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KIOSK, 1982 Morningside College Editors: Student Editors:

Cover By:

Frank Breneisen Scott Simmer Sharon Bevans Deborah Craft Craig Wansink

Tony Somoni

TABLE OF CONTENTS Lori Krause, "The Dating Game". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 1 Conrad M. Herold, HCheeseburger". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 2 "(1 Kings 18:20-40, Mark 5: 1-17)".. . . . . . .. . . . . . .. .. 3 Poem............................................ 4 Craig Wansink, "Onions and the Writer". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 5 "Senate Report". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 10 "Dorpping In Woods" . ............................ 11 Sharon A. Bevans, 2 Poems ................................. 12 Quin Brunk, "Peace Treaty". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 13 Jim Marshall, "Chicago" ................................... 14 Youngil Rhee, "Still Life on Window Sill" . ................... 15 Deb Everhart, "Feed" ..................................... 16 Dave Summerlin, "Reflections". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 17 Jim Marshall, "Over the Edge" . ............................ 18 Randy Hughes, "Bricks" . .................................. 19 Tony Somoni, "Feed Bunks" . .............................. 20 Frank Breneisen, "Chicago Parade" . ........................ 21 Jan D. Hodge, "He Watches Her at Pinball" . ................. 22 Andrew Barneby, "For the Wolves" . .................... ... . 23 "The Writ Exam of Zits and Man". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 25 Scott Simmer, "Words for John Crossett" . ................... 26 Deborah Craft, "To Jim, With Love" . ....................... 27 "Preacher's Wife" ................................ 28 Sandra Long, "Sunday Afternoon". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 29 "It's Academic" . ................................. 30 Tim Erwin, "The Spirit of Golf". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 31 Lauri Pearson, "On Top of the Mailbox" . .................... 33 "Assimilation " . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 34 CONTRIBUTORS NOTES ................................. 35



The doorbell rings She hurries to answer Open the door Says "Won't you come in?" She smiles He smiles They make pleasant conversation. She gets her coat He helps her put it on They exit laughing The movie is boring His arm slips around Her hand is warm on this thigh He blows in her ear She nods yes The movie ends abruptly It's back to her place Drinks for two He kisses her lightly She pulls him to her They end in bed The morning dawns The bed is cold She smiles He smiles The door is closed


CHEESEBURGER (Davenport, la., New Year's Eave, 1981)

A video game and some old women with us, my coat thrown into quiet, drinking coffee, here in Midtown Plaza, where Christian Science has a reading room, where only the CIA could find me. I tip-toe in reverence, before your little colored tiles, cower on your stainless steel counter, where I give you money. In silence I eat, I catch your eyes in a glimpse and then pollute your air with a cigarette. Fourteen year old girl you come out from behind your counter, and wipe the next table clean, wearing your corduroys tight. We walk outside and dangle on cars and telephone poles. It's okay, don't worry, I just saw God, driving past in a Ford.



(1 Kings 18:20-40, Mark 5:1 17)

It was I, the troubler of Israel, high on Mount Carmel, where we gathered. It was I, the troubler of Israel,

high on Mount Carmel where I was the Gerasene demomac, cutting myself with stones and screaming to God-knows-who. It was I, who cha lenged you to Mount Carmel where quartered ox and soaked wood' I had brought you, yelling about Bab Ion and the Statue of Liberty, and God-knows-what. It was I, and I remember how we gna hed our teeth,

and leapt about our altars, in spastic dance, from morning, tIll noon, till e enmg, but our gods were on a journey, or perhaps asleep, needing to be awakened.



Flat-walled livingroom, iron framed glass side door, little pieces of square glass puttied into iron and On the walls cheap disjoined frames with soiled paper of mass produced prints. A table linoleum topped tube legged with plastic upholstered matching chairs and People. Singing people, clacking spoons on elbows on arms on buttocks on empty brown beer bottles Clacking in holy ancestral rhythm before a whole cooked calf head picked to glistening bones on plastic plates on fingers on thick lips with frothed corners, Pounding Swaying believing pouring through mouths, eyes, flared noses, full voices gushing rivers slapping thighs slipping dresses telling eight year old to drink, Scratching Guitar together all together a strong chorus rises over rhythm of tablespoons and thighs and uncle who passes out on the grimed corners of plastic upholstery screwed to bent tubes And supple Maritsa just nineteen smiles and sings together with guitar and uncle and I slap spoons on my thigh wanting her to hold and bless with greasy fingers and paper napkins.



ONIONS AND THE WRITER "'He raised the bloody stump of his left arm and bellowed at the demi-gods who had crucified Bullet: his pet dalmation acquired from the salty, old, Alaskan, fur -trapper. '" "The line stands out. It is marvelous. Undoubtedly, the line is that of a novelist," Delbert thought. "Although the emotional intensity, the creativity, and the philosophy which have emanated from my writings haven't been enough to retain the attention of those tasteless publishers, this book is different." Delbert repeated the line to himself, until his conscience started to echo it: "This book is different." Licking the tip of his Sheaffer in prophetic contemplation, he then continued. He thought for a moment ho\\ glad he was that he didn't use a typewriter: "Licking all the keys wouldn't only be Impractical, but silly as well." With blue ink stains on hi tongue, Delbert gazed at nothingness. "I am a novelist," he repeate to hImself. Show-don't just tell. Show-don't jus t I . His teacher's wisdom now served as a guidepost in his writings. Delbert knew the dog's crucifixion was uncommon, however, the abstractness of it would be appealing if only described correctly. "Bullet's forepaws were wedged to the oak cross by railroad spikes. The unconscious Bullet had welldefined, bulging eyeballs. Blood trickled out the side of his mouth. The pups-Rex and Ace-whimpered at the foot of the cross." Delbert had seen Clint Eastwood in For a Few Dollars lv/ore, and remembered that a big, fat Mexican-after he raped some girl-got shot. A close-up of the dead Mexican's face showed bulging eyeballs, and a stream of blood flowing down into his beard. Although Delbert didn't know if the bulging eyes were a result of the rape or the death, and although he didn't know if dogs bled from the mouth, he disregarded, what he considered to be, the fallaciousness of the fallacy of hasty generalization, in order to "please my potential hordes of followers." "Indubitably," he thought, "many of the factual aspects of the story need to be sacrificed for the sake of the genre." After hovering over the desk for an hour without any ideas, Delbert decided to take a break. He pushed in the metal top of his pen and watched the point of the pen disappear. "Unbelievable," he thought,


"something can both emerge from, and return to, a protective metal sheath, with but the same downward movement of the thumb." Feeling the inspiration for a novelette, Delbert grabbed a piece of scratch paper, jotted down a few quick notes, opened a desk drawer, and tossed the paper amid hundreds of others . He then stretched, opened the bathroom door, kicked a pile of his "mildewy" clothes away from the entrace, walked into the bathroom, "enthroned" himself, and commenced with his periodic naturalities. Periodic naturalities. "No one ever writes abut periodic naturalities," he thought. "Maybe it's too embarrassing or in poor taste." He didn't know. He didn't remember naturalities even being mentioned in the six-month "You Can Be A Big-Time Writer Just Like Louis L' Amour" home correspondence course which he had successfully completed. He decided naturalities were probably inappropriate in many circumstances, and that they probably ended up just steering away from the plot, the theme, and the central characters. After a few grimacing moments, Delbert looked up, smiled, and commented to himself, "Good. Nylons and pink underwear aren't strewn all over the towel rack or on the edge of the bathtub. After all," Delbert thought, "I am a bachelor." He wrung his hands, giggling to himself. Delbert didn't even bother to reach toward the toilet paper dispenser: he knew it was empty. He grabbed a handful of Kleenex, "applied" it, washed his hands, and then dried them on his pants. Since it was four in the morning, Delbert turned off his desk lamp, crawled under the mass of shirts, pants, underwear, and sheets on his bed, and turned off his bed lamp. Darkness. Delbert gazed at his radiating Super Sugar Crisp glow-in-the-dark ball. He had no real use for the ball, but he figured its beacons would come in handy in case he had to identify the face of a burglar who, after entering his apartment, might, by chance, be standing with his face next to the ball. He remembered, when at the grocery store, weighing the opportunity cost of the displaced cereal to that of the plastic ball. The conclusion was logical, considering the crime rate and all. Having to be to work at nine sharp, Delbert "glow-balled" the face of his clock, set it for 8:45, and fell asleep. At 9:15, Delbert woke. He glanced at the clock, rubbed his eyes (with the same sort of expression and emotional intensity found in most people who oversleep, glance at their clocks, and rub their eyes), threw off all his makeshift bedding, and ran to the bathroom. Rummaging through the great pile-with the drive of a half-crazed housewife at a Penney's white sale-he drug out a wrinkled pair of black bell-bottoms, and yanked them on. A pepperoni-stained, white shirt left the pile next.


In his Pinto, Delbert drove with one hand, buttoned his shirt with the other, and-with his mouth-cursed the manufacturers of his glow ball. He whipped into a parking lot, flew out of his auto, and ran into a restaurant called "Buns 'n' More." Entering the door, he stopped, tucked in his shirt, combed his hair to one side, suavely coughed into his fist, and strolled behind the delicatessen counter. "Mornin," he said to his already-busy co-workers. He walked into the back room of the store and was pleased when he saw the boss wasn't there yet. It was Delbert's fifth day at Buns 'n' More, and he didn't want to face an early retirement. Delbert wrapped a plastic apron around himself, plopped on an official Buns 'n' More paper hat, and strolled in front behind the counter. The other workers glared at him, but said nothing. They were all "Bun Professionals": an honor bestowed as a result of their dedication, quality of work, and general attitude. This was their career. Buns 'n' More had done much for them and, for $3.35 an hour, they were willing to do much for their "BnM." Delbert scratched his armpit. It itched. The Bun Professionals stopped their work and stared at him. Delbert stopped scratching. He smelled the fingers. They smelled like onion. They always smelled like onion. He tried washing, he tried scrubbing, but still, essence of onion remained on his fingertips. "I am a writer," he thought. "Why must my hands smell like onions?" Delbert knew the Bun Professionals didn't bother with such transience as "onionized" fingers. He knew they didn't notice the smell: they were professionals. He knew their transcendent nature made them stress-and realize-that but for the grace and goodness of their BnM, they wouldn't have any use for their fingers. They probably wouldn't even have had them, if it weren't for BnM. Not having noticed the mobilized task force of his cohorts at work, Delbert turned around only to see his dressing table "densisized" with buns. Delbert glared at the buns, but said nothing. The slicer leaned over: "Okay. The first guy's got three salami and swiss-he wants one heated-and a pepperoni and provolone. The second guy's got canadian bacon, ham, hard sausage, and mozarella. The gal's got hot pastrami. The Scoutmaster behind her has six ham and Americans. Got it?" Delbert cringed. All he remembered was the first order. He turned to the first man in line: "Do you want everything on those?" "Well-I want everything on one of the salami and swiss; tomato, lettuce, and oil on the hot one, vinegar, hot peppers, and onions on the other, and lettuce, onion, and mayonnaise on the pepperoni." Delbert saw that the order was to go, so he garnished all the sandwiches with just lettuce, and hurriedly wrapped them up before anyone was the wiser.


Although Delbert had just started, his movements were already predictable, his methods irreverent, his days predestined. When customers complained, Delbert jabbed his pointy, gnarled forefinger into their chest, damned them, and condemned them "to the lower levels of hell, where vapire bats will suck your flesh, where your heritage will be lost, where your momma will scream while rats feast on her bowels." Delbert wasn't sincere when he said that; Delbert didn't even believe in an afterlife; Delbert didn't even believe in life. He just felt that it was so much more refreshing to answer complaints in an original sort of way, rather than just saying "Yes, sir! I was wrong. The customer is always right, here at Buns 'n' More." "Besides," Delbert. thought, "my replies keep complaints at a minimal level." At five o'clock, after contending with foreigners, the illiterate, the mute, and the Bun Professionals, Delbert ripped off his garnishsplattered, plastic apron, threw it in the garbage can, forged through the mobs of customers, and made it to his Pinto. Work was over for the day. Delbert sped home, flew into his apartment, "kung-fued" the clothes-pile which guarded the entrance to his bathroom, and turned on the bathroom faucets. Disrobing, Delbert plunged into the bathtub, which was-as of then-still quite devoid of water. Splashing what was there on himself, he luffaed his body with a fierceness found only in salty, old, Alaskan, fur trappers who are trying to tan a hide. Water didn't stick to his body: his skin was too oily. Delbert used soap. Delbert used the luffa. Soap. Luffa. Soap. Luffa. Delbert got out of the tub, grabbed a white towel, and started drying himself. He looked in the mirror. His body was red. His body was raw. "I look like fresh ground beef in white butcher's paper," he thought. He wrapped the towel around his waist, hurdled the clothespile, raced through books, shoes, and furniture in his bedroom, blocked away obstacles (the mobiles hanging from his ceiling), and was pleased when he found that he had beat the other contestants to his desk. His towel fell. He looked around. He realized there weren't any other contestants. He didn't remember why he was at the desk. He sat down, thought, and then grabbed a piece of scratch paper. Figuring that it could be used in his "Bullet" story, Delbert wrote "Wet, hot body in white towel (like ground beef in butcher paper)." He opened his desk drawer, tossed the note in, straightened the towel around his waist, and glided back into the bathroom. Delbert scratched at his navel with his forefinger. He dug the finger in and drug a little chink of lint out of the orifice. He sniffed the finger. "ONIONS!" Delbert stared at his fingers as if they were possessed. The demented "bouquet" continued to pierce at the inside of is nostrils. He couldn't change the smell of his fingers; they would always smell like omons.


Delbert put on his white shirt, pulled on his black pants, and went into his room. He sat down at his desk and turned on the lamp. He grabbed his Sheaffer and looked at the last line written in his notebook: "'The pups-Rex and Ace-whimpered at the foot of the cross.'" "That is a logical conclusion," Delbert thought, but he felt obligated to write more. He didn't know how to continue. He opened his drawer. He grabbed a handful of notes. He looked at the first note. Thoughts jumbled in his mind: "Could Rex and Ace be harned in an airport by Kishna followers. Well-dogs do have consciousness- NO! That wouldn't work." He tossed the note to the floor and grabbed another. Assuming that dogs wouldn't be interested in mechanical engineering of a pen, Delbert threw the note to the floor. Shaking, weak, and tired, Delbert chucked all the notes on the floor. Not knowing what to write, he dropped his head to the desk, smelled the onion on his hands, and cried to the demi-gods who had crucified him.




Seated alone in the chamber, I unbotton my vest, let out a gust of breath, and remove my Sheaffer from my plastic pocket protector. Rotating the sleek-shafted pen, I dream of heptanumbers, I dream of cultural deviancies, I dream of different worlds. Licking the tip of the pen in prophetic contemplation, I can't help but snicker at my versification. My arm (wearily projecting from this squatting frame of mine), records my personal codex for the contemplating masses. I return the Sheaffer, button my vest, wash my hands, and leave.




Whose cow this is I do not know. It bellows and brays but does not low.

I aim my Browning, then grin, then leer. She looks my way with eyes of woe. This overweight moo-cow must think it queer That I am aiming point-blank at her rear. Her plump, frail body starts to shake. And in her eye, I see a tear. I know she's pregnant, I ain't no flake Splatting her brain would be a mistake. Out baby moo-cow starts to seep I hold my fire for baby's sake. The birth was lovely, I start to weep, but I won't buy food: I am too cheap. I pull the trigger. A dead, red heap. I pull the trigger. A dead, red heap.



crashing into sudden wakefulness 2:17 a.m. emptiness billows in under the door around the window the cracks in the plaster I lie here ask the wall in front of me if the sniffles I heard yesterday were hayfever or tears

the cold ugly blackness worms its vacuous way from behind the heavy door so neatly barred in its path it was not s.o simple emptiness invades the inevitable thief in the mght sealing away all haves




Yesterday I found the shirt you left in my drawer . Damn you. Leave me in peace.





Jealous of the ripple her firm hips give to the aqua shorts, her curls (blonde and not to be outdone) splash her shoulders. She kisses a quarter in, nudges it home with a thigh. Deft fingers flick the balls to life. She knows what she is doing. In pink and magenta, lemon and blue, the singer rides his mike like a cock horse, keeps score on his sleeve and doesn't care that her picture breathes beneath his outstretched hand. Tonight he will dream he is the singer--green and lavender. She, intent on her game, will lean closer closer till her white halter hides behind those pudding tan breasts which will bounce like the ball between bumpers when she scores.




I walk, looking down at my feet, pacing steadily the distance "home." 2:00 a.m. and the streets are dark white I hear a blind man waving a tin cup, the sound of a pebble clanking on tin at the end of each jerking arc of his hand (the good one.) I know he isn't there, or rather, he isn't here, or rather, he isn't clumped on this street in Sioux City, Iowa, the United States of America, at 2:00 a.m. Central Daylight Time. But I know he is there and hears my feet hit the sidewalk deliberately this morning on my traverse anywhere else in the world, with the coins he has collected today tucked under many folds of stale clothing. (As soon as he hears a plunk his fingers go straight to the cup, to count, except, and store.) But I know nothing of this except the whimsical notions I learned from "The Prince and the Pauper." The blind man, the difference would be, can't curtsy or say, "Ma'am."


I wonder what it would be like in his crusted, shoelace-less shoes. No eyes. Eating grub from the nunnery of the Sisters of the Loaves or some such occasional charity or something my grandson found on another street or bread from the bodega about two blocks from here, where I think they give me a little extra for not having eyes or a little less to get me out of their store and stop scaring the customers, maybe in South America, where I could use my Spanish. (" l.Donde esta el bano?" "Yo provengo de Texas ... Si, donde los cowboy.") It's one of those passing thoughts, to be stuck in the stark poor, and I kind of empathize and, well, it's tough to be blind on the street anywhere else in the world.




There's a zit beneath my eye, a sty I never hit when I spit into the sky, a place I never sit or lie . If only it were bitten off, smitten by a god of some belief, a kitten, written away in wavering red fits, excoriated by mud mixture kits! Would leather do the blue job of ruining its curving, bruising pulcritude of a life, kissing away this hot and tough slag distorting my facial countenance? Or just buff its cool, tamarack-like presence and let it shine off the peer group I have at hand? Why is it the center of my plan to bring this shit before the pits of Northern man, who admits, exits, and digs its own, an own that omits the curious bits of people, like me, with zits?



WORDS FOR JOHN CROSSETT -April 28, 1923 - August 6, 1981

What I have to say about this man is not kind. He is dead. Dead. He sucked down the fumes of his car like the fluff and cliche he drove his pupils from. So what now, John? Do we hand down word to widen the suicide rung in Hell? Tell them how this brilliant man , this waste, turned his eloquence into silence? You may not even have known me: the bearded one in a bearded time, another lost in the land of the lotus eater. For you the universe was a marvellous mechanism, fueled on Truth, on Beauty. In the back of your class, my mind was being blown, blown, blown to bits in distant rice paddies. You were a grotesque anachronism. I thought. But the Furies, those ever-persistent Bitches, wise even to our sophistry, peered in at every window, ridiculing us both . Like some frail machine breaking down, your heart's gauge must have pointed deep into the red. Danger. Danger You let go the steering wheel, veering out of your life. John, I am on my front porch. Rain works it way up the steps. Wind litters my yard with sycamore leaves. I am breathing good air.




In between lovers I wilt-Like dandelion stems Chewed by a lawnmower and Left to dry in the July sun. But when I wilt, My resistance revives And I am repulsed When I think of your touch. The nightmare of your brilliant brutality Keeps coming back to haunt me-To hunt me down. Reminiscent of The high-pitched shrieks of children, Screaming the story of Lizzie Borden-And her axe-And her parents. Reminiscent of The whispered taunting of the mirror, Daring me to look into my eyes' reflections And mutter "I hate Mary Worth." Reminiscent of The ominous voice at slumber parties, Tempting us to ressurect Lottie the Witch, While an orange moon Spits embers in the sky. That is what I think Of your touch-And those thoughts reseed me When wilted and dried, Like dandelion stems In the July sun.




Harry told me I must be good-I really should keep up appearances. In other words, He could whore around As long as he didn't get caught. But when I whored around, I got caught. Harry spit on me and screamed How could I break the Fifth Commandment. (Actually, I think it's the Sixth) Harry chained me to Holy Willie's Altar; told the Holy Rollers To cast stones Because they-Of course-Were without Sin. Then I went home with Harry, Saw his face transformed into Paprika-flecked mashed potato-Thanks to Old Betsy. May the Lord make his face shine upon you, Harry. Amen.




Our endless night faded into the dusty yellow of morning, then staled on these bedroom walls. Rolling off your reel to reel, Lennon's last song escapes through the open window ...

watching the wheels go round and round. The 4:25 Greyhound idles in the Texaco station next to O'Bannon's Liquor Store . that sold you our wine. I gather the empty glasses. You tell me to change the tape, but in tonight's silence, I'll be embraced by other walls.




Prostitution. I've climbed to those depths. I don't hustle on the streetcorner-I work for desperate wages. Some sell their bodies then layout of reach-there's a heart, a soul, a something more that's not for sale. J

But those are surface deals-I've sold it all. I offered the workings of my mind. I've had a hundred students a day-going through my motions, I've become mechanically-inclined. I give up broken bits of knowledge like tiny cells of my soul-after class, I find them laying about, dead. 'Where did Dante find his reason?' He knew The Aeneid by heart-for love of Virgil's Roman virtue. 'What divine reason makes circle two so different from circle eight?' All the Hell that lies between. Ten thousand students down the line, they'll leave me a scraped-out vessel.




Golf, from my vantage point, is a game rich with redeeming qualities. Ask any devoted practicioner of the sport and he'll eagerly itemize the various beneficial aspects of golf. It is a relatively mild form of exercise practiced in comparatively tranquil surroundings, offering a pleasant reprieve from daily business. There is a prominent mental component to the game, demanding sharp skills of concentration and discretion. Some golfers find a valuable therapeutic action in the repetitive flogging of a stationary object. And of course, there are those talented few whose skills have reached a point of such refinement that they are capable of earning seventy-five or a hundredthousand dollars for a weeks' toil on the pro golf tour. The true devotee may provide a list of reasons for playing the game as long as your arm. There is one thing that golf offers, however, that doesn't make it on most lists, because it is so rarely experienced and is familiar to only a very small percentage of regular golfers. It may be akin to other similar phenomena, "peak experiences" as they're sometimes labeled, but it seems doubtful that this particular sensation occurs in its undiluted quality outside of the realm of golf. "It" is an almost undescribable, fleeting aura; a seemingly spirItual manifestation which descends around the unsuspecting receiver in the course of an otherwise unremarkable golf swing. The aura lingers for only a second or perhaps two, but it leaves no doubt, to those who've experienced it, that something quite unrelated to the game of golf has visited upon them. It's as though one fateful golf swing, once in a great while, opens a gateway to a level of existence otherwise undiscoverable. The profoundly intangible nature of the aura prevents an accurate description of its qualities. I can only hope therefore, to describe some general parameters from my own experiences and those of a few acquaintances. The astounding effects of the aura are thrust upon the receiver with shocking suddeness, always at mid-swing. He feels himself seized and plunged roughly into an enveloping, savage void. For that instant in time, all familiar reality is shattered and the golfer is immersed in a sea of new vision and strange rythym. The effect is one of fiendish intensity and barren isolation. The sensations blitz through an exhausting spectrum of pure emotion and thought. All nerve endings are


laid bare and perception of vague ideas becomes effortless. The aura rains a lifetime of sensual and cognitive stimuli upon the receiver at incredible speeds, but at the center of the experience, there is a simple logic. There seems to be a sort of speed-blurred glimpse into allknowledge. Conflicting emotions intermingle benignly. Rage and rapture are indistinguishable. Mania meshes easily with melancholy. The aura presents a pattern; a key, like the legend to a map, but it remains just outside of the receiver's grasp. So, not surprisingly, the message goes undeciphered. Some feeling like comfort or great relief makes the receiver cling to the aura in desperation. The sense is that one must endure the experience, ride it to some understandable conclusion. Then it is over. Done. It has lasted for perhaps two seconds and it leaves nothing, not a breeze, in its wake. Other than the fact that it invariably occurs during the swing, between address and impact, the aura is quite independent of external mfluences. That IS, it is as likely to happen in Wyoming as in Georgia, in rain as in sunshine, in youth as in old age. Two or three encounters with the aura in a single year is about the norm for those who've experienced it, but it varies considerably from case to case. Neither is there value in spending hours on a driving range hoping to increase the probability of reaching the aura plane, for it can not be "artificially" mduced. In fact, It i most elusive when pursued. The aura is rarely a subject for discussion in pro shops and clubhouses, but those who've felt it show a tremendous eagerne s to share their own knowledge land experience when questioned. To those golfer who are, as yet, uninitiated in this area of the game, any ~alk of "this aura thing" is apt to bring looks of bewilderment or disgust. There seems to be a rather large contingent in golf who are seriously annoyed that anyone would play the game with other motivations than to break par or win a bet. Some of these, no doubt, are rather intimidated at the thought of being plucked off, at mid-swing, into something that sounds like a narcotic-frenzy. Golf would be a superior game even if the aura where just a figment of someone's imagination. After all, there's much to be said for the thrill of competition, the beauty of nature, and the product of exercise. With that first reverential voyage into the aura, however, comes a lust for a second ride - a yearning for a return trip to an awesome inner realm. So, should you happen to overhear an exultant golfer describmg his' 'big buzz on the twelfth tee" or his' 'mini-coma on the eighth fairway," rest easy. What he is professing, probably in terms vastly more descriptive than those I've used here, is the spirit of the game.




a frozen sparrow sleeps stiffly in self-embrace with wind beaten wings tucked about his breast of matted feathers fallen forward legs outstretched claws clutching for anything warm




I. Grandfather and I watched from the shanty stoop as the morning wasted away. I waited in worn jeans, red flannel shirt, and my moccasins Grandfather had sewn with the same hands that had spanked my bare behind the day before. The large sensitive fingers had baided my dark hair and washed my face and hands. I snuggled deeper into the loving arms. Grandfather never knew, but I had seen his black eye , the way his cheek bones glistened. II. I waited perched on my white tricycle, my birthday present-in pink sun-dress and bare feet. I wanted to tell the whiteman, Daddy, the whitewoman, Mother, had sheared off my braids. My hands grasped the red handle bar grips. The neighbor, Lucille, wearing a ragged robe and a head of curlers, gawked from the window. III. The day we moved away, "back home," I was packed into the back seat of the '66 Pontiac in new jeans, flowered blouse, and moccasins from the Sears catalogue, my bleached hair in auburn waves, my hands nestled in Kitty Mae's fluffy gray fur. I gazed out through the frosted window at Mom gossiping with Lucy. Clouds of their misty breath mixed for one final time as Dad said, "Let's get going."


CONTRIBUTORS LORI KRAUSE is a freshman from Zumbrota, Minnesota. CONRAD HEROLD is a senior and Morningside's resident Marxist. CRAIG W AN SINK is the 1982 KIOSK Fiction A ward winner and the Student Government President. SHARON BEVANS, a sophomore English major, is from Waverly, Nebraska, not the home of fine crackers. QUIN BRUNK is a senior nursing and English major from Alburnett, Iowa. YOUNGIL RHEE is a senior art major from Sioux City. DEB EVERHART is a junior from Moville. DAVE SUMMERLIN is from Sioux City. JIM MARSHALL, an art major from Sioux City, is the winner of the 1982 KIOSK Photography A ward. RANDY HUGHES is a sophomore from Sergeant Bluff. TONY SOMONI, an art major, is interested in graphic design. FRANK BRENEISEN, a professor in the art department, does not have a frog poem in the KIOSK this year. JAN D. HODGE, on leave this year, is a professor in the English Department. ANDREW BARNEBY is working this semester as a legislative aid in Des Moines and is the winner of the KIOSK Poetry Award/or 1982. SCOTT SIMMER is the Writer-in-Residence at Morningside. DEBORAH CRAFT, a senior English and mass communications major, will be going on to graduate school in journalism at Iowa State next year. SANDRA LONG, a sophomore from Marion, is taking contributions to buy a new hat. TIM ERWIN, a transfer student from Sioux City, works as a greenskeeper at a local golf course. LAURI PEARSON, a sophomore from Spencer, is the secretary in the English Department.


v44 n01 Kiosk  

1982 - Kiosk, vol. 44, num. 1

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