Phoenix - Fall 1993

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EN IX

zin

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o staff

editors

lea noel tammie wells

graphic designer assistant graphic designer managing editor art editor

tanya mykytka russ porter charlie cates antigone pantanizopoulos

poetry editor

claire jantz

literary editor

paige travis

supporting staff

rosetta belt ryan bright ameet doshi catherine harrison frankie harris beth joslin andy kenny katherine larrabee scott maples scott pierce

staff advisors

eric smith jane pope

contents

insight

2

brant judkins

untitled

3

anne powers

earth mother

4

del ray zimmerman

untitled

5

matthew taylor coursey

discovery

6

brit blasingame

chrome

7

roger smith

saving the drowning girl

8

donna doyle

reclaimation

9

gini reed brain gleaves

jackie

10 12

lines composed upon an evening at a northern gay bar

13

chris cagle

world view next door

14

sidney setzer

untitled

15

stacy smith

charity chang

16

paige travis and charlie cates

i am woman

18

charity chang

to my daughter going off to college

linda parsons

P'93

20 22

daniel roop

the bricks

24

c. winstead

more than you'll know

buford pusser's death car

25 hercules of labor 26

rob matthews

timothy d. winkler louis velaquez

icon and rocket

27

j.bruce bogie

pink resolve

28

fay boston

the neighbors

29

michael scott

joey

30

jason chumley

katharina

33

anna maria horner demacopoulous

kitchen window series

34 35

stephanie levey

poem for stacy

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lincoln speece

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insight

I saw you last night in my sleep And felt your warm, soft touch And knew the safety of your embrace I felt my soul at ease And loved you like a blind man loves the night sky.

I felt the warmth of your body As we made love in a pool of brilliant, shimmering light.

We touched and loved and never said goodbye.

I Awoke and loved momentarily, blissfully.

I remembered and hated you like a blind man hates the night sky.

brant judkins

untitled

anne powers

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earth mother

del ray zimmerman

untitled

she is water where man ripped stones from earth her eyes the reflection of blue skies on her surface in afternoon shadows her rock cage disappears into darkness currents and eddies roll and turn on each other blazing like the burning silk of lovers skin at dusk melting into one body and the dying embers of day look warm like love but ... shiver in the watery nights revealing emptiness and the stars reflecting over the bones of creatures that could not swim forever ... and in their 'mornings lament the maddening thirst that drives men to water.

matthew taylor coursey

V'e

discovery

i dreamt i was inside my lover's belly curled up inside her womb like a tiny amphibian could barely make out the thin film of lamplight through the shell of her stomach as she was sitting reading the silhoutte of the book each line humming from her mouth and i was insanely comfortable like a single note during a symphony trapped in timelessness floating unable to dissipate like a drop of rain placed against the sky

brit blasingame

chrome

roger smith

saving the drowning girl

Wading mountain streams, I learned dangers of slick rocks, that water could be deeper than it seemed. Nothing under its surface looked the same, feet surreal white, cold, while sweat washed my sun-red face.

Glistening rocks dried rough gray, mistaken treasures.

Taller, surrer-footed, my father could venture deeper, climb higher, safe from all he desired to keep from happening to me.

Watching him from those distances, all that water separating us, I saw places I could never go without drowning.

One August, tired of drying things transformed, I watched him, standing high, smiling at his climb.

How the little girl got there, I don't know.

As quickly as i had seen her, she'd fallen, my father reaching into tugging current, pulling her upward, into light.

I wanted to be her, drawn sputtering from cold depttls clinging to a stranger, surviving all I'd been warned against.

He looked at me then, before her breathing returned, before her parents realized she was missing.

And, in that distance, eyes squinting against sunlight, standing where I'd been told to stand, we told each other things we witnessed when no one else was watching.

donna doyle

reclaimation

gini reed

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more than you'll ever know

The alarm clock shows a red digital 5:58. I snatch it from the nightstand before it can blare its signal and wake you.

The wonders of being an insomniac: being able to watch you sleep, your relaxed features, the deep and even breathing. I could do this forever.

I try to crawl out of bed without waking you, but my creaky bones and limited range of motion don't help at all. I walk into the kitchen, sorry to leave our bed but unable to shake you gently to join me.

I really should clean this place up, but at this time of morning, I'd just as soon walk around the clutter than do anything about it.

As I put on the coffee and wait for a sign that the gurgling machine will deliver my morning communion . wine, I walk to the corner of the kitchen. Here is where I do my bastardized aerobics. You need not witness this. Relatively young men's bodies shouldn't need this much help waking up. I have a breakfast of four Tylenol, oblivious to the long-term effects of acetaminophen on my system. We all must cope in our own way.

There is a chill on the linoleum floor, but rattling drawers to find a sweater would only wake you. I envy those who can sleep regularly, and the longer you stay asleep, the better.

I miss you, and you are less than ten yards away.

The window beckons, and I can see the neighborhood coming alive. Being an observer of such only depresses me.

I go back to the counter to test my patience and manual dexterity with the rolling of a cigarette. I remove one paper from the envelope and open the pouch of tobacco. I attempt to roll a haphazard cigarette. It disturbs me to wonder to what or whom I have complete allegiance. Is it a supreme being? Is it you?

Nicotine? Non-aspirin pain relievers? Or something else?

These philosophical questions set me off on a mumbling jag with my lighter. Zippo is my morning friend; we've been through a lot together.

I tap the wad of paper and tobacco some more to try to give it some resemblance to a cylinder. I fail miserably, but at least it's smokeable.

As I walk toward the window again, I see you are awake-- peripheral vision is something I can count on in the morning. But I can't face you yet. I've got to sit down.

My back to the wall, I begin the old ritual of smoking.

This allows me to think. How are we going to pay the

bills now? How can we afford to buy food? You mean so much to me, and it hurts to wonder if I'll be able to give you all you deserve.

I guess I'll find another job. I'm still a man. That's probably why they call it manual labor. Dumb grunt work.

But will it pay the bills? I don't know. My brow is wrinkled and it reminds me of how many times you have smoothed it out for me. I also realize I am hunched over this ashtray on the floor, almost folded over horizontally. I recall your warnings about posture, though at this point in my life, my spine would disintegrate if it even remotely considered being that straight.

As I stub out the remains of the morning's first cigarette, I see that you are awake and watching me.

The thought crosses my mind that married couples have ESP, and I can't help but chuckle at this because I don't want to trouble you with all that's on my mind.

I need you to be with me. Next to me. To tell me everything will be all right. I wave with sleepy fingers and offer you a Lucky Strike with the tilt of my eyebrows. You grin that little grin and easily stand and walk into the kitchen.

I envy your morning gracefulness.

You sit next to me on the floor. The kitchen has warmed since I got up, but I know how you always think it's too cold in the house, so I put my arm around you and my head in the crook of your neck.

You kiss my forehead, smoothing it with your left hand, and whisper softly, "Don't think so much, Jim." I smile and only wish I could follow orders.

The question I have waited to hear for most of the morning comes after my coffee and your orange juice and comics.

"Why aren't you going to work today, hon?"

I get the feeling from your tone that it could be a rhetorical question. You know much more than I ever give you credit for.

I try to open my mouth to answer, to come clean, to tell you that I am like nearly a tenth of this country's adult population: Unemployed. Between jobs.

Whatever. But I can't make the words come; I can't face you with that. But you know, somehow. I'm almost sure of it. So I just shrug sheepishly.

Why didn't we listen to my parents? God, love makes people do weird things, like just up and get married. We just knew. Knew! So we went down to the courthouse one day and got married. Just like that. And we told our parents of the joyous news right before we told them we were quitting school for a year or two to get jobs and

an apartment. Mom said we were crazy, but love makes you do crazy things. That's why this is so hard; that's why I am seriously contemplating my third cigarette of the day.

IIWe need to talk, dear," you say. And I agree, so I shift positions to face you. I need to talk, but I can tell by your wide-awake eyes that I need to listen first. ''I'm glad you're sitting down. Because this is hard to tell you. It's not really bad news, more like good news and bad news, I guess."

I ask for the bad news first. Masochistic tendencies?

IIWell, I got laid off yesterday. Now, Jim, I know we need the money and all, but I can get another job. Parttime or something. For a little while."

For a little while? What does that mean?

IIBecause, dear," you say, leaning in and kissing me lightly on the lips, ''I'm going to have a baby."

Well. I've gotten better; you've conditioned me to the point that you can't necessarily tell things are bouncing loudly through my brain from the expression on my face and brow. A lot of things are running through my mind, dear. A lot.

I don't know what else to do, so I lean over and kiss you. And fake a smile, I think. I'm really confused right now.

You tell me, ''I'm glad you called in to work and you can spend the day with me. I figure you knew I needed to talk. You know me too well," you add with a laugh.

I should tell you the same thing; this is my cue, but I can't. I only nod my head with a dazed expression you probably attribute solely to the news of your pregnancy.

We just hold each other, on the floor, for dear life, until the sun coming through the window creeps all the way across the floor and up the cabinets onto the counter. I haven't even noticed the stiffness in my joints until you stand and say you are going to take a shower.

I reply by saying that I'm going to go get some cigarettes, if you want anything.

III know," you say. IIA lot is on your mind. You need to drive. Just drive. Be careful. I'll h~)Ve some dinner for us when you get back." Then you kiss me and knead the skin on the back of my neck.

On the way out the door, I turn to see you still standing in the same spot on the linoleum, the sun glistening on your eyes. They look wet. I tell you I love you, because I do, and you tell me, III know."

Do you know how much?

I know what I have to do, but I don't really want to.

After leaving the convenience store with my two packs of Luckys, I have to drive. Fast. Thank God for

1-40. Traffic is light for this time of day, and the cops are scarce. I try to drive until the loud country music and the hum of the nearly bald tires calms me down.

For the first time in my life, it doesn't work.

I come back to town and visit the bank before it closes, and I barely make it. I know you wanted a joint checking account when we got married, and I do get a kick out of reading both our names on every check. But I never mentioned the safety deposit box with the savings bonds in it. I didn't buy any of them, but my parents said I should have them just in case.

Welcome to just in case.

I find a teller who appears to know what planet she is on and deposit all of the bonds into our account. I also transfer my meager savings into our checking account.

The teller gives me a lollipop for my troubles.

I realize my task is nearly over, so I return home. As I walk in the doorway, I notice no lights are on. The whole house is lighted with candles. Then you appear.

We eat dinner; I can't remember ever having better Hamburger Helper. The candlelight and the company helps.

After you fall asleep in my arms, I slide out of bed to sit on the floor with Tylenol and some Luckys to watch you. When you wake, you'll assume I'm at work as usual, I guess. I don't know.

Remember the night we snuck out and went to Nashville to have dinner on the train? I remember the dress you wore.

I pack my suitcase and leave my checkbook on the dresser, open to the balance sheet and the new number there. I write a note telling you to watch the mailbox.

I walk to the train station, a two-hour walk to a bad part of town. For some reason, no one kills me in the dead of night. I could never get so lucky.

I guess you'll move back home. But the car, piece of shit that it is, is paid for.

I love you.

So here I sit on this train. I can't get you out of my mind. But you don't need an out-of-work, nearly crippled deadbeat dragging you down for the rest of your life.

Eventually I'll convince myself of this.

I just don't know what else to do.

I'll always remember how you look when you sleep, unaware of the harsh realities of this cynical world.

Take care. Both of you.

brian gleaves

I love you.

More than you'll ever know.

1

jackie

rob matthews

v e

lines composed upon an evening at a northern gay bar

and george he felt his lifeless skin dreamt he was decked in rome of woolen suits like of autumn men who walked in front of his concord home as he wanted to hold every sullen one. (but no! he would say, my life is done at seventeen and i will be alone.) yet now he stood in worcester, mass. and clenched his beer, failed to make a pass at this guy he'd eyed four lagers since, said how dumb i am, how dumb i am, and failed this week just as the last.

chris cagle

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world view next door

On my street stands a rather non-descript house; tangled ivy cords cover the red brick facade.

Inside, fruitpunch defiles starched, button-down shirts and gravy spoils the sensible draperies.

The inmates there dislike the contemplation of nature and do not read Nietzsche aloud.

Prefering acceptance seeking, competitive sports, and lots of television; they avoid unpleasant topics.

In this place, middle class men and girls with their armaments sheathedwait until "it's right."

Planning out lives around soap opera plots, exchanging cheerful platitudes-assigning purposes to everything.

Wading through the centuries' accumulation of heaped bodies with so much pride of place, euphorically, painting a cosmos in catalog colors, mocking the heritics who haven't converted to ash bathing ascetics.

To them life is not reproduction, time clocks, appliances, obesity, and cancer; rather, it is a lovely ice cream cone.

And sometimes, when the weather turns fair, they come out a-dancinin primate glee.

sidney setzer

untitled

stacy smith

charity chang

charity chang's great grandmother

Growing old should not mean loss of status. Too often it seems that the young dismiss the generations preceding them as hopelessly out of touch, unable to do anything other than cook supper on holidays or nurse a broken hip in a rest home far, far away.

This stereotype, of course, is a gross generalization; just because someone grows up in a completely different day and age does not make him or her worth disrespectful treatment. But many young people only know the older generation through television portrayals and movie roles that often depict them as feeble minded or burdens to the community. Some young people have never spent enough time around their elders to find the exception to the 'rule' that old people are cranky and bitter. That exception is Charity Chang, a seventy-six year old student who writes all her own rules.

When meeting her for the first time, one is struck by Charity's enthusiasm, her peace of mind and her power of insight. Her poetry is impressive, both delicate and modern. Not merely modern in style, the poems express the emotions of an aware, contemporary woman, who just happens to be many years older than the average college student. Certainly Charity has something to share with the younger generation of students at University of Tennessee at Knoxville about her life and accomplishments.

The highway-side restaurant was less than half full with travelers pausing for late lunches or early dinners as we settled into a booth for a long chat. Charity

bought photographs and poems as illustrations of her family and work.

III was born and raised right here in Blount County, near Friendsville," she said proudly. The daughter of sharecroppers, Charity graduated from Austin Peay in Clarksville, Tennessee and received her masters in English from UT. III can remember, honey, when I first went to UT way back in the forties," she said, leaning over her coffee cup. "1 had several professors who made it very clear to me that female people did not get jobs there. I wasn't shooting for a job, just a degree. Now that has changed drastically, and for the better, I think, really for the better." An example is Charity's niece. She graduated from UT Memphis and is now a children's doctor.

"1 am fiercely proud of her," she said of her niece.

"Now it's kind of common for girls to get degrees in fields that used to be traditionally fields for men."

But when Charity was in school, that certainly wasn't the case.

"Since I wasn't in any position to be considered for 'a teaching position in a university, I thought 'Well I can get a library degree and can be in a university and among the books that I love.'"

So she did. Charity got her masters in library science from te University of Illinois and went on to work at universities in Nebraska, Louisiana and Connecticut.

While at the University of Connecticut, she got the chance to see and hear Anne Sexton at a poetry reading.

"She was wearing red," Charity said of the popular poetess not known for her sanity. "She walked on the stage with great command--immediately she was in full control. She certainly had great talent when she killed herself, really unjustly cheating us."

Charity was strongly influenced by other women in her life as well: her mother and grandmother. Her mother was a powerful example of womanhood, not

only as a parent but also as a model of responsibility and hard work.

"My daddy was supposed to be the one who did the crops, but my mother worked right along beside him," she said. "My daddy's mother couldn't read or write, but she was one of the smartest women I have met in my life."

Charity is a strong woman who believes that with age comes wisdom. She says that old people are "a wealth."

III've earned my wrinkles, everyone in some way," she said. "There's nothing to be ashamed of about growing old."

Rather than bitterly complaining about difficulties she's met on her journey, she takes the good and the bad together as a positive whole.

"There have been many wonderful and great moments in my life," she said with a smile, "more than I deserve in one lifetime or several lifetimes, but there have also been great moments of sadness and sorrow. " But Charity neither looks back on these moments with regret or to the future with fear. She boldly looks forward to what adventures and experiences lie ahead.

"1 really enjoy life and I'm not anxious to bow out, but I know that time will come, and I'm not morbid about that. But I think I'll be pulling back (saying) 'Don't you know I've got another poem to write?

Another story?'"

Charity's Chang's outlook is a positive one. "1 guess it all adds up to the right thing," she said about the varied ingredients of life. "1 think that if we didn't have these contrasts, maybe we wouldn't be able to be as empathetic or sympathetic with others who have experienced worse than we have. I hope I never lose the ability to be in sympathy with others and admiration of others who have gifts I do not have. I think as we move through this complicated life, and it is complicated, we have to go out of our way to do some things right."

paige travis and charlie cates

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i am woman

in the nighttime I am woman woman dreaming in the dark dreaming loves that never were and other dreams to break the heart in the sunlight I am woman able able to forget or leave behind me woman dreaming in the dark but today I am woman needing needing to return to and be warmed by every non-existant lover found while dreaming in the dark I am woman!

EE

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charity chang

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to my daughter going off to college

for Elayne

One day it will not be enough to make perfect pesto, cinnamon coffee, and know every little club on Jackson Avenue.

All this you've learned in secret, striking out on your own. I've said the usual mother things: there are men downtown who would crack you open, leave you drying on the curb.

Where will your pearl be then?

I've said, Someday you 'll see, as you counted your bus tokens.

One day you'll look in the mirror and see only furniture. You'll feel a great hole in your heart, a weight in your pocket.

You'll take these crumbs, drop them by an ancient moon and, in your darkest hour, find yourself at my door.

I'll take you to the clock on the mantle.

My grandfather used to scavenge the alley for his clocks. That's one made of bedposts.

He drank, people called him weak.

I watched him work, a carpenter's hands hiding his bottle when I came too close.

Four daughters, no sons, something less than a man.

As a girl, my mother must've heard him stumbling, the raucous chiming greeting him like children.

Now light the eye of the stove and smell my grandmother's kitchen. I'd stand shivering til she struck the long wooden match.

On Saturdays she bought gladiolus for the altar, for the quick and the dead.

We walked through the hothouse, our palms brushed yellow for forgiveness.

In the dense geranium air I clung to her dress like a bud at the moment of birth.

All week she cut buttonholes at the Allen Garment Factory.

Thirty years of service, the diamond pin says.

Up at five, lighting the flame, her hands planed smooth by the back and forth of broadcloth.

I have her hands, people say, a woman who lived her faith.

She believed in the diamond pin, in the thirty years. She believed in his clocks after he died. She forgot the man who sang to his shadow and bragged on him finally being saved.

Sometimes I'll turn on the gas, a smell so sweet I'll turn to hold he dress.

One day all this will be yours.

You'll sit at a vanity, her milk-glass lamps on either side. You'll take her diamond pin from the drawer and rub it like a token.

The moon will look new, you'll get up while your daughter is asleep to hear the soft ticking.

And with your whole heart you'll know where you've come.

linda parsons

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P'93

You can hide your head And be ragged scuttling claws on the ocean floor If you want But that attitude is what's put us where we are.

Prufrock, you sound pretty, and it's pleasing to read you, to see a picture of a middle aged man plagued by doubt.

But hey Prufrock, you whiney ass baby I doubt whether I'll live two more years.

How's that for questioning yourself?

I'm 18, and the average life span of an African-American male in the inner city is 19 or something ridiculous like that.

In the room the women come and go Talking of drugs and liquor sto's.

They can bring your head in carried upon a platter, but hey Prufrock, they can't do mine that way.

When I go out, My head will be shattered into so many pieces by so many bullets that you'd need hundreds of tiny platters.

And it's just not worth the trouble for a statistic.

I wish somebody'd write a Love Song for me.

Now Prufrock, I really should lighten up on you.

I mean, you are my favorite poem.

It's just that people study you people take you seriously people analyze you people spend years of their lives trying to decipher your exact meaning.

And no one pays attention to my poetry, or poetry like it.

Yes, T.S., your work is beautiful,

but Kevin Powell's is necessary.

Yes, Emily, your work is beautiful, but Reg. E. Gaines's is necessary.

Yes, old white poets, your work is beautiful, but young black poets' work is necessary.

Chuck 0 said rap is Black America's CNN So I guess that makes our poetry Black America's A&E, or PBS, 'cept we've got more important things to discuss than Masterpiece Theater, like maybe Rest In Peace Theater, deadicated to all the homies that passed on.

And if in the course of my poetry I should exclaim "Motherfucker!"

Well, I know it's not pretty, but it's real.

You old critics shouldn't downgrade me for being emotional and energetic and enthusiastic.

I have to yell, 'cause if I speak softly you won't listen.

And I can't carry a big stick because you'll look at me and say, "Well, there goes another typical violent nigger, just looking for trouble."

Just 'cause you went to Harvard and I stayed in Harlem doesn't mean I don't have something to say.

Listen.

Listen to the voice of the street.

Listen to the four year old girl that got shot.

Listen to the cries of the baby eating rat shit off the floor 'cause his momma didn't feed him.

Listen to the drug deal going down on the corner.

It's not eloquent and full of the florid language that you like and you think that gives you justification to turn your head.

You know, J. Alfred, sometimes I feel more like a modern day version of you than I'd like to admit.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By home girls sporting fly gear red and brown Till the sound of gunshots wakes us, and we drown.

daniel roop

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the bricks Critic

Mystic

It is a drawing ...

A sketch ...

No, my friend, it is a building You are drunk.

You are mad.

These are but line of ink on paper.

It is merely a sketch and nothing more.

Having nothing to do with sobriety or sanity (to neither lay I claim) I beg indulge me ...

Observe the bricks!

They are not bricks, I must repeat, they are but drawings of bricks.

You cannot see?

I can.

But what I see and what you say ...

Let me say this.

They are very good drawings ... of bricks, but goodness, not even greatness, can make a thing drawn into any other thing than a drawing.

I am sorry you see it ... that way.

There are others, you know, ways of seeing it.

YOl) may know,sir.

I do not.

c. winstead

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buford pusser's death car

timothy d. winkler

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hercules of labor

13:00 i.c .u. the sweat never stops streaming and your milk just naturally sours from tremendous effort; eventually horror begets horror. you never stop screaming and daylight affixes minotes into hours while one thousand Greek attendants process your lifeblood in single file assuring your alcove in the cathedrals of History. surrounded by chaos I keep a candle lit against the torrent of gasps and mumble a fervent prayer, deeply ashamed for what I feel I have started.

All disapprovingly watched by one thousand Hellenic eyes, your hand and mine clasp.

louis velazquez

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icon and rocket

j. bruce bogie

III e l. g

. k resolve pin

fay boston

the neighbors

don't know I'm alive .

We spoke once -exchanged names but not glances -and ever since I've been dead and buried, hearing their living sounds after forgetting their faces.

It's hollow in here where no one sleeps for all the sleeping.

The cries of love echo well, and I can tell they are only pretending.

I can hear them pissing.

And I know it is a night for sex when the walls sweat with expectation and thump with amplified love songs.

Is it wrong to know what I know when I know it?

I can hear them groaning when they shit.

I can feel their stares through the pounding silence -- sense the slick sheets.

And I long to be in there -- at the very least I long to be this wall, to know the sounds first hand -have them bou nce off me and through me ...

I surround them, expand to include the floor and the bed, grow hands and reach into life -seize it by the heart and squeeze! find the two bodies sweating with desire or hate, but sweating and breathing and singing and living ...

michael scott

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joey

Joey pulled his legs up into the big, plush red velvet chair and crossed them Indian style. He leaned forward and threw his gaze down the long hall, past the bird cage, around the flower pots, and all the way through the tiny little crack in the very last door, where he stopped and searched for any sign of life in his parent's bedroom. The lights were still off and nothing appeared to be moving. He withdrew his gaze carefully, as if it's sudden retraction would trip some sensory nerve in his mother's consciousness and send her reeling into the living room, housecoat billowing, and ruin his morning adventure. His head settled softly back against the chair, and he slowly, and consciously pulled the TV remote from it's velcro perch on the cushioned arm, positioned it, and flashed the dim room to life. The figure on the screen was mute because of Joey's precaution in preserving his mother's sleep, but at this point it didn't matter. Joey knew what he was saying and could fashion the words in his head.

And the teachers, whoa listen to me brethren, I say the teachers of this once Christian Nation are now nothing more than a cult of secular humanism.

Organized secular humanist folk with the intention, I mean a written, developed plan to lead your children down the road of darkness.

That would be there, that was always there. And then there would be a pause, and the preacher would close his eyes as if concentrating. Joey could imagine the Amens" rising up from the crowd, and cries of "'bless him Jesus", and the "give him strength lords" and a dozen other such phrases being chanted by the audience. Joey knew this was happening because this was always the time when the camera would leave Rev. Douglas Merril and wander out into the audience where everyone was swaying and nodding their heads. Sometimes crying. Joey didn 't understand the crying, but he understood adults and he knew the Rev. Merril must be pretty powerful to make so many II

of them teary- eyed.

Satan isn't asleep folks. The Methodists, the Baptists, the socialists, and the feminists, all those followers of the ecumenical movement would like to tell you he's asleep. Yeah, they'd say: Brother Joe, there ain't no need to go worryin' about hell. But I'm here to tell you SATAN'S NOT ASLEEP, HE'S ALIVE AND WELL IN THE UNITED STATES THIS MORNIN FOLKS, and you can see him all around ya .

The last phrase of almost any statement Brother Merril made would be in a whisper, dragged out almost to a hiss, followed by a huge gulp of air and a then a pause.

Joey was ecstatic. He watched the TV closely trying to read the preacher's lips and discern all he could. Occasionally, the bible verses would be flashed on the screen and Joey quickly scribbled them down into his notebook. The Rev. Merril walked back over to the podium and closed his Bible. He took off his glasses and stepped forward. This was Joey's favorite part and he slipped out of the chair and moved right up to the screen and allowed himself a little volume . When he could hear the preacher's words clearly but was certain that the sounds couldn't reach his mother's room, he poised himself to begin writing as soon as Rev. Merril began the spell.

The spell would begin when the followers began to leave their seats and flow in a steady stream to the podium. Well, actually that was part of the spell. Joey still wasn't clear on where the actual magic might begin or what words set it off since they were never exactly the same, but he knew that their meaning was apparently always similar. So for the last three weeks, he'd been writing the preacher's words down at the moment right before the people would begin to come forward.

If you don't want to feel the wrath of Hell, brethren, then you'd better reconcile yourselves. Hell is real folks. As real as this podium, this ...

Then there would be something about Heaven, and God, and a cross, and love, and so many things that Joey wondered if he could ever remember it all. Finally, when the flock had gathered and the spell was complete, the preacher could wield his real power. He could make everyone repeat every word he said! He would just say, NOW SHOW SATAN THE VICTORY AND REPEAT AFTER ME ... This was always followed by a long complicated speech where the people condemned themselves as unworthy. Joey never got the hang of that part anyway, he always tuned out right about then, or it is probably more correct to say he simply got too caught up in his excitement to pay much attention to the specifics of what followed the spell. It didn't matter what the Rev. Merril made the people say, the point was they would repeat exactly what he was saying. This was the part that interested Joey. He had a plan, and this spell was going to help him be the most popular second grader at Barberton Catholic.

Joey wasn't Catholic. Joey wasn't anything; he was adopted. Recently, six weeks recently, and he didn't understand the concept of God. No one had mentioned much about it in his old family. But he knew enough about the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and the Thundercats to understand magic. But until Rev. Merril, Joey had never seen a real person with such power, real power, from the God that created the world (if Joey understood correctly) and now, according to the nuns, so tyrannically and painfully restrained everyone from saying bad words and talking in class.

The preacher on the screen never said anything about cussing or talking in class, but boy did he ever talk about the Catholics. The Catholics were deceiving millions of people and sending them to hell. The Catholics weren't using the real word of God. Joey had known something was wrong. Rev. Merril spoke of the same God, but Joey couldn't see any nuns or statues, and everyone in the church was dressed fairly

normal, swaying, singing, sometimes screaming doing things Joey thought would. be much more expected from a God who loved children so much. If God was serious about that come to me as a childJl part, then why did the Catholics care so much about talking in class or sitting where you wanted at lunch, or anything like that? No. It was fairly clear to Joey what was going on, and it scared the shit out of him.

The Catholics were lying, and they had got him and were trying to send him straight to hell.

But they wouldn't get Joey. He was going to save them. Save with a capital S, and then, while he had them there in his spell, maybe make them say a few bad words too.

JI

It was in the hair of Mitzi Kizzelman that Joey decided to hold the first stage of his rebellion. It was Monday, the day after Joey's fifth Redemption at Noon show, and he was sure that he could pull it off. But he needed a distraction. He had everything: a Bible, his notes, and now all he needed was a podium. The only thing he could see that might work was the nun's desk at the front of the room, but they were guarding it ferociously, and no one was allowed to move. He had to get them to the back of the class, and that was where Mitzi came in. She had an obnoxious wad of fizzy hair that she proudly referred to as Jlnaturally curIy," and it protruded from her head far enough to hover distractingly above Joey's desk all day long.

Mitzi was a bitch, but Joey wasn't allowed to say that or he would get told on. He hated all the tattle-tale Catholic girls, and he especially hated Mitzi. But Joey had one thing going for him. So did all the other boys.

The class was divided: girls in front, boys in back, and Mitzi and Joey were seated in the two rows where the sexes came together. Joey could count on the support of everyone behind him. Even if they didn't know his plan, they knew it had something to do with Mitzi's hair.

He began to stick wads of chewing gum in the outer

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entanglement of Mitzi's "natural curls." He knew it would be a while before she felt it. Once before, he had stuck three pencils in there somewhere before she noticed and began screaming. It would be even worse this time. Joey was counting on it.

The gum arrived in steady supply from behind him and soon Joey was waxing creative. He had stopped rolling the pinhead balls of gum that he had been tossing into the jungle and began constructing one big wad. There was even a Jolly Rancher and some penciltop erasers donated, and soon Joey had a golf ball size creation of sticky material. He spit on it quietly, hoping to make it slimy, and when it still wasn't exactly right, he added some glue from the art box in his desk.

He waited, poised for the proper moment, and when the snickers from behind him had gotten loud enough to draw the nuns' attention, Joey knew he had better act soon. Jumping up with a loud battle cry, he shoved the wad deep into Mitzi's hair until it touched her scalp and then pushed the perimeter hair into the ball. She jerked violently, almost ripping Joey from his seat, and began screaming. Her hands were gripping the back of her head, and after a split second pause of recognition, she was standing, wailing, and contorting violently, slamming into desks and sending books sliding across the shiny tile floor. Her hands had become caught, and, unable to balance herself, she fell backwards, directly into Jenny Spradlin, and got some of the slimy gum caught in Jenny's braids.

The nuns were on their way, black robes scurrying toward the commotion in an attempt to untangle Mitzi and Jenny. Joey grabbed his opportunity and ran toward the front of the room, jumping onto the great desk which would be his podium.

He began the spell immediately.

Oh great sinners, listen. Yeah listen to the words of God. It is the hour of redemption ...

The nuns stopped dead and whirled around. Joey

knew he only had a moment left. He skipped directly to the part about hell and lifted up his Bible. ... So I say, come brethren, come to the front here and repent.

It wasn't working; they were just staring blankly.

Joey panicked. Come, I say, if your heart is being led, Hell is real, folks. He began to falter. The Catholics ... uh, and the humanist, they'll say that ...

He stopped and looked. It was working. They had abandoned the contorting mass of Jenny/Mitzi and were running the other way - toward Joey! But much faster than the spell had called for. In fact, much too fast. They were going to crash if he didn't stop them.

They were in his will, and he figured he'd sure better slow them down or they were going to hurt themselves. He began to chant random lines.

Slow I say, walk slowly with vigilance for the Lord.

They were still coming, and they weren't listening to him. He couldn't make them obey one single word.

"Get down, you little devil."

That wasn't right. Joey panicked again, this time for real. He began to tremble and falter, finally just making up his own lines, trying to get them to at least say one bad word before the nuns made it to him. Maybe they were still somewhat under his control.

Repeat after me brethren, SHIT! I say, to escape the wrath of Satan. Damn! Ass! Repeat after me for the keys to heaven.

They did crash into the podium, Sister Marie hitting with such force, Joey lost his balance. He jumped off the podium screaming.

"Say it!"

"Damn, Fuck, Shit, Hell!"

"Say it for the Lord!"

Within a second, they had him, Marie at his feet and Therease under his arms. They were carrying him out, and even Mitzi/Jenny had stopped, dumbfounded, to stare at the orphan boy, kicking the nuns and alternately cussing and quoting scripture.

jason chumley

katharina

anna maria horner demacopoulous

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kitchen window series

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stephanie levey

poem for stacy

Of the wild apricot and mourning.

The herons of the mist.

Of the cedar heart and crushed leaves.

And the sorrow of the bright.

And the sorrow of the pure.

I look to the mountains as the lord taketh away.

lincoln speece

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selected works

j. bruce bogie

fay boston anna maria horner demacopoulous stephanie levey rob matthews anne powers gini reed

icon and rocket pin and ink drawing 7.75x12.5 inches pink resolve mixed media 25.5x37 inches katharina charcole 24x25 inches kitchen window series intaglio 12x12 inches jackie oil painting 49x65 inches untitled mixed media 13.75x9.25 inches reclaimation mixed media 22x30 inches

roger smith

chrome black and white photograph 4x6 inches

stacy smith

untitled black and white photograph 6.25x9.25 inches

timothy d. winkler del ray zimmerman

buford pusser's death car mixed media 10 .5x14 inches earth mother black and white photograph 7x7 inches

we would like to express sincere appreciation to jane pope, eric smith, linda graham, betty allen and to all others involved in student publications who through their dedication and support made this issue possible. we set out to make this phoenix fly a little higher, we hope we achieved our goal.

Š copyright 1993 by the university of tennessee. all rights are reserved by the individual contributors. phoenix is prepared camera-ready by the student staff members and is published twice a year. works of art, poetry, fiction, and non-fiction are accepted throughout the academic year. send submissions to phoenix, room 5 communications building, 1345 circle park drive, knoxville, tennessee 37996-0314.

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