to look for one sooner. But I can’t blame him. He likes who he’s working for and the non-monetary benefits he gets. He deserves to be happy too. I left my mom in her room. She’s still lying down as if she’s broken. My dad is still sitting outside staring blankly at the TV. And once again, my brother is oblivious as he lays in his own bed trying to go to sleep. This is my family. This is my life.

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for a child’s amusement. The smell of sea salt and suntan lotion is carried through the air by the soft breeze. People laugh and smile– no cares in the world leaving the burden of civilization behind. They can’t be bothered with the necessities of real world while lying on the soft white sand; it is crucial to be lazy. A day of rest is necessary– even God needed one, so Today, let the children play let the hard working people laugh and smile in this safe haven, this Dream World: an island paradise that is sad to be left behind when the day is over but for now, let us play awhile in our makeshift reality.

bianca nery

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the bohemian 2006-07

jessica rine


The Gift Is Only As Grand As The Hand That Holds It andrea colangelo

The Rooms

An Excerpt from Thunder Road: A Memoir

katie bliss

*** “My parents are sending me to rehab.” I had said to Ursula, hoping to hear words of wisdom spring from the lips of my best friend. If anyone knew what to do, she would. “Are you fucking with me? Your parents are sending you to rehab? That’s fuckin retarded. It’s not like you shoot heroin or something.” This was Ursula’s response. “Yeah, but they have to ask me some questions and stuff, I think maybe to see if I’m a drug addict or something.” “Oh really? Well fuck, that’s great. Then all you gotta do is lie. I mean, not that you do anything you should lie about anyway. Your parents are just ridiculous. You gotta lie. Like if they ask you how much you drink, you can’t say never cuz they won’t believe

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Waiting Room “If you will please take these forms and sit down, Janet will be with you in just a moment.” The heavy set receptionist swayed in her seat. The chair creaked loudly underneath her weight as she dug up what looked like a mountain of paper work for my mom. Her dark eyes followed me as I shuffled hesitantly to a dingy bench in the waiting room. The room was almost hospital like. The walls were a stiff white and there even seemed to be a chemical smell that lingered. The poor use of plastic plants for decoration was clouded with dust and the magazines available were several months old. The only hint of color was a mural painted on the back wall. Rainbows, gathered people holding hands, shapes of circles with triangles and diamonds inside were splashed across this pathetic white wall. In bold thick letters, Thunder Road was written. The brightly painted images and the bizarre title seemed crude in this atmosphere. “They’re ready for you now. Joe will lead you.” The secretary snapped her dark eyes at me once more as we were led out of her waiting room. Joe was my age. He was a tall skinny white suburban looking kid. His pants sagged to the floor, the butt where his knees should be. I was amazed by the skill it must take to keep them on. We walked down the hallway past a couple soda machines and water fountains. In the distance I heard voices. Boys bantering, laughing. “What’s that?” I asked in reference to the voices. “Oh that’s the boys unit. Aight, you’re here.” He rapped on a tall oak door. Janet Hallowell gleamed on the sign that hung on her office entrance. “Later.” He said, and sauntered away. I felt my stomach curl into a knot. I clenched my mom’s hand. The first time I had touched her in a long time. I looked at her quickly. Pleadingly. Please don’t make me go through this. Please don’t make me stay here. I tried to send her these messages telepathically, but it didn’t work. “Hi, you must be Laura and Katie. My name is Janet. Welcome, please have a seat.” Janet was a small woman with slight features. She scurried around pushing paper work off her chairs to allow us room. “Katie, I’m going to be asking you some questions. I want you to answer them as honestly as possible. Can you do that for me?” I looked inside myself for a moment to get collected. Honest? Who was she kidding? I hardly knew what that word meant anymore. I geared myself up to say the right answers. I had talked to my friends about this already, so at least I was somewhat prepared:

the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

Sometimes when life’s tumultuous seas rage up against our hearts our strength to persevere wears paper-thin. We fall only to rise again physically, but mentally our hearts harbor the current’s thrashing.   What is it that keeps us awake at night? Memories, thoughts lingering to what might have been life altering experiences that shape how we perceive life. Every day we are susceptible to be shaken to the core by a single person’s kind warmth.   I should have absorbed your comfortable blanket of sincerity, instead of entangling myself in your affection. Something inside me whispered, “don’t get lost reflecting on your feelings.” Yet I did.   We all seem to find our way out of the fun house of language eventually.   I remain trapped searching for answers to my emotions attempting to write for release. Yet I perpetuate the cycle of language’s failure. Did language fail me or did I fail myself?   Only two things in this world are true, Love and language. One of those things I hold so dear has evolved a few fingers length away… And I can’t take hold of it.


that. You gotta say like, once a week. Ya, that’s what you say. And you smoke weed like once a month. But you don’t do anything else okay?” That was Ursula’s advice. ***

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The Green Room The wailing sirens erupted in my ears like exploding fireworks. I slouched as far down in the back of the police car as possible. Was it really fucking necessary to have the lights and sirens on? I bit off another nail with my teeth. My heart wouldn’t stop pounding, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking, my mind wouldn’t stop running. We came to a screeching halt. The police man opened my door and starred at me for a moment. “Can you behave yourself now young lady?” He snorted with that condescending pig tone. I pulled my hands out from behind me which were supposed to be handcuffed, but my wrists are small and I had wriggled out. I flipped him off and spit at him. He grabbed my wrist and snapped the other handcuff back on and violently jerked me out. “Get your fuckin hands off me!” I snarled. The police man heard nothing I said. In fact he moved with such swiftness and fierceness it was like I wasn’t even a human being to him at all, more like a rabid animal. I almost was. By the time we entered the hospital I was seething. They removed the handcuffs, searched me, and made me remove my sweatshirt and shoes. “Why are you taking my SHOES?!” The man in the uniform inspected my shoes, yanked out the laces and handed them back to me. He didn’t say a word. They placed me in a small room with only two chairs. There were no windows, no

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“Sure.” I replied, smiling my most innocent smile. “Good to hear. Laura if you wouldn’t mind waiting in the chair in the hallway while I conduct this questionnaire, that would be great.” My mom got up from her seat and gave me a sad glance and softly shut the door behind her. “Okay Katie, there are twenty eight questions. Please answer often, sometimes, never.” “Okay.” “ Have you ever used drugs other then those required for medical reasons?” “Sometimes.” Often. “Have you abused prescription drugs?” “Never.” Often. “Do you use more then one drug at a time?” “Never.” Often. “Have you ever had “black outs” or “flashbacks” as a result of your drug use?” “Never.” Often. “Have you ever neglected your family or missed work because of your drug use?” “Never.” Often. “Have you ever engaged in illegal activities to obtain drugs?” “Never.” Sometimes. “Have you ever been arrested for possession of illegal drugs?” “Never.” Not yet. “Have you ever hurt family members or friends with your drug use?” I didn’t know how to answer that question. “Katie?” I didn’t want to answer that question.

tables, desks, nothing. Just those two pale plastic chairs. The sea green walls and puke green linoleum floor made me feel as if I were inside the mouth of a sick beast. The wailing of psychotic patients in the rest of the unit only added to this effect. I couldn’t stop twitching, I couldn’t stop thinking, I was spinning out of control. I couldn’t feel. I wanted to feel so badly. Everything had been numb for so long. It seemed like hours had gone by. There wasn’t even a clock. Nothing to tell how long it had been since I had been in this tiny, silent, torturous room. My fingers were bleeding now. I had moved on from the nails and onto my cuticles. Something inside me stirred. A pain behind my eyes. It wasn’t a headache. I felt something. I thought of my dad. I felt. I saw him sitting in the living room, his head buried in his hands. He was crying. I felt. I saw him look up at me, his face twisted in anguish. I cried. In heavy strained bursts I cried. I became hysterical, the hollowness of the room magnifying my crying. It mixed with my dad’s, my mom’s, my little brothers, as they watched me be dragged from our house by the police. My nose dripping, my pants falling off, kicking and screaming. “Hi Katie, I’m Dr. Fienberg. I will be asking you some questions.” Through my blurry vision of tears I looked at the man who sat in the other pale chair. He had a dark beard and beady little eyes that glistened beneath his glasses. His voice had taken me by surprise. I thought I was alone. I felt violated by his intrusion. I didn’t respond. He pulled out a pen from his coat pocket, eyed me suspiciously and jotted down some notes on his clipboard. “Are you currently taking any medication?” “Lithium, Depakote, Celexa.” I mumbled. He went on and on asking a million mindless questions. I paid no attention to any of them. All I could think about was the pain. The emotional wreckage I had caused. For the first time I was seeing how what I was doing was killing my parents, destroying my brother Danny. The green room surrounded me, it chewed and gnawed at me, preparing to spit me out.

peter young


Unclaimed Baggage

Words

This peace I have I’ve sought before. It never lasts when you’re here. These fleeting bursts of contentment and tranquility would be my heaven if lasting. Can you give me that? Can you give yourself to me as I have abandoned myself to you?

Sitting in a room. No one is going, No one is coming. Sitting in a quiet room.

katie bliss

The power of your embrace, your gripping fingertips, they invade the deepest resests of my soul. Your eyes plead desperately in hopes for my trust but why should I give it back when you cut me so deep? The emptiness you left with your abandon seeps constantly into my conscience. I’m afraid of the calm. I understand disaster. That twisted knot of self-pitying justification that chokes my truest desire is more comfortable than the soft floating happiness released by your eyes. I curl inside myself and peek out to ask you, where have you been? And if you are here now, should I pack for another departure? For I have yet to put away these feelings I have for you. They sit on the shelf of discontentment collecting dust, waiting, hoping soon to be claimed.

pauline lim

The sound of you exhaling, The sound of me inhaling. Sitting in a quiet room, Hearing your heart beats. The soft cacophony of voices, Seeping through the walls. The ticking of the clock, The heavy weight of the air. Somewhere, Soft footsteps scurry down the hallways. Doors opening and closing, Shutting themselves away. Sitting in a quiet room, With you and me. The sound of you inhaling, The sound of me exhaling. Then, the silence erupts. Resentful, angry, frighten, I strain to hear its words.

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You speak.

peter young


Uncle Jimmy’s Suicide

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One winter, Uncle Jimmy went out to the side of our house and bit a bullet with his brain. The only note he left was the big red manifesto on the wall, his thoughts spread out and soaking in. The flies found him first, and we only stumbled upon him later. He was sitting in our backyard, the gun leaning innocently against his chest, as if its last act had been to hug him instead of taking half his face off. We took turns lamenting. We said: “How tragic.” And: “We should have seen this coming.” And: “The signs were there.” But we shouldn’t have seen anything. How could we have? We weren’t looking. Even afterwards, when everything was so clear, we still asked “How?”, and “Why?” No one asked “Who?” It was a question we should have asked, but we stayed quiet instead. We all wanted to pretend that it was just Uncle Jimmy and Daddy’s shotgun, which wasn’t Daddy’s anymore. It was “the” shotgun, the “weapon of choice,” the “cause of death”. We told ourselves that this was the “What” and the “How.” We told ourselves only what we wanted to hear. We all pretended there was no “Who” other than Uncle Jimmy. But there was. The real “Who” was in the way Uncle Jimmy became just “he.” As in: “He was a family man.” As in: “He was such a kind man.” As in: “He will be missed.” The real “Who” was in the way there were all sorts of new pictures of Uncle Jimmy in the living room and the dining room and the kitchen, all trying to remember what he looked like. It was in the way no one would look at that wall anymore, even from the inside, despite our efforts at cleaning it up. But it was still dirty to us, even though we scrubbed it and painted it over to make it look normal again. No one ever wanted to be mean to Uncle Jimmy. It just came out that way. And we never said anything to his face, not even when there was so little of it left. Not even when it was just a memory, when we were just talking to his ghost. It was as if the pieces of eyeball stuck underneath the paint could look through the plaster and wood and see us huddled around the punch bowl after the funeral: not speaking, but not crying either. It was as if the little bits of Uncle Jimmy’s brain could still think. As if he could still judge. In order to hide who the real “Who” was, we filled our eulogies full of phrases that we stripped from soap operas and Lifetime movies. We could probably still turn on any channel and find some nameless actress with mascara artfully smeared across her perfect cheek bones, saying: “How tragic.” And: “What a crime.” And: “You will be missed.” For us, the only moving on that was really hard was the quiet shuffle between one speaker and the next: the way that Grandma looked to Grandpa, who then looked to Daddy, who then looked to Mom with pleading eyes. So Mom stood up, straightened her blouse, and said flatly into the microphone: “How tragic.” After it was all over, I realized that the funeral was only holy in the same way that Swiss cheese is. And all those holes, all that empty space between our Hallmark-channel eulogies, all that still air that wasn’t punctured by anyone’s sobs—that was where the

the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

john larsen

real “Who” was. In the end, it wasn’t just Uncle Jimmy that did the deed. For example: no one could agree on what to bury him in. We had to choose at random what prayers to murmur along to and what hymns to fake. We had to debate at where we would hold the service and where he would have wanted to be buried. If he had told anyone any of that information, no one could remember it. Under his name, his headstone read simply: “He will be missed.” The real “Who” was in the way we averted our eyes at our reflection in the polished lid of the casket – but also in the way that we all talked so casually about how lovely the oak was. It was in the way that my cousin Jackie put an iris on the grave site and said it was Uncle Jimmy’s favorite flower. But then Grandma put a rose and Uncle Johnny placed down a mum and they both said the same thing. It was in the way that we complained afterwards about how uncomfortable the pews were and how slow the priest’s sermon was. No wonder no one wants to be cut down in the prime of their life. Dying young just means that there’s less to say about you when you’re dead. Dying young just means that you’ve had less time to make an impression on people. At least when the good die young they’re remembered for something. At least the good can be mourned properly. Everyone else needs sixty or seventy or eighty years to really make an impact, to make people listen to them. Everyone else needs a whole lifetime to give people good stories to tell at the funeral, so that they can just lie there, quiet and cold, content in the knowledge that they’re being remembered right. Unfortunately the young have no such contentment. No wonder they come back to haunt us in our sleep. No wonder we all tried so hard to make something up at the last minute, scanning daytime television for the perfect crusher to tack on to the end of our stupid story about ice cream and the time we went to the zoo. The one line that might, with a little luck and a little tact, bring about a real tear. Maybe it was for the best that Uncle Jimmy’s eyes were left congealing in our rafters, his ears staining our walls. Maybe it was for the best that everything he might once have used to see and hear what was going on was still stuck to the side of our house, instead of in the church, where he could have seen Grandma dabbing at her streak-free eyes. Where he could have seen Aunt Lindsey nodding off in the corner. Maybe it was for the best that Uncle Jimmy couldn’t hear just how tragic it all really was. In the weeks that followed, life was normal enough for all of us. We didn’t really talk about the suicide anymore. Just the occasional mention of “that wall.” Just “what happened.” We didn’t watch TV anymore because no one was brave enough to move the set away from “that wall.” We ate dinner in silence from then on too, each of us wondering if the remains of a certain someone’s ears were listening in. No one ever talked about Uncle Jimmy anymore if they could help it. Only I ever said anything, and it wasn’t even to my family. I only told the story to the eighty million different therapists who wanted to listen to me during the weeks after the incident. I had somehow been offered up like a virgin sacrifice, destined to talk about the suicide again and again, baring my soul so that everyone else could sleep a little easier at night. It was inevitable. You see, I was the one who found him. I was the one who had to figure out that one Uncle Jimmy minus one head equaled one dead body in our backyard. And so by no fault of my own, I ended up in therapy. The only reason we had even left Uncle Jimmy in charge of our house that winter was because we were all off having fun without him. It was the big family skiing trip. Grandma and Grandpa and all the cousins were there. Even Aunt Lindsey, who was


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“Recall a happy time.” He said, “A good memory.” I guess it worked, because I woke up twenty minutes later and couldn’t remember anything that had happened. When he brought me back, Dr. Hennessey had a frown on his long flat face. I noticed that he hadn’t flipped even one page on his big yellow legal pad. “Do you know what you told me while you were under?” he said and I shrugged and asked how I could possibly know. I didn’t even realize that I had been hypnotized. He turned his legal pad around and showed me what he had written. Under the little descriptions about how I carried myself, how I talked, and how I sat, it said: Ten minutes gone by, no response to questioning. And then: Fifteen minutes, still no response. And then: Twenty minutes, no change. Nothing to say? The last part was underlined. “Nothing?” I said, and then I asked, “What does that mean?” He said, “Either you weren’t as deep under as you needed to be, or –” “Or I had nothing to say.” This concerned Dr. Hennessey, but he just nodded. I didn’t go back to him after that. In an ironic turn of events, it was actually the college students who made me realize what it all meant. They even did it without talking to me. Either out of respect, since bringing it up would certainly shatter the fragile shell of my mind, or out of ignorance, they never asked me what I thought or what I had seen or even my name. Either way, the subject of Uncle Jimmy was never breached. But if they had asked me, I know what I would have said. At first, it would have probably been the same thing everyone else in my family said. I would have said “No.” And: “I don’t think so.” And: “I really can’t say.” But there was one thing I could have said that no one else seemed to point out. It was the one thing that could have meant something, and the one thing that could have helped. Had I been asked, I would have told them the answer to the question that was pulling at all of us. It was the answer to “Why?” and the answer to “Who?” It was the same thing that I said to Dr. Hennessey in my silence. If I had been asked, I would have said, “I don’t have any happy memories of Uncle Jimmy.” And then: “I don’t have any memories of him at all.” the bohemian 2006-07

married to the guy, came. But Uncle Jimmy said, “No sir. I don’t like the snow, and I can’t ski. Why don’t I just stay here and watch your dogs?” So we let him. We never realized his plans. Daddy even reasoned that it was good for him. “Jim can take some time for himself for once,” he said. And besides, this way, we didn’t have to ask the neighbors to watch the house anymore. “Everyone wins in the end.” No one argued too much with Uncle Jimmy when he said he didn’t want to go. We begged him, sure, but we left him behind in the end. We had fun, even without him. No one seemed all that sorry. During the grief counseling, all of the people that I saw—the stiff old ladies in green suits and the round, grey-bearded men in sweater vests and the pompous little college graduates with degrees of every make and model peppering their walls—told me more or less the same things. They told me to cry if I wanted to. They told me that it was okay to talk about my feelings. They told me to tell them what I thought when I found Uncle Jimmy. And I did. I told them exactly what I had thought. “He’s dead.” And then: “I should get help.” And that was all. The green suits and sweater vests just nodded and “Hmm”ed and the specialists with the doctorates scribbled things down on their legal pads and asked me how it made me feel. It was the same thing with the grad students who invaded our house like ants do when it’s cold out. They came in packs, crawling all over the place and getting into everything. They were drawn to us by the suicide. They wanted to know all sorts of things that no one could tell them. Like, “Was the deceased showing any suicidal tendencies?” And: “Was the deceased increasingly depressed before the final act?” And: “How would you describe the deceased’s behavior in the weeks prior to the event?” It wasn’t even “he” with these people. The adults would brush these pale, misguided pests away with answers of “No.” And: “I don’t think so.” And: “I can’t really say.” But they’d keep coming back with more and more questions, trying to “understand” suicide. All for some innovative new study that they assumed we were trying to sabotage. What they didn’t understand was that the adults were telling the truth. One therapist told me to close me eyes. His name was Dr. Hennessey and he was going to hypnotize me. He told me it would help, but he didn’t say how. Later, I came to the conclusion he was just stalling for time. As far as he was concerned, the only problem I had was that I didn’t need any counseling. My grief was minimal, the trauma slight. I was either strong in the powers of recovery or else my heart and mind were strong enough to withstand it all. A lot like Aunt Lindsey, I suppose, because even she remarried within the year and was happy. My family is full of strong women. No, the problem wasn’t my grief. But Dr. Hennessey wouldn’t accept that. He needed something to analyze and some way that he could say he tried, all while the clock ticked dollars into his pocket, of course. So he told me to close my eyes and relax. He started muttering to me little nonsense commands, the sort of cliché things I could imagine him saying but would never expect to hear. Things like: “Your eyes are getting heavy.” And: “You’re getting sleepy.” “You are going back,” he said, “deep into the recesses of your mind.” Unfortunately for him, I wasn’t convinced. Still, I closed my eyes and relaxed, and I attempted to do whatever it was that he wanted, if just to have something to do. “Recall a time when you were with your Uncle Jimmy,” he said.


Untitled

Why My Sweetheart Cries in the Night-time

Some of us feel to mold to an expectation Some of us starve and diet with anticipation

He could have taken my soul, that man but what is a taste of the unconscious form anyhow? What is the worth of having accessed a blank, dark hole And learning nothing of it? What is the worth of my body without myself anyhow?

isidra reyna

That someday we’ll look like a model But we are all beautiful inside and out We have stretch marks and scars It tells a part of who we are We are seen as objects But that is what we must object We are all beautiful and come in all shapes and sizes We come with hills to mountains With curves from a to z , one to ten Our bodies are not for eyes Our bodies are for LIFE We are judged without knowing who we are inside We come big and small Short and tall But we are all beautiful inside and out Never we must not doubt

sarah rose butler

He couldn’t tell you now of the warmth of my insides, The slope of my thighs, Couldn’t tell you the rhythm my pitter-pattering fingers make across the chest of the one who loves me, Could never describe with accuracy The color of my eyes The nature of my kiss Or what I might be thinking when I see a lone tree on a foggy morning in May. Never having given me pleasure, He cannot recall with pleasure the sweet song of my pleasure; How with bated breath I give my lover his own name Cloaked in the dusky imperfection of primal affection. He has only a memory of silence, Of darkness A fumbling, The only sound caged in drunken stupor, never to be heard: A scream embedded in me, Released now to you.

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We are not our bodies We are women   We are all beautiful

Isidra Reyna by diana enriquez


Sun

Who Would Have Known?

When the sun is in the city, it shines Like a new-born babe in its womb-slickened glory Yet equally delightful is the light That’s soaked up by the fog on a summer morning.

Who would have known that? Who would have known when I woke up that morning Possibilities floating through my head That I would spend the rest of my day in excruciating pain and discontent

The city sun guides me to your doorstep but the fog comes to keep you dark inside me And the cold drives my hand into your pocket And the mist between us makes you more inviting

My life would change, dreams would be crushed, and suffer the agony The agony of another loss, loss of my wants and loss of life The little heart beat that once pitter pattered inside of me gone Just like the sweetness of my very own soul Lost in the hiatus of life

sarah rose butler

I love you best in the city lights Dimmed by the fog of a city night Running from the guys Who ask for the change we really don’t have this time When he sees us he looks at us askance He yells at the other waiters in Chinese We stare at the fish tank, holding hands We’re always the last ones to be seated.

shantea julian huery

From the waiting room to the exam room From the exam room to the ultrasound room And BOOM Blood, pain, and pressure so intense Doctors and nurses Needles filled with hard core drugs Latex gloves, panic, and the sense of emergency filled the air And next is just a mystery of how and why, why Lord, Why

These restaurants always have paint-cracked walls Cracked plates to hold the steaming crab and cracker. We kiss across the table palm-to-palm But the waiter never comes to bring us water

And you encourage me to be the next to stand And bare a shiny heart to darkened waters But I’ve not suffered like these dirty men Who like to think that I could be their daughter

I love you best in the city lights Dimmed by the fog of a city night Running from the guys Who ask for the change we really don’t have this time

In a haze of pain I watch the EMT officer lift me into the red and white wagon and drive Me to my doom, The only thing I could see clear was my husband’s worry stricken face in my yellow beetle following close behind the ambulance praying for a miracle They took our precious angel away from us, seized from my being and sent to the lab like a science project Little did they know this was a true science project The Science of my life and this life, the BIG LABORATORY OF LIFE The hypothesis: Some women will face tragedy endure it and move on with life This hypothesis has been proven correct And this personal disclosure to you is my therapeutic measure of endurance and triumph for a situation that I had no control for.

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Poets gather where it’s dirty, when it’s dark Huddling with vodka under a street lamp Playing beatniks of the 16th Mission bart; The whores and drunks surround to listen to them

The ambulance arrived and forced me to put on my blood soiled maternity jeans So that they could escort me to the emergency room All I can remember are the silhouettes of the faces all staring at me As if I was some monster, some freak of nature giving birth to the devil’s baby Now in retrospect I understand that they did not know what was wrong, but they knew it was not quite right the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

I love you best in the city lights Dimmed by the fog of a city night Running from the guys Who ask for the change we really don’t have this time

The doctors says to us “ I sorry b_t you’re going t_ lose this B_By” I couldn’t really believe what I was hearing Breaks and pauses pierced through the sentence like the very same knife That pierced through my heart breaking up the words into Blah Blah Blah


Tree of Knowledge

Unavoidable Embrace

Lambent on the swirling stream The silvery boats of fallen leaves Gliding over rocks and shoals Rudderless with the current’s flow Teach me to cast off my tears Let fall away all grief and fear All worried hopes, all past time strife Release all to the flow of life

I see his arms outstretched and ready to swallow me up in his physical affection As my lips wrinkle into a grimace He comes toward me, a vulture grinning at a dying animal ready to descend upon its prey Everything in me urges me to bolt, run the other way or make a futile effort to play dead Instead, of course I walk reluctantly into the trap counting down the seconds I allow the arms to surround my body and try to think of something else Finally it’s all over I go on my way to find a bathroom and wash my hands

elisabeth eros

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And like a winter tree in rain Standing naked without shame Trust the cycles of the seasons Know that sorrows had their reasons Know the joyful sap will rise Know I am in paradise.

jessica rine

adam wickham


A Kiss in the Woods lisa marie wong

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They went inside and got two strawberry shakes and sat down. She still avoided looking directly at him. He didn’t mind; it gave him a chance to get a better look at her. Her hair was longer and straight now. The last time he had seen her was six years ago, when she left the small town they grew up in to go away to college. They told each other they would stay together no matter what, even though neither one of them believed it. They hadn’t talked since the summer after graduation. Still it wasn’t surprising to either of them that he was the first person she called when her husband left her. They seemed to have a connection that neither one of them could explain. Their phone conversation had started easily, as if no time had passed. They sat in silence for a few moments. The reunion had a dreamlike quality that neither of then knew how to address. Finally he said, “Are you going to talk to me?” “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just weird. I’ve been thinking about you for so long.” “I saw your engagement announcement in the newspaper a few years ago. My mom showed it to me.” “You were supposed to see it,” she said. “You were supposed to come and find me and stop it from happening.” “I’m sorry,” he said, only half-joking, “I didn’t know.” The people in the restaurant were staring at him. He was used to it. They were probably staring at her, wondering what she was doing with him, just like when they were in high school. He could tell that it was making her even more nervous. “Hey, why don’t we go to the park or something so we can talk? Remember how we used to go to that park in Peoria and hang out when we were dating? Does your dad know you’re here?” She looked at him for the first time. “Are you kidding? You remember how he felt about us dating. I just said I needed to get out of the house for a little while.” He got up and she followed him to the parking lot. “Whose car should we take?” “Well,” she said, “We can take mine, but you’ll have to tell me where I’m going.

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He walked in, fed his dog, and hit the blinking button on his answering machine. The place was trashed and he liked it that way. His head was shaved, so it didn’t matter that the shower had been broken for months. He started to run the water for his bath, but he stopped when he heard a familiar voice that he couldn’t quite place. “Hi, it’s me. I just wanted to talk to you, but I guess you’re not home.” Click. Dial tone. The second message explained the first one. “Hi Honey, it’s Mom. Your little high school girlfriend called looking for you today. I gave her your number.” He returned the first call immediately, without thinking. She hadn’t left her number, but it was on the caller ID. They talked briefly and he agreed to meet her at a fast food place on Court Street in Pekin. She told him to look for the colorful, Heart of Dixie license plates; he would’ve recognized her and the car anyway. It was ironic. They were both driving the cars their fathers had been driving their senior year of high school. She looked smaller somehow, but not that much different than he remembered. “Hi.” He said. “Hi.” She looked away nervously. He warned her about the tattoos when they made plans to meet, so she wouldn’t be surprised. Instead of looking at him, she had addressed the greeting to a colorful portrait of himself on his left shoulder. “You look good,” she said quietly. He smiled for the first time and said, “You look scared.”

Everything has changed since I’ve been gone.” “No problem. Just go out this way and turn.” He buckled his seat belt as they left the parking lot. “Right here?” “No, the other way.” He reached up to change the radio station. From the corner of his eye, he saw her shrink back against the seat and brace herself for a blow. She started crying. “Are you okay? It was just a wrong turn.” “Yeah, but usually that’s enough.” “They didn’t talk anymore until they got to the park. He directed her past the swings and all the people to an empty parking lot near the hiking trail. “Do you know where we are?” he asked. “No, not really. Where are we going?” “Just for walk.” He answered. They walked a long way into the woods talking casually. The fall leaves crunched loudly under their feet. “It’s really hot for October. I’d forgotten how pretty the leaves are here. They seem almost out of place.” “Come here,” he said, when they reached a stopping point. He tried to kiss her, but she pulled away. “Don’t.” She looked up at him pleadingly. “I’m married.” “It’s just a piece of paper. Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t mean anything.” “It means something to me.” Her eyes filled with tears and when he sat down close by, she let him put his arms around her. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked. “You know me better than anyone, that’s why I called you.” “I’ve been thinking about you for years,” he said quietly. “I’ve been thinking about you too, but I don’t feel like I know you anymore, not like I used to. There’s something different about you.” “I told you about the tattoos….” “No, it’s not that,” she said, pausing for a moment. “But…what’s the story behind all the tattoos?” “Well, you saw the self portrait on my shoulder. I have scenes from ‘A Clockwork Orange’ on my legs. I’ve got some designs started on my chest and on my arms. My back is what I’m most proud of, but I don’t let everyone see it.” “Why?” she asked. “Here, I’ll show you.” He lifted the back of his shirt up, and then turned around to see the confused expression on her face. In red ink, he had SERIAL KILLERS tattooed on his spine. Just below his shoulder blades, there were detailed pictures of two frightening looking faces with objects above them and names underneath. “Do you get it?” he asked. She shook her head. “No.” “It’s my own design. It’s not finished. I’ve chosen my six favorite serial killers with their names under their pictures. Around their heads are the things associated with their crimes. See, this one has crying children and candy because he murdered six kids and used candy to lure them into his house.” For a moment she looked like she might be sick, but then she just swallowed hard and said, “Oh.” They were far out on the trail, alone. He was excited to see her, but a little disappointed that the person she married had so obviously broken her spirit. As he looked into her empty green eyes, he doubted she would even scream. And if he actually got around to killing her, she probably wouldn’t mind at all. He grabbed her again and kissed her hard on the mouth. And this time, even though she was crying again, she kissed him back.


Rain

Let’s Runaway

It was raining again. It was always raining. Peering out from underneath her umbrella, she woefully watched the rain pour from the gray clouds above. The constant rain wasn’t good for her health, but the clouds didn’t show any signs of letting up any time soon. With a sigh she pulled the collar of her coat up to her cheeks and continued down the sidewalk. “A little air would do you good,” her friend had said. “Just go outside and take a walk. Some physical activity will get your blood flowing and that bug will be out of your system in no time.” The last time she checked, lightheadedness was not a sign of recovery. She very much wanted to sit down, but there wasn’t a dry surface in sight, so she simply kept walking. It was remarkable how far one could wander in downtown San Francisco when one simply followed the flow of traffic—she wasn’t even sure where she was anymore. When she finally looked up, he was the first thing she saw. Black collar and tails peering from underneath a red sweater, faded, tattered black denim jeans, combat boots and a black leather jacket. He had remarkably pale skin and shoulder-length platinum hair pulled back in a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck, but it was his eyes that struck her. Ghostly light, icy blue eyes—fixated on her. She stood frozen on the spot, unable to do anything but stare as he approached. Holding his own umbrella up to cover them both, he had to lean down to get at eyelevel with her. “Are you alright?” he asked in a soft voice. “You look pale.” Staring wide-eyed at him, she could only manage to form one intelligible word: “Sick.” He chuckled. “Let’s find you somewhere to sit. You look like you need some rest. Here,” he said, offering his hand, “let me help you.” Hesitantly taking his hand, she tried to keep her head down as he led her down the sidewalk, sure that her face was a nice shade of firehouse red by now. Time seemed to fly and drag at the same time until he finally stopped at flight of stone steps shielded from the rain by an awning. “Here we go,” he said, pulling her under the canopy. Closing his umbrella, he helped her sit down and then took a seat beside her. Breathing a sigh of relief, she slumped over and let the blood rush back to her head. She could vaguely see her mystery caretaker rummaging through his pockets for something, but didn’t take much notice. And then a green apple fruit chew was held under her nose. “To get your blood-sugar up,” he explained. Slowly sitting up, she took the fruit chew and finally managed to look at him without reverting to a paramecium. “Thanks.” She could feel his hand stroking her back comfortingly as she popped the fruit chew into her mouth, feeling a bit better to have some sugar in her system. “God, your heart’s pounding,” he remarked as his hand neared her neck. She smiled sheepishly and swallowed. “My friend told me to get my blood moving with some exercise.” She laughed. “I knew it wouldn’t help, but I figured it’d get her off my back.” “Don’t worry,” he said gently. “I’m sure it will all be over soon.” She smiled, feeling surprisingly comforted by his words. She had always secretly scoffed at her friends when they had said the same thing, but something about the way he said it made her feel that it might actually be true. “You really think so?” A fanged grin was his only response.

Lets runaway, Together Lets run so fast and so far that the world gets lost trying to find us Lets find our peace in the night sky and just… I felt the wind blowing in my hair like a tornado of love wrapping me up and setting me free I touched the softness of the pure clouds up above and I blew the large puffed out of my hand full of wishes, Wishes I no longer need because I am running far, far, so very far

I had been tired and worn, depressed and distressed But now I am replenished and refreshed I am flying high because I have been able to rest When you are lost and alone, tired and worn out Follow me up and lets run and enjoying the magic of freedom Breathe in that air, that sweet air of freshness under the summers sun This is my corner where I find peace and joy And lucky for you I am willing to share

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shantea julian huery

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amanda holland

marcos garcia


Remotely Romantic!

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“Are you expecting a major power failure?”, Laura demanded as I picked up two dozen candles on sale for $4.79 a dozen. Shopping with Laura can be tedious. She expects me to justify every purchase and every decision not to purchase. I explained that Henry and I eat by candlelight ever night and two dozen candles wouldn’t last that long. “Well, la-de-dah, aren’t we grand?”, Laura snapped. “If I could find a TV tray stable enough to hold a lighted candle, two giant burgers and a can of beer, perhaps we, too, could have romance with our dinner.” Sensing Laura’s mood was a bit waspish, I decided not to tell her that nothing short of a promise that Madonna was to do a fan dance during half-time, would prompt Henry to suggest that we eat dinner in front of the TV. My husband, despite his addition to spectator sports, had demonstrated that he views the dinner hour as our special time together. After 19 years of marriage I was pleased that Henry still had enough romance in his soul to enjoy eating by candlelight. It did appear that his addiction to all spectator sports was excessive. That someone with Henry’s gentle, sensitive nature could enjoy boxing was a real mystery me. He claimed it was very scientific and tried to explain the fine points, but his explanation was totally lost on me. Fortunately, when he watches these matches and other sports events, he inserts a small plug into the TV jack. This has a ten to twenty foot cord attached to a mini earphone which enables him to see and hear without subjecting me to the sound. I am glad of this particularly when he watches the fights. I don’t enjoy hearing the grunts, smacks and thuds as fists connect with bare torsos and chins. Or watching the performance while the umpire dances from side to side keeping them honest. That night I fixed one of Henry’s favorites— fillet of sole with lime and caper sauce. When I called him to dinner, he hit the mute button but left the picture on as I have noticed he does sometimes. The candles were lit, we said grace and raised out wine glasses. Henry, by nature a man who doles out his words frugally, and is as comfortable with silence as with chat-chat, often depends on me to carry much of the conversation. He smiles or nods sufficiently to let me know he hears and agrees or disagrees. When he didn’t respond to a question, I looked across at him. In the dim light I could see his eyes riveted over my head into the living room and to the TV. As I craned my neck about 180 degrees to see what had grabbed Henry’s attention, I saw two muscular pugilists in psychedelic trunks trying to beat each other senseless in the last twenty-six seconds. The sound was not necessary—the picture told it all! I wondered how often Henry had been staring at these pugnacious monsters when I believed him to be happily content, savoring my gourmet offerings in the romantic setting, while pretending he was hanging on to my every word. Without comment I continued eating. The lime and caper sauce had lost its zest and my pride in our candlelight dinners took a nose-dive. With some amusement, coupled with chagrin, I reflected on this new information I had just been handed. I now realized that the times he left the picture without the sound were probably when we were eating during a fight and reluctantly concluded,“How important is it if I am playing second fiddle to a couple of sweaty ginks on TV?” If they are my most serious competition then the marriage is as safe as in God’s pocket. I

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muriel lynch calegari

decided to let this matrimonial molehill die. After removing the entree plates I put Henry’s dessert in front of him. But, flipping on the overhead light, and with no desire to achieve sainthood, I said “Dear, won’t you need a little more light to catch the knock-out blow?” He gave me a slow hand-in-the-cookie-jar grin, rose from the table and headed towards the TV with his dessert and coffee. As I snuffed out the candles and cleared the table, I mulled it over and thought “I don’t think it is necessary to tell Laura.”

deon sharps


Biographies alan toy: Alan is a senior with a major in Business Administration in Accounting, Econ/Finance, and International Business. He also has a minor in Web Design. Once he graduates, he plans on continuing to maintain and improve the website until the end of eternity. Until 1+1=3, he is not going to look for a successor to take over this important position with the Bohemian.

alden dean: I write under the pen name Alden Dean. I graduated May 2005, with an MAE from NDNU. The ancient forms of Haiku and Haibun have recently captured my poetic imagination—great fun word-smithing. Fall 2006 I had a short essay accepted in Passager Journal, University of Baltimore’s Lit. mag.

daniela kantorova: Daniela Kantorova is a senior in the evening psychology program. She designs software for a living, and blogs, takes photos, and writes poems for fun. She has a special Bohemian connection as she was born in the Czech Republic region of the same name.

elisabeth eros: Clinical Psych MFT grad student, hypnotherapist, bonne vivante.

sister kay mcmullen: Sister Kay McMullen, a long-ago CND grad and a Sister of Notre Dame, finds that poetry is a form of prayer. It is prayer for peace in our violent world, and a prayer of thanksgiving for the beauty that surrounds us every day.

pauline lim: The one and only Procrastinating Guru with 23 years of experience in the art of massive delay. Email her for extra tips and guides on how to procrastinate slower than a snail. Responses not guaranteed.

anthony zedan: Anthony Zedan, a San Francisco native, has been teaching

shantea julian huery: Senior graduating in May, majoring in psych. minoring in art with plans to become a middle school teacher!

nora mercer: Slightly evil. Likes guillotines and medieval weaponry, dislikes pimpernels, color and frou-frou. When not chasing arch enemies I am known to pen a poem or two.

brien hopkins: When the world knocks, one man responds: Brien Hopkins, keeping the door open since 2006.

alicia otis: My poems are inspired by the feminine principle of the Divine Creation. She speaks to me, through me, in poetry. I have lived in Northern Illinois, New York City, Florida, California, and Hawaii. Now I live near Santa Fe, New Mexico. In the past thirty years I have been blessed to witness at least 12,675,000 sunrises. john larsen: Pretty fly … for a white guy. erik oeverndiek: You are the heart dotting “i” In the word “apologize” Scribbled drunk on a postcard Sent from somewhere volcanoes are I am the heart with no name Airbrushed on the license plate Of a Subaru that was Registered in Pennsylvania

bianca nery: She sees herself as the Asian version of Audrey Hepburn, without the designer clothes, eastern European accent, alabaster skin or the fame. But she does have the sunglasses.

katie bliss: … sergio patterson: From Gilroy, California. Graduate in May, 21 years old, avid poker player.

will hart linton: Will Hart Linton is a student with mad plans for life after graduation. Head swimming with numbers and stomach full of medicine, he crawls toward rock bottom through a tunnel lined with paper and ink.

sam white: I grew up in the bay area and studied Journalism and English at SJSU. I also have a B.S. in Business Administration. I am currently pursuing an M.A. in English (creative writing) at NDNU and will graduate in May, 2007. andrea colangelo William Wordsworth: Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart...

jessica rine: Jessica Rine is a senior at NDNU, and will be graduating in Fall of 2007 with a BA in English and a BFA in Musical Theater. Writing creatively has been a hobby for a while now, and Jessica is happy to share her work with her peers at NDNU.

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Kelsey walsh: Kelsey Walsh (freshman) is a piano performance major at NDNU. When she isn’t practicing the piano, she likes to write, especially poetry, and builds scale model airplanes. Her dream is to become a concert pianist and thus share her love of music with others, and her favorite word is hippopotomonstrosesquipedalian.

majoring in vocal performance. Watch out! You may be hugged. :) “Singing brings out in me what I can’t normally bring out in everyday life. it’s an incredible feeling to be able to bare your soul to people you’ve never met in a way that can make them understand so clearly what you mean. That’s what I love most about singing ... it becomes my truest form of communication.” - Josh Groban

the bohemian 2006-07

the bohemian 2006-07

English in Japan for more than seven years. As a college student, he was inspired to read and write poetry by his erudite professors at CND, especially his mentor, Dr. Davaran.

claire karoly: Claire Karoly, ’10, is an eclectic, philosophical Grobanite


diana enriquez: My name is Diana Enriquez and I’m a sophomore here at NDNU and my major is Political Science. I work for Public Relations here at the Mansion and on my spare time I love taking photos of people that mean the world to me. I usually do it for fun or whenever my friends need someone to take a picture for them. I really enjoy taking photos of other people because I feel like the camera can capture something that nothing in writing can.

melissa s. koh: Melissa S. Koh finished writing and directing her second fulllength theatre piece last year, while living in Seoul, Korea. Back in California, she looks forward to completing her M.A. in Education at NDNU—because her love for educating attitude-filled teenagers falls a close second to her love of words.

isidra reyna: “The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures. It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers. It is the same life that is rocked in the oceancradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow. I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life. And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment.”— Rabindranath Tagore pamela j. brown: Pamela Brown lives in Redwood Shores, California as the wife of Dee Brown, the mother of Alexis and Shane, and the person who finds her expression in writing.

cathy barber: Cathy Barber’s poetry and prose have been published extensively, most recently in Off the Coast, Dos Passos Review and Ballyhoo Stories. She lives in San Mateo and teaches poetry to children in San Mateo County with California Poets in the Schools.

guy tiphane: Guy Tiphane is an alumni of the M.A.E. program who must have

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a yearly fix of The Bohemian. He publishes on his web site heatingupthefog.com, and lives in Berkeley with a couple of bicycles.

conrad clevlen: Looking for ladies between 5 foot 2 inches and 5 feet 11 inches. Conrad Clevlen; a light in the darkness. Ladies may be within the weight range of 100–140lbs. Conrad Clevlen; not to be mistaken with Conrad Cleveland, Conrad Clevelan, Comrade Clovelen, Conner Cleven. Ladies with good personalities welcomed but not required. Conrad Clevlen; one man, one story, one incredible smile. Preferably ladies who enjoy giving back rubs…Conrad Clevlen; a gift to humanity.



The Bohemian 2006-2007