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eC C
The Literary Art Magazine
of East Carolina University
Note on the Cover
This yearTs cover is by Roxanne Reep. oSimultaneous Hearts� won first
place mixed media inthe Third Annual Rebe/ Art Show. Roxanne holds
a BFA in sculpture and metal design and is currently teaching in the
School of Art and seeking an MFA in metal design and drawing at ECU.
Her work has won awards in art competitions all over North Carolina,
and was recently exhibited at the Southeastern Center for Contempo-
rary Art in Winston-Salem. This is her first appearance in The Rebel.
Twentieth Anniversary Issue Number 1
Volume 20
STAFF
Pei ee ee Editor
of Meee a er Art Director
Allison Thompson .. Associate Editor
The Rebel is published annually by the students
of East Carolina University. Offices are located in
the Publications Center on the ECU campus.
Inquiries and contributions should be directed to
The Rebel, Mendenhall Student Center, East
Carolina University, Greenville, NC 27834. Copy-
right © 1978 by The Rebel Magazine. All rights
revert to the individual artists and authors, from
whom permission must be obtained to reproduce
any of the materials contained in this issue.
This is the second year we owe a debt to sev-
eral local businesses for their financial support of
The Rebel Literary and Art Contest. Tom Haines,
owner of the Attic, re-affirmed his support by pre-
senting the Second Annual Attic Awards"$35
and a plaque"in three categories: art, fiction, and
poetry. The Art and Camera Shop and Silk
Screens Unlimited also provided financial assist-
ance where it was sorely needed.
David McDowell"Cruciform | (p. 1)
Judges for this yearTs literary contest were
Terry Davis, Tom Haines, Peter Makuck, Norman
Rosenfeld, and David Sanders. The Second
Annual Attic Award in poetry went to Jeff Rollins
for oFROM: Central Prison.� Sheila Turnage won
the Attic Award in fiction for her story, oThe Last
Indian In The Whole Wide World.�
The Third Annual Rebe/ Art Show was held in
the Mendenhall Gallery January 29 through Feb-
ruary 5. The show was judged by Tom Haines,
Nancy Krowl, and Robert Nelson. Vickie Cham-
pionTs oThe Hungry Wait� was awarded Best In
Show and received the Attic Award in Art plus a
$20 gift certificate from Art and Camera. First
runner-up was Jeanne BradyTs print, oThe Lone
Rangers: Sissy and Jellybean,� which won $25
from Silk Screens Unlimited. The remaining first
place prizes were awarded $20 each from the Attic
and The Rebel: Fred CheneyTs oFisherman;�
Dorothea FinlayTs untitled wall hanging; Robert
GloverTs untitled photograph; Terri HoltzclawTs
oJeff's Symbol;� Ed MidgettTs oAmerican Phal-
lacies;T John QuinnTs oBack;� and Roxanne
ReepTs oSimultaneous Hearts.�
For his years of service to this magazine as a
faculty advisor, and for his continued encourage-
ment of student writers at ECU, the twentieth an-
niversary issue of The Rebel is dedicated to Mr.
Ovid Williams Pierce.
The Editor is grateful to the following people
and organizations for their support, interest, and
guidance: Robert Glover; Reed Warren; Tom
Haines; Brent Funderburk; Pete Podeszwa and
the Photo Lab; the Fountainhead staff; Bill Bass
and the Art Exhibition Committee; Karen Brock,
Wendy Dixon, and Jayne Whisnant for proofread-
ing; Barrie Davis and the good people at Theo.
Davis Sons, our printer; the many artists and
writers who made this issue possible; and Allison
and Kay, who put the whole thing together.
CONTENTS
LITERATURE
Sorin 18 @ UGF .. 056.0% Jo Ellen Rivenbark
CheGkMmew.... casters Robert Glover ....
es cies ahaa Jeff Rollins .......
EO ee Luke Whisnant....
I ie vot nae cee en Sue Aydelette ....
Pa. oc ote se os JOT FIGHTING. orsis
Tee Ee .. .. we sees Jo Ellen Rivenbark
ES eee Ph ok ee
Wee Ge 4g 6 00 6 0 655 ss Tim. Wriakt-ouaiiT.
Pe I os ans vs ces Regina Kear......
ay os tere ss eae Mary C. Snotherly
te a Joseph Dudasik ..
ee Robert Glover ....
A Monologue
my meeeon........... S. phillip miles ....
The Worst Things ..... TOy DEVE. o2i5G
EE re Regina Kear......
Winter Hiking ......... David Gerrard ....
a a a... David Gerrard ....
Augury of Starlings.... Jeff Rollins .......
Sweet Ftes .. «i.e cess 7am Aitigh . ois ce
Ss | errarere a Robert Glover ....
Five Eye-Blinks........ Robert Jones.....
DOP FOOTY. ok o's 60 oes Richard Hudson ..
Westy, Pop & Me...... Peter Makuck.....
HMOMOGRIIING . ow evs ases Kim Shipley ......
Moned Ge. iiss Gene Hollar ......
B String Blues... cass Robert Glover ...
Prometheus........... Joseph Dudasik ..
Students of Microform. Donna Padgett ...
EE Oe Colleen Flynn ....
ee Ray Harrell.......
Song & Dance Man.... Doug White ......
BES 5 5) cceed..... Colleen Flynn ....
ee 2 Allison Thompson
The Last Indian ....... Sheila Turnage ...
At Ft. Donnelson...... Karen Brock......
Quilt-Making .......... et Sr .. . acs
FROM: Central Prison.. Jeff Rollins .......
Go ~~ Oi
11
13
16
16
16
17
17
17
19
20
25
27
28
29
31
32
45
47
49
55
57
58
60
61
63
64
65
66
67
69
75
77
79
ART
Simultaneous Hearts .. Roxanne Reep....
i EN conan David McDowell ..
TS ey ere JOTi Fie ........
Ere Clay Andrews ....
SIS cigs ovis aus Brent Funderburk .
ee Peter E. Podeszwa
er David A. Norris ...
MN 6 654s 6b ba SCO Giverid?......
Mad Dog 20-20........ Kirk Kingsbury ...
| Was Wondering About
Mrs. Yoshioka....... John Walters .....
l'd Turn Back
lf | Were You........ .Dan Bary isi}.
,. ""s John Morris......
JONTS SYTHBO! ... web cas Terri Holtzclaw ...
WO ca os orb as kb e% T. &. Aueth aw
The Hungry Wait...... Vickie Champion .
The Fisherman ........ Fred Cheney .....
The Lone Rangers..... Jeanne Brady.....
Se wre Tom Haines ......
TwoTs Company,
FourTs A Crowd ..... Jeanne Brady.....
American Phallacies... Ed Midgett .......
Calligraphic Fugue .... Bill Bass .........
Craters and Pigeons... Ed Midgett .......
Pall Migration ......... Robert Dunning ..
a te re Anthony Eder.....
is 0s a ws ons John Quinn ......
Infrastructure ......... 1. 3 POO 6.443.
fo Fr ar Peter E. Podeszwa
Perne ina Gyre ....... Jeff Fleming ......
eA errr Robert Glover ....
rrr Bill Brockman ....
a ee re Peter E. Podeszwa
S Bir Bases... ess Robert Glover ....
NN vn shane seen cs OTe Pee 5k sos
ON oe Brent Funderburk .
ns av an seWekees Jeff RORM i254.
Tee Peter E. Podeszwa
cover
1
12
18
20
26
30
33
Jeff Robb
SPRING IN A JAR
Quickly! Link clover
Into necklaces
Lawnmower comes nearer.
Butterfly wiggles
Between my fingers
Soft color wiped away.
Baby bird
Found in the rain last night
Died this morning.
Under the grapevine
We struck water
Digging a catTs grave.
Against glass jars
Buzzing bees
Beat their heads.
Bitter taste
Of crabapple
Lingers.
Jo Ellen Rivenbark
Ped
bee
- ree
Say Sn) vid Sadek ON het Ieee oa
pee ace ee ON ee ee eS
ORNS cn aR ON ee ME ee i ae� ae
beets Bisco agit RA K2 Me es, Oily
I push through the port-hole doors
of the Wreck Bar on Sunset Beach and
fumble through the smoke and candle
flames until I run into the bar. I order
a firefly and light a match, holding it
in front of me as I stumble through the
darkness over legs, feet, and other,
softer humps lying about on the floor.
The place is crowded with customers
whose physiognomies are anything but
encouraging.
I soon find a table near the aisle
and settle into a very rustic chair. It is
not a comfortable chair. I burn my fin-
gers with my last match and the drink
is too weak. Thank god tomorrowTs
Sunday.
A drunk picks his way down the
aisle toward the juke box. He stops
near my table, weaving and cursing
the darkness: oFaggots! FuckinT fag-
gots!� I ignore the irritant and slug
down half my drink in hopes of getting
a quick buzz. It doesnTt work; it never
does. I slip a blue spansule under my
tongue, then let it slide slowly down
my throat. ITm one of those people who
thinks that downs should be served
with lousy drinks.
Suddenly the juke box is blaring
metallic rock corroded with acid. It
sounds like 350 milligrams of purple
micro-dot laced with speed. The drunk
starts beating the glass bubble and
screaming ofaggot.� It all rolls off my
back.
ITm waiting for something, but find
it increasingly difficult to keep that
now vague priority. I see legs wrapped
in black mesh, then a forearm and hand
bearing another glass of slosh. The
drink sits in front of me and the legs
donTt move. Surely I didnTt order another
one of these? I notice a small wad of
bills lying under a crumpled napkin on
my table. The bills arenTt mine, but
then neither is the drink. I peel her off
two and she leaves. I sip the slosh and
watch two thug-like things drag out
the screaming drunk. He had succeeded
in smashing the glass bulb and both
his hands. oFaggot.� The faces at the
bar are bodiless pale ovals dancing in
mid-air.
Clay Andrews
A guy dragging a passed-out long
blonde stops at my table and deposits
her across from me in the other empty
chair. I ask him if this is my appoint-
ment. He asks me where I live. I canTt
remember and he tells me that she
lives near where I do. He stumbles off
into the darkness and becomes just
another pale white oval, the girl imme-
diately vomits in her lap. Great. I reach
over and pull her head down until her
forehead rests on the tableTs edge. She
begins to dry heave, then falls onto the
floor, out of sight. I do not see her so
she does not exist.
I notice that no one else notices, so
I decide that I have time to think this
one out. The black mesh legs and hands
take the now empty chair and move it
through the darkness until it disap-
pears. I tell the girl under the table
that sheTs lost her seat. She acknowl-
edges with a moan. Good girl. And
then I fall out of my seat by leaning
too far under the table. I envision us as
sponges, human sponges. There is gum
stuck under the table. One glob even has
a cigarette butt snuffed out in it. Who
would have thought it possible, what
with gravity and all?
The black mesh ankles swish by
and very soon thereafter the thugs are
dumping me and the girl on the side-
walk. I notice the drunk with two
smashed hands is now also missing
some teeth and has a black eye. I tell
him he shouldnTt fuck with faggot
sponges. He moans and falls over onto
his side, coughing.
All I can smell is the puke-encrusted
girl, but at least sheTs awake. I try talk-
ing to her and she whines harmoniously.
Ah yes, life, I say, is it not sweeter
than death? and slip into mild hysterics.
ITm sure itTs just the downs and cheap
booze.
After a while I realize that the night
air is stiff and stale. I need some wind
around me. I push to my knees, then
crawl up the wall until ITm standing
and thereTs blood in my legs. Fear not,
for I am alone. I weave and stagger to
the curb, which I successfully misjudge,
and stumble into the street to stop a
checkered cab.
CAROUSEL
At3 am
the huge parkinglot is
desolate
thousands of yards of grey storefront wall off
an acre of asphalt
but for one orange
Carousel
with red paint chipped
from a horseTs lip
a toy
for
bored children
a jaded
sort
of promise
for a quarter
| get
a short turn
under the stars
mounted
with brave Carnival
music attendent
mounted
itis a way
to respond
Jeff Rollins
SATELLITES
1957
His father tracks stars
in the backyard.
One night the radio
announces Sputnik.
Neighbors predict war,
watch for bombs,
hide in basements.
SamTs father laughs,
waits for the satellite
to pass above his house.
Sam is born that year
with the sun in Capricorn.
1976
The house is neat: ashtrays
exactly placed, the phone
in easy reach, white cane
in the corner, books
scrimmed with dust.
They listen to TV.
Sam stares and stares into
his fatherTs glaucoma eyes,
flips pages of Time,
describes color photographs
of Mars. His father says,
oSunsets there must be superb.�
1969
Sam is twelve when Nimbus 3
lifts from Vandenburg
and kicks into the orbit
his father has charted.
They whittle pine branches
and wait for dark
in a cornfield in Georgia.
Sam sees it first. Nimbus
slides out of earthshadow,
brilliantly lit by sun,
and races down into dusk.
Sam shivers in the chill.
His father says the satellite
will orbit for years.
later
Sam dreams himself alone
beside his fatherTs grave,
remembering that all orbits
must decay; that one day
the satellites will flare
briefly over the earth,
some in along blazing arc
across the night sky;
some burning invisible in the sun.
Luke Whisnant
10
LYNNY
A pale rocky land
studded by dusky sage
rimmed and covered
by a wide baldachin of sky.
And there in a creviced elbow of Mt. Taos
"where Indians still pray"
your adobe town
smoothed and softened
by a halo of fine shifting dust.
A small empty circle
on my creased map
has found and kept you.
At night sometimes
in the dark alleys of sky
above this eastern city
a cabbalistic moon finds me"
another circle
back to you.
Sue Aydelette
TRAIN
We are running and the stars roll
over our heads the greens of the golf course
cushion our tread the stars
bend with our blood into the gravity
of each banked curve our own blood pulsing
is all we hear
until a train blasts its imminency
~into our feet and ears the stars are jolted
the ground trembles
in a kind of slowed sound of everything moonlight peals
from the tracks we jar our wills into our bodies
faster for the trainTs presence is no metaphor
symbol does not halve the homebound blacksnake
pulverize the pebble shake a leaf from a twig
the terrific real animates to something beyond
us literal bone and the wall of the whole atom hard
hard electricity we run because
the shriek of the solid train is for a moment
everything and in it breathes no soul there is no song
to sing itself radiowaves and metal are one
shriek that shrieks of nothing save the vibrating everything
which is all itself ourselves until we realize that we are
and fall heaving into the thick wet grass.
Jeff Rollins
11
KK
\iAwl
mele lurk.
-
\
NS
THE LIFEGUARD
by Jo Ellen Rivenbark
Mrs. Winters was a short, chubby
woman with short, bleached hair. She
often came to talk to me. Even though
she was older than I, she was many years
younger than the other ladies that brought
their children to the pool. She lived next
door to the pool and every morning she
brought her kids across her two-acre
yard for a swim.
Mrs. Winters liked me because she
had known my mother, but mostly be-
cause I had saved her daughterTs life.
It was nothing, really. Marjorie, her
oldest daughter, was learning how to
dive, did a belly flop, and lost her breath.
I just pulled her out of the water and
slapped her between the shoulder
blades.
I was the lifeguard at the pool and
that is why I was available to o~save�T
Marjorie. None of the other ladies at
the pool liked me. I really didnTt under-
stand why. Perhaps it was because
they envied me. If I was in their place,
with children and a husband to cater
to, I would have envied me.
I was pretty satisfied with the way
my life was turning out. I had gotten
the lifeguard job after I graduated from
highschool and had been working all
summer. My skin had become extremely
dark, and my usually brown hair was
blonde. I really liked my job. I was
paid to sit in the sun and watch people;
two of my favorite habits. I lived in a
little apartment a block away and drove
to work in a little green Spitfire my
parents had given me for graduation.
I guess thatTs why I pitied them. I
would sit in the lifeguard stand and
pass the time watching the mothers
battle with their kids. One mother would
be spanking her child for throwing the
towel in the water, while another was
pulling up bathing suits, holding tis-
sues for snotty noses, or drying kids
off with large beach towels while they
wriggled in her arms.
But today was Saturday; my day
off. I was sunbathing in my favorite
spot in the back corner of the pool yard
when I noticed Mrs. Winters walking
toward me. The kids couldnTt splash
me there and the mothers sat on the
other side of the pool, near the bath-
rooms and drink machines. Mrs. Win-
ters had both her children with her
today. Marjorie, the oldest, was six and
Meredith was nine months. Marjorie
was tiny and skinny. She had soft,
almost white hair and was tanned
almost black from many mornings in
the sun. Meredith was your regular fat,
bald baby that cried too much. Mrs.
Winters held fat Meredith in one arm
and dragged Marjorie along with the
other. The sight of her with her kids
hanging onto her like monkeys nau-
seated me.
oYou not working today?� she
asked when she finally reached the
corner of my lime beach towel.
oNo,� I said, oITm just trying to get
some sun.�
oWell, ITve got a favor to ask,�T she
pleaded. oI was hoping you could
watch the children this afternoon so I
could go shopping. Ill pay you for it,
of course. My husbandTs usually home
on Saturdays but he went to a meeting
today. You could fix them some lunch
now and then bring them back here
until I get back, O.K.?�T
I wished then that I had told her I
was working later, but I couldnTt help
feeling a little sorry for her even though
13
14
it was her own fault, so I agreed.
Mrs. Winters was relieved. oOh
good,� she sighed. oWould you like to
carry Meredith back to the house?� she
asked politely. ITm sure she thought I
was dying to hold the baby; but the
truth is, I wasnTt used to holding babies.
I had never babysat when I was younger,
like most girls do, because we lived in the
country when I was growing up; too far
to go to pick up a babysitter.
oNo, thatTs alright, you carry her,�T
I conceded. I felt like I had the time
Danny, my brother, took me to the
horse auction to pick out a horse for
my birthday. We found a beautiful
black mare reasonably priced. oGet on
her and try her out,T Danny had cried.
oNo, go ahead, I want you to ride it
first,T I had offered. I was trying to
sound generous when, in fact, I was
scared to get on. I had ridden a few
times when I was younger, but never
alone and not enough to be comfortable
doing it. I felt that the horse didnTt
have a mind, and if I got on it, I would
steer it into the side of the stable.
Meredith had started crying and
Marjorie was laughing at her. oOh
dear, Meredith must be wet,� said Mrs.
Winters.
... | grabbed the baby from her
arms. It was stiff and awkward-feeling.
I couldnTt get the little thing to balance
in my arms. It just kept rolling its
weight from side to side until I screamed
and let go. It was like a doll. It rolled
down the steep, long hill of the yard to
the road. Its tiny feet and arms thrashed
the air. A car was coming....
Meredith was crying on the couch
and Marjorie was playing an old Car-
penter song on her hot pink plastic
record player for the one-hundreth
time. oWhat do they eat?� I had asked
Mrs. Winters. She had shown me a loaf
of stale bread, some flat Pepsi, and some
luncheon meat. I offered Marjorie the
stagnant Pepsi. She took it and her
record player in front of the television
and turned it on.
I walked over to the couch and tried
to calm Meredith. oHush now,� I
crooned, ooMarjorie, how do you get her
to hush?�T Marjorie just turned her
record on again.
~Well, letTs go back to the pool.
Maybe she'll like that,� I said. Mar-
jorie already had her bathing suit on,
thank God. We walked back across the
big yard to the pool. I held fat Mere-
dith in one arm and dragged Marjorie
along with the other. She had her record
player with her.
oArenTt you scared you'll get your
record player wet, Marjorie?� I asked.
oT can take it if I want to,� said
Marjorie.
oOh well,� I thought.
We went to the baby pool so Meredith
could play in the water.
oT want to go over there in the big
pool,T Marjorie kept asking.
oBut I canTt watch you there, honey.
Why donTt you play over here with us
for a while, then we'll take you over
there, O.K.?TT I was sitting in the water
holding Meredith up. Marjorie kept
jumping over our heads into the baby
pool. She laughed when she jumped.
She laughed when she crawled out. She
even laughed when her head was under
water. You could hear her gurgling.
I finally took Marjorie to the bigger
pool. I had to stand holding Meredith
in my arms. I wondered how Mrs. Win-
ters managed.
oDonTt go in the deep end, Marjorie.
You might drown,� I kept telling her,
but she kept easing her way closer to
it. She would come up behind me and
pretend to push Meredith and me in.
oDonTt go in the deep end. YouTll
drown,� she mocked.
.... Lrealized my strong loathing
for the silken-blond haired little girl. I
saw her skinny body, childishly awk-
ward, jumping over my head into the
turbid water; then coming up, grinning
with childish glee that turned into hy-
enous bellows. She came out. I grabbed
her feet first and pulled her into the
darker blue of the deep end. She would
drown. She was still laughing....
oIT wanna go home,� Marjorie
whined. I was relieved to hear it. I had
brought them back to the baby pool
and Marjorie didnTt like it.
oO.K.,� I sang, oLetTs go home.� I
carried Meredith in my arms again. We
left a trail of water from the baby pool
to the gate from MeredithTs wet diaper.
I was tired of dragging Marjorie around
and decided to see if she would follow
on her own. Meredith and I were already
outside the front gate, but Marjorie
wouldnTt come out.
oCome on Marjorie,� I yelled.
oT left my record player,T she
whined as she walked up to the big
iron gate.
oWell go get it,� I said a little too
impatiently. It took her forever to re-
turn. She walked slowly toward the
gate with the pink record player
clutched in her hands.
oCome on Marjorie,� I said again,
this time more forcefully. Marjorie
stuck her tongue out at me through the
thick bars of the gate and ran back to
the pool.
... | could see her hiding behind a
tombstone through the black iron bars
of the graveyard. oCome here,� I
called. She walked from behind the
moss-covered tombstone holding a hot
pink plastic flower in her little hands.
The graveyard was dark and cold. Like
liquid enclosed in inky outlines, all the
stones were wavering. She seemed to
slip and slide as she walked across the
damp grass toward me. She looked
pale, her eyes unclear through the
swirling iron of the gate.
oITm going to die, arenTt I?� she
asked. I smiled. I saw myself smile,
like she would see me through the
thick bars of the gate....
oWhat are you doing?� Marjorie
asked. We had returned over the wide
lawn from the pool. Their mother
hadnTt come back yet and Meredith was
crying again. She was wet.
oTm going to change Meredith's
diaper,T I said. I donTt think I had ever
changed a diaper, but I laid Meredith
on the bed and was looking for her dia-
pers. oWhere does your Mommy keep
the diapers, Marjorie?�T Marjorie just
turned her record on again. I found the
diapers in the bathroom over the
diaper pail. oAh, two mysteries solved
at once,� I thought, and proceeded to
solve the third: putting on the diaper.
oLook at my record player,T Mar-
jorie demanded.
~oTTve seen it, itTs nice,T I mumbled.
I was busy figuring out which way to
pin the diaper. Marjorie walked up to
the bed where I was leaning over Mere-
dith and slapped her in the stomach.
Meredith choked. MarjorieTs little
handprint appeared on MeredithTs fat
stomach.
I dropped the pins. oWhat did you
do that for?� The scream came out as a
whisper. Marjorie just laughed. I
Slapped her face. She didnTt even cry,
but silently put her record on again.
Someone knocked at the door. Meredith
started crying. Their mother was home.
15
We drove
down the road
dividing
flat sand fields
tobacco stained
ancient ocean beds.
The sun and moon
of equal size
hung opposite each other
in the August sky
and the hot haze
INSTINCT
The white rats they
come and go
come and go
noiselessly their eyes convey
all we claim to know
about the Milky Way.
One eager whisker reads
the lately fallen snow
and instantaneous speeds.
The white garments glide
to and fro
to and fro
frozen stiff, the god inside
oblivious to snow
is numbly gratified
for braided hemp, content
because he does not owe
himself or love or life or rent.
turned orange.
Tim Wrigh
Like you and | nas, stp
on different horizons.
Regina Kear
THE STING
You always had
hundred watt eyes
a voice that
stripped branches
of leaves.
Incidentally
| thrive now, pruned
inured to heat.
Tim Wright
16
RUNAWAYS
hurried
harried
hesitating
housewives
come to airports,
picking up tickets
for tomorrow's flight.
chased by shadows
looking over shoulders
for grasping husbands,
yet only children
tread her heels.
perhaps
to slip away today
she told him tales
of grocery shopping,
tales of his favorite dish,
his last Supper.
her last laugh.
Mary Cole Snotherly
ALIAS
Faceless until | think
| see
a face in the glass.
Then charging through,
a horse,
It was there.
Within grasp: bleak rose
ripped from my heart
fish from a pond
coin from a Cup.
Blinded purposely
and given to dreaming
(bleak rose)
it watches
content to sway
within grasp.
| want the moon in words.
| want that moon in terms
of innocence.
It is, after all, there:
bleak rose that it Is.
Joseph Dudasik
white with black nostrils.
| move my hand to touch
its flank
and discover my other hand.
Robert Glover
17
EY
ie
ie
He
Peter E. Podeszwa
A MONOLOGUE IN SEASON
V.
L.
your face is round
and blank.
a plate with two green
eyes shimmering.
(if iam allowed the
absurd personification.
it fits so well, like one
mouth upon another.)
i will be sorry later
of course,
i am always sorry for
something.
li.
if i have been so
short-changed, by association
then, so are you.
do you not find it difficult
to relax?
just beyond the candy-cane
barriors lurks a bald hysteria.
that part of you i cannot control,
where i have so little sway.
i would never label it evil,
my tenure is too insecure,
all my resources so close
to exhaustion.
lil.
there is a grating sound
now where oil used to
smooth things.
the oil is gone,
or too expensive,
or must be dredged up,
or drilled,
or stolen from someplace
equally important.
iV.
behind the thin economics
of diminishing love surge
dangerous tides.
shall we harness them?
would they be bountiful as
sunlight and last a single
indefinite night?
i fear not. the land now
grows cold beneath my feet.
only a stumble away winter
staggers on autumnTs shedding
coat.
black, black as a cavity
in a neglected tooth.
winter is that black to me.
not to you.
why should you shoulder such
a weary burden of pain.
bruised and bleeding,
as raw and evil as rape,
winter is like a sword
plunged into ideas as well
as bodies.
vi.
the oceans do not all freeze.
(though god knows they might
wish they could ride out the
season beneath a placid glitter
of tithed skin.)
if i last out the coming storms,
if i can last and give gracefully
to the grinding cold a portion of
myself, does spring draw any
closer because of it?
Vil.
i donTt believe i would be
happy anymore if i could not
hear you cheer in the face of
frozen winter and stand on
your crate of hates and prejudice,
bitching about the far-away heat
of summer that i need so now.
Vill.
turned tables and broken
crockery.
the eyes remain, so crystalline
green they are painful.
there is much endurance in them
but little wisdom.
fortunately, i am searching for neither.
passion is what i need,
must have,
cannot survive without.
just a flicker among gray ashes.
i will settle for the pretense
of warmth if that is the best
that can be found and continue |
to rely upon my own brisk hands )
to furnish a small measure of
rubbing heat.
s. phillip miles
19
20
seensseewae Sais pos
FSR
he Worst Things That Have
Happened
The First Worst Thing
For a long time I tried to pin down
exactly where I was when my folks
and my little brother were killed. From
the time people gave the trooper and
from what I can remember of the first
game of our doubleheader with Big
Sandy I guess I was running from
first to third on a bloop single by
Frannie Halloman when a drunk real-
estate man from Shelby crossed the
center line in his Buick Electra, met
To Me So Far
by Terry Davis
Dad's T63 Vette headlight to headlight
and made fiberglass pin cushions out
of my family. I went seven-for-nine
and figured it was a big deal.
Mom hated drag racing because of
all the noise. But she always went to
the drags at Chester because of the
little park in town. WeTd drop her at the
park with the picnic lunch and sheTd
read or sew in peace until we got tired
of the races and came back to eat.
There are several factors I wish
had been different:
1
that theyTd taken the station
wagon instead of the Vette so at
least maybe theyTd have had a
chance;
that the races had been at Harlem
or Big Sandy or Great Falls or any
other place so theyTd have been on
another road when that guy crossed
the line;
that Jesse had been killed instant-
ly;
that I'd been with them;
that the guy had died a slow death
from burns so I wouldnTt still
think so much about killing him.
ie
a
a
te,
VOSS
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ee ee Sn
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= ~Sess, ae fn ae
©
22
A State Patrol car pulled into the
park just after weTd given Big Sandy a
cheer and had started gathering up the
balls and bats and putting them in the
bag. The trooper waved for Coach
Commalini, and he and Little Nick ran
over to the car. I had a twinge of fear
that something had happened to Mom
and Dad and Jesse, but when Nick
started looking sick right away I
thought something must have hap-
pened to Mrs. Commalini. I felt a tiny
feeling of gladness that it wasnTt me,
and then I felt curious. But I stayed
stuffing the bats in the bag. Then
Coach came over to me and put his
hand on my shoulder. His face was
blank and white. I got scared. He
walked me out by first base and to the
path that goes through the high grass
down to the creek. It was the middle of
summer and the water was low and
stinking.
oYour mom and dad were killed in
an accident,T Coach said. oJesse is
alive, but the trooper says we shouldnTt
hope.�T
I felt self-conscious and saw
myself there with Coach in the knee-
deep, waving grass, and I wondered if
ITd have to look at them. I thought ITd
have to oidentify the bodies� like on
tv, and I didnTt want to. I wondered how
to act. I knew from other deaths in
town that ITd get a lot of attention for a
while.
Then I forgot about myself and I
even forgot about Mom and Dad. I ran
for the trooper and begged him to get
me to my brother. The most important
thing in the universe was to see Jesse.
I thought of how dumb he threw a ball
and how heTd dive for the ground when
ITd pretend to throw him back a hard
one.
Mr. Bays drove the team van and
Coach and I went in the patrol car. We
drove through Havre to the Chester
David A. Norris (pp. 20-21)
hospital at over 100, but Jesse was
dead when we got there.
I didnTt have to identify them, and
from what I heard later it was a good
thing. It doesnTt bother me anymore,
though, because I believe that whether
death is heaven or just a warm white
light, itTs still peace.
The T51
Dad was service manager for
Havre Chevrolet and Mom was a
housewife. We lived in a two-story
wooden house on the Milk River seven
miles northwest of town. We had a
three-car shop that Dad converted an
old barn into before I was born and
where he had a little business on the
side before he became service man-
ager. The shop was where I spent
nearly all the time I wasnTt playing
ball for either the school or the Legion
team.
Jesse used to love to come in the
shop and watch us do stuff. He espe-
cially liked to watch us grind or weld
because of the sparks. Sometimes,
when Dad had time to watch him, heTd
give Jesse a piece of stock, put the full-
face welding hat on him, and let him
grind the stock down to a nub. Jesse
liked grinding or welding sparks better
than fireworks. Every Fourth of July
heTd ask if we couldnTt just go down to
the shop and grind something instead
of going to town for the fireworks dis-
play.
Dad bought the old cars with no
resale value that people would trade in,
and we would clean them up inside and
rub out and wax the paint and maybe
put on a new waterpump or seal the
radiator or something, then sell them.
We never made much money, but it
was fun.
When I was fifteen Dad drove home
a T51 Ford two-door sedan that some
farmer from Maple Creek, Alberta had
traded in. I washed it off before the sun
went down and drove it inside and
vacuumed out the dirt, which took
almost an hour. Then I got some rub-
bing compound and rubbed out the
hood to see if there was any paint left
or if it was all just oxidation. The cov-
ering of dirt must have protected the
paint, because that old Ford blue
looked brand new after about fifteen
minutes. I ran up to the house to tell
Dad how well it had rubbed out and to
get him to come see it. He told me the
Ford was mine and that ITd better take
good care of it because it would be the
last car heTd ever buy me.
Jesse was more excited than I was.
He came down and rubbed out two and
a half hubcaps before he fell asleep on
the back seat. Mom came down about
11:00 to look at my car. We listened to
the end of a Chicago Cubs game on the
car radio, then she woke up Jesse and
she and I walked back up to the house
with me pushing Jesse in the wheel
barrow.
It was six months before I got my
license and could drive the T*51 on
public roads. By that time it was as
Sanitary a stock T51 as we ever saw in
northern Montana. Even now itTs only
got 89,000 on it.
The Second Worst Thing
I lived my last year of high school
with the Commalini family. Nick
Senior had been my baseball coach
since sixth grade. He helped me get the
insurance money and he urged me to
sue the guy for a bundle, which I did. I
put some of the money in savings, and
Nick helped me choose some bonds to
buy with the rest. I paid $60 a month
and let Little Nick drive the Ford
whenever he needed it.
Almost the second worst thing that
has happened to me so far was selling
our house. I wasnTt thinking very
Clearly when Nick suggested I sell. I
should have kept the shop, at least, or
at the very least all the tools and
machines. As it was I just kept the big
roller tool chest and the quarter-inch
drill. Some people from California
bought the place, auctioned off the
shop and stuff and turned it into a
painting studio.
I drove the Ford out along the river
a lot that winter just to sit and look at
the house. I could see us there easily if
I wanted to. The wind would blow little
chunks of frozen snow crust along the
road and theyTd rattle into the side of
the car like bird shot. The people from
California probably thought I was
crazy. I stole our old mail box one time
when they were gone.
The real second worst thing that
has happened to me so far turned out
to be dislocating my elbow. Coach
wanted to get me thinking about some-
thing besides my folks and my brother,
so after Christmas he got me on a
weight-lifting program. He said most
college and professional coaches had
their ball players on weights in the off-
season and that if I got started while I
was still in high school ITd be ahead of
my competition when I got to college.
Little Nick played football and basket-
ball when he wasnTt playing baseball,
so he didnTt have an off-season to lift
weights in.
I noticed the difference in my
strength and muscle tone after three
weeks. I liked the way it made me feel.
Four afternoons a week I worked out
hard and ran the cross-country course
through the snow.
I was doing pull-overs"an
exercise where you lie on your back on
a bench and, with your hands close
together on the bar, lower the bar
behind your head then pull it back over
your head to your chest"when
something gave way in my right
elbow. It felt like my arm had come
23
apart, which I found out later was
pretty much what happened. The bar
fell to my chest and rolled back onto
my throat and about choked me. I'd
only been working with 65 pounds, but
with only one arm I couldnTt hold it.
All I could do was roll my head to one
side and duck under the bar and flip it
backward with my head and left arm.
Pete Peterson, the basketball manager,
heard the weights hit the floor and
came running.
We put an ice bag on it right away,
but in a few minutes it was swelled up
like a week-dead whitefish. It hurt so
bad I had to lie down to keep from
getting sick to my stomach. It hurt so
bad it scared me. Pete ran upstairs and
got the basketball coach who right
away drove me to the hospital. I
fainted when the doctor bent my arm to
fit it in the x-ray machine.
Both lower arm bones"the radius
and the ulna"had pulled out of the
elbow. They pulled the ligaments away
and (the way it was explained to me)
kind of scraped off the cartilage as they
tore away from the joint. I had an opera-
tion after the swelling went down a little.
My arm was in a shoulder-to-waist cast
until school let out. The cast had aholein
it where the doctor drained out fluid
every week. My arm was perfectly moulded
for sticking out the window of the Ford
when Little Nick and I would cruise for
burgers on the weekend nights.
By the end of June my right arm
had shrunk a full inch smaller than my
left. I built it up some in therapy, and
by the end of July"halfway through
our Legion season"the therapist said I
could try to throw.
I threw like a foreigner. I threw
like a kid who never threw before"
with the elbow all stuck out ahead of
the ball. And it hurt. I threw bad, but I
did throw. Little Nick and I played
catch on the lawn for a half hour or so
until my arm hurt too much. We played
catch every evening for a week while
Coach watched. Then the next week I
got to practice with the team.
Coach switched Little Nick from
second to short and moved me from
third to second so ITd have the short
throw to first. Coach hit a little infield
and I was making the throw okay as
long as I took my time. Then he got
some guys to run the bases while he
hit more infield.
I could field fine, but when ITd
throw hard to beat the runner the ball
would go in the dirt. I must have thrown
fifteen balls in the dirt. Larry Manum,
our first baseman, was getting so he
wouldnTt even stretch for my throws.
HeTd just breakdown like he was field-
ing grounders.
I felt good. My arm hardly hurt at all.
I just couldnTt throw. Coach hit another
one and I moved to my left, gobbled it,
and in fluid motion threw it in the dirt
about ten feet in front of me.
I turned around and walked out
through the grass. I walked out to cen-
ter and sat down with my back to the
short cyclone fence. I looked in over
the field and at all the guys. Little Nick
had gone back to second and McGinnis
had come in to play short. I listened to
the crack of the bat and watched the
puff of dust the ball kicked up when it
hit and listened to the throw whack
into ManumTs glove. Tears came to my
eyes and I cried pretty hard. I think
everybody heard me, but I didnTt feel
self-conscious. I felt absolutely alone
and without hope.
My few scholarship offers had been
withdrawn that spring, but ITd figured
a good half season of Legion ball
would bring them back. It turned out,
though, that all I could do was pinch
hit. It was on the strength of that, they
said, that I got an offer from Northern
Montana, the little college in Havre. ITve
always had a feeling that Coach Com-
malini had more to do with it than my
pinch hitting.
RACETRACK
At Aqueduct
on the third floor balcony
Betting on bloodlines
Two dollar tickets to show
winning forty cents on the dollar
Sipping gin tonics from Tupperware
Far removed from the Thoroughbreds
racing their hearts out
on the fast track below.
Brightly colored jockeyTs silks
~blur on the backstretch.
Binoculared spectators cheer
the sound of their voices
smothered by jet planes overhead.
Inside, angry bettors
racing forms scattered at their feet
gather to watch video-tape replays
to see where the favorite faltered.
Outside, on the track
the satin-coated sweating chestnut
feels the sting of the whip
remembers
lush green Kentucky pastures
and hears
his wild ancestors call
from the drifting sands
of Arabian deserts
urging him to run, to run.
Regina Kear
25
Scott Brandt
26
WINTER HIKING
Down deep coves
A birdTs sharp trill brings it all into focus
| know the time
By the deep green light seeping through the tent
My shoulder sore from too much of this
Rocky sleep
Today will be warmer
The storm has deepened the riverTs voice
My breath takes on foglike shapes around me
ItTs not time for more miles yet
| hear the wind moan
Through these high gaps like a freight
Slashing rain and sleet
The breathlessness of a tiring swimmer
Too far from an easy chair
Another cold one
Now itTs life
Blowing away like the grass underfoot life
The wind
Riding me into this grassy bald
Blasting rain and then down again
My dying on some cold mountaintop
All in fog now
Whenever | try to put it into
Lines words
David Gerrard
27
OWLS
Sometimes in dreams
| am dropping down from Cashiers
at night in fog.
The headlights will hit him
perched atop that S curve sign
white paling like a summer full moon
seen through the clouds.
Sometimes camped on back trails
| hear him echo across these valleys
like the heart of wind,
the voice we cried with
when these mountains were building,
when these rivers and ridges
were gathering the force of time.
| feel a calling form in my throat.
Wherever | am now
my car wrapped in a tent
must be left behind for the life-full darkness
And then | am looking into those swampwater-black eyes.
Turning slowly atop a roadside sign
| raise my arms before me
which have lightened themselves,
taken on the soul of something which must
stalk the night
which must rise through poplars
fly on heavy air
to fall onto the living
in one terrible back-breaking dive
to be wild with the smell of blood
filtering around me like dust.
Flesh
hunting
not savage or cold-blooded
but compelled to do so.
David Gerrard
28
AUGURY OF STARLINGS
Darkly as if coal could fly
they dart through the grey afternoon,
they gather like black fire in trees
branches bear them like fruit
that shits.
They vex the widow with their nests,
rob the swain of his scuppernong
take the tacks from the scarecrowT's eyes.
Through the window of your sadness
you will watch them heading south in
oceans of October air
and then
the kitchen light will not mean the same
a skein of them in the snow
will be image of your sorrow
a gust of them will recall
certain joy
at night their shrill will mean more to you than music
and perched on your strange bed you will begin to think
you have grown wings
Jeff Rollins
29
30
Kirk
Kingsbury
STREET RITES
He looks so much like smoke
moving over the streets.
In the black back alley
dead with velleities
bins sleep beside him
streetdogs tolerate him.
Slumped between some bricks
in a watchlight shadow
rats ignore his languid fierceness
trace their footways beside him
love him.
Sunrise
he resumes his hunt for butts.
And late, closer to the wharves
spots a near-drained bottle
under the oddly burning exit sign
and engages it in a pavan
in the dusk.
Tim Wright
31
32
CHAMELEON
| watch yellow wax
melting down across
a paperback book
until it puddles
around a half-written poem.
| do not over-exert my concern.
Instead | sit staring
through the screen
wondering how | became
so empty
so characterless
so incidentless
so plotiess
so moody
SO impressionistic.
And then | call a priestess
to confess my arrogance.
| hear the flesh of her ear
and sagging jowl squeezing
like dough through the phone.
She tells me to buy a candle
and pray like everyone else.
As | hang up | hear her choking
on a saltless cracker, and
| wonder if she has a glass
of Welches nearby
to save her life.
| call a friend to ask why
Hamlet is a hero and
Desdemona is so, so innocent.
My friend tells me that living
in a circle is the price of immortality.
| see this truth: rabbits and greyhounds
do it, horses do it, cars do it,
so why shouldnTt humans do it too?
oEven chariots used to do it,�
my friend says cheerfully.
| interject that
some lives are better
fiction that others;
some fiction is better
lived. He agrees and
begins talking about the elements,
the price, form and sieves.
| hang up the phone
before the receiver drools
and listen to the silence
darting between the noises.
Robert Glover
fl
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te. ee,
ump jy)
7 WH off
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lTd Turn Back If | Were
You Dan Early
Family : John Morris
John Walters"I Was Wondering About Mrs. Yoshioka (p. 33)
34
Jeff's Symbol 3 : Terri Holtzclaw
35
7/4/76 T. E. Austin
The Hungry Wait Vickie Champion
The Fisherman Fred Cheney
The Lone Rangers: Sissy and Jellybean Jeanne Brady
37
Untitled Tom Haines
v/ Ye. =ad
: oe =
i \ }
ME . af i .
Ale
38 TwoTs Company " FourTs a Crowd
ciiehith. saath ti tee Hi
i i li ll
ae ee acta
ol
h\
American Phallacies | ee Sats
| Ed Midgett
Jeanne Brady
Calligraphic Fugue Bill Bass
Fall Migration Robert Dunning
41
5)
hy))\
§))))
Liminality Anthony Eder Infrastructure T. E. Austin
42
era +\ , .
Ld | a
| 0 OMA, ry A. ; os
Untitled Peter E. Podeszwa
46
Se
Se ew
Perne in a Gyre
Jeff Fleming
FIVE EYE-BLINKS
Five eye-blinks on a matter
will transpose, metamorphose,
kill new, bear old, and evoke
aberrations on a theme.
oObserve: line, form,
color, composition,
and texture.�
|
Five seemly stones rule out the earth in rows.
|
Five Cinco
Cing
Pente He
II
Five painter palette pigment splashed
leaves
jazz
to woodwind chromatics.
IV
Five mockingbirds against
the
Sky
rehearse
their falling-star routines.
V
Five hand-torn faces
equals
two silks plus two sandpapers,
wedded not so inseparably,
and one lone burlap
longing to conceal
a polymer-bead gesture.
Five arms question bent;
Five therapies applied.
Robert Jones
45
Robert Glover
Untitled
46
JOHN HENRY
old John Henry Porter
chops peanuts
& dust rises
with each blow
of the hoe
thinking of Saturday night
he severs a peanut plant
& an ant crawls away disturbed
words drift in
from a house across the field
dust rises behind a tractor
in the next field
& his stomach growls
cars pass John Henry standing
still Knee deep in peanuts
leaning on the hoe
with his eyes closed
dreaming of his woman
he blends into the shifting pictures
of paradise in the center
of a peanut field
Richard Hudson
47
oF "
ratte ate tenet a
WARY nto ht he
MINA Nee Fede ht
~ raha t5
Wtf ix 8 RES ae
Ser
TBS
=)
o> of %
ae ue
a
Qe
"sa 2.
te
; i a yee
; ve Ny ge
>, Pa 0)
/ ti . |
er ess =
hee
nS, VSs. : ;
oere
+ iy ,
* 1 5
rt,
to read and know what a dictionary is
for). For one year or so, I worked for
the state, on a road crew. So you can
have fun wondering whether this story
is true or not. You want a title, huh?
Call this one, oWesty, Pop, and Me.� It
ends with a bang and a whimper.
" WESTY,
AND ME
by Peter Makuck
ASSIGNMENT: IN ABOUT THE NEXT
THREE HOURS, I WOULD LIKE FOR
YOU TO WRITE AN ANECDOTE, A
SKETCH, ASTORY, OR AFEW POEMS.
DONTT WORRY ABOUT METAPHORS
AND SYMBOLISM"I WILL EXPLAIN
HOW TO USE THEM IN SOME FUTURE
CLASS. AND DONTT WORRY ABOUT
THIS BEING SOME KIND OF SCREEN-
ING TEST (YOU HAVE ALL PAID YOUR
MONEY AND MAY REMAIN IN THIS
COURSE REGARDLESS OF YOUR
ABILITY). I AM MERELY TRYING TO
SEE IF YOU CAN WRITE, HOPEFULLY,
WITH SOME SENSE OF GRAMMAR
AND IMAGINATION. SO, WRITE
CLEARLY, IMAGISTICALLY, ABOUT
SOMETHING YOU KNOW OR FEEL
DEEPLY ABOUT. INCLUDE, AS WELL,
SOME PREFATORY STATEMENT
ABOUT YOURSELF AND YOUR REA-
SONS FOR TAKING THIS COURSE.
PLEASE BE SURE TO TITLE YOUR
WORK"A LEAD IS VERY IMPOR-
TANT.
Herr Doktor Talley:
My reasons for taking your course
are, like, private, O.K.? Maybe some-
day ITd like to put words together in a
money-making way, not because I need
money, but because I need ... well, like
I said, my reasons are private. You might
say ITm a secrecy-freak, a mystery lover.
I'll tell you this much though: since I
dropped out of the university five years
ago, ITve lived close by, on the fringes,
you know? No adolescent hitch-hiking,
no wanderjahr (Impressed? Well, I like
Bill Brockman
Sincerely, Steve Koss
WESTY, POP, AND ME
See, in some ways, ITm a sentimen-
talist"thatTs my trouble. I seldom drive
past a brush-cutting crew on some back
road and not wish I were there again in
that good healthy weather with Pop
and Westy, sweating and getting tanned
in the summer, huddling around a branch
fire in the winter. But I know thatTs over
and I just ease past, lean back on my
expensively upholstered sadness and
resentment, and remember how Pop used
to pace us, how humble-proud he was
of being able to do it at his age. Pop
was somewhere in his sixties and his
face"if you are really reading this,
Herr, Doktor"his face was shaped like
the brush-hook he swung so well. Con-
cave with a great sharp nose. Lips loose
and hanging. Crinkled mouth and eye
corners. (Excuse the fragments. Re-
member this is a rush job.) One cheek
bulged out with"what else?"a plug of
Liberty, the other sagging, red with the
raw weather. Pop. Who became our work-
mate and wacked-off mentor. Who hated
cars and hoofed about town followed by
faithful dog, Shep. Who always wore a
hat and denim overalls. Who talked like
the Bible. Oh Pop, you were a pisser!
You ole bachelor. Listen, Pop, keep cut-
ting that brush, keep pacing us for that
honest dayTs pay, keep our bonfire going,
I'll be back for you in a minute. Almost
quitting time. Shep will be waiting at
the corner by the garage. You can walk
into the sunset together.
Westy. Imagine a bean-pole of (now)
twenty-four, an earnest narrow face with
lots of angles, a wrinkled forehead, deli-
cate fey lines around the small eyes. Westy.
Who also quit school. Who was otrying to
find himself.� (IsnTt that novel?) Whose
momma knew someone to get him the job.
Westy. The kind of dude who wants to bea
great painter without painting. Like art
means long hair, beard, and a fondness
for filth, right? Like Van Gogh was prob-
49
50
ably whiffy, right? Westy is pretty much
a sentimentalist too. We used to have beers
in this place by the waterfront called
HarryTs Bar. Elbow to elbow with mer-
chant seamen, Westy would come on about
ogoing to sea.� Then it would go some-
thing like: What about your painting,
West? He: ITm no good. Me: Sure you are.
Pop thinks you are. What would ole Pop
say if he knew you were giving up? He:
I'd hate to let Pop down. Me: But you
promised. He: But ITve got to find myself.
Me: But you promised Pop youTd go back
to school. He: I guess youTre right.
And so forth. This kind of little téte-
a-téte used to crack me up but ITd go
through it deadpan. Laughably predict-
able. Like Pop always saying we should
get as much o~schoolin�T and obook-
learnin� (in the second half of the twen-
tieth century, he actually used these ex-
pressions) as we could, otherwise weTd
turn out worthless, stupid like him, have
nothing in our old age. Naturally, he
meant that he was brighter than anyone
who ever went to college, and had the
kind of knowledge that was superior be-
cause it was ojest common sense.TT PopTs
knowledge: how to sharpen ascythe ora
brush-hook, how to pound a nail, how to
file a cowTs teeth, what weather follows
a red sunset, how to recognize poison
oak, how to start a fire with gasoline. Pop
was a real genius. It was this quality of
genius that Westy and Pop must have
sniffed on each other, why Pop urged
Westy, not me, to go back to school. And
Pop was religious too"another reason
why he and Westy were so fond of each
other. Westy, ever a sucker for fads, was
a tepid Jesus-freak at this time and he
and Pop would swap chapter and verse
and get very heavy about the Bible.
(Christ! The guy with the Rod McKuen
beard is already finished. ThatTs inspira-
tion for you. Bing! He must have knocked
out a couple of lonely poems. He stalks
past me down the romantic beach, eyes
blazing, swacked on loneliness, longing
to be misunderstood by yet another
woman).
Well, during that year of our working
together, Westy silently slipped away
from the Jesus scene and slid into a loft
(paid for by momma mostly) where he
could become a great artist. He even had
this very artsy chick posing for him. SolI
got to wondering what Pop"pure old
fashioned Pop with his great faith in the
purity and talent of Westy"what Pop
would think of some of WestyTs more recent
artistic activities. We were sitting against
this stone wall eating our lunch. Did you
know, I says, that our boy here is paint-
ing nudes, Pop? Gets these naked broads
in his room. Eyes of old Pop bug out. Like
most of his kind, he is a bit o~deef,� cups
his hand to his ogood� ear: HowTsTat? Me:
Curly, Pop, you know. He: What do you
mean? Me: I mean hair, Pop, down there.
He: Down where? Me: All over the twidget.
Gentle Westy shook his head. He said I
was malignant. Which made me laugh in
his face. First, Westy doesnTt know what
the word really means. Second, I just like
to keep him and Pop on their toes.
But Pop, Westy, why am I writing
this? ITm as bad as you are. A goddamn
sentimentalist inspite of myself. ItTs hard
to write this. I love the past; itTs perfect,
the only thing thatTs perfect maybe. Ah,
climbing in those winter branches, saw
swinging from my belt, cars pulling
around limbs in the road, the cold scent of
fresh cut wood. And once when it snowed,
sawdust and small flakes fell together,
mingled, and you couldnTt tell which from
what. Beautiful. I hate to admit it though.
You've got to be hard to survive. From
the other side of the pay-toilet, dimeless,
you know the past is no poem" itTs a
painful urge. But letTs ask Westy: oHey,
West, you think the past is a poem?�
He tables his Schlitz glass with a
click. Squints and says in that heavy way
he picked up from Pop, oI think things
are poetic.� Wipes suds from upper lip.
oNatural things.T Westy is sincere. No
talent for irony, wit, sarcasm. He adds:
oPeople too.�
Me: (faux naif) oPeople?�
oYeah, Pop was poetic.�
oThink so?�
oUp by ButlerTs farm one day, Pop
was looking at the field for a long time,
leaning on his hook, taking a breather. I
thought he was seeing a woodchuck or
something, so I said, ~What is it, PopT?
And he said...�
oWhat? Go on, what did he say?� He
looks at me suspiciously (ITve had him in
my back pocket somany times. oSeriously,
what did he say?�
~o~He just"just about the wind press-
ing the grass.�
~ooCome on, West. I really want to
know. What did Pop say?�
~He just said that when the wind flat-
tens the grass, it... shines.�
oThe wind or the grass?�
oThe grass.�
oMmmmm...T
oIt shines like silver.�T
oPop said that?�T
ooYeah.�T
I winked at Harry, the bartender. oI
always wondered what grass did under
those conditions. Isaysto myselfjustthe
other day, ~Steve,T I says, ~What does the
grass"T�
oYou rotten bastard.�
(Now what? Pipes in this dusty cellar
room begin to ping. On the blackboard,
Herr Doktor, you just replaced that big
6:30 with 7:00. Christ, class is thinning.)
That bar scene with Westy took place
after Pop"after ... chokes me up. I canTt
even write it. No shit. LetTs go back instead
"while I screw my courage to the stick-
ing place"to Blueberry Hill. There
stands Pop in the spitting snow, bent
over a bit to look like the dark stumps
he stands among, so much a part of
nature is this ole Pop. He jets a little
chaw-juice in my direction. Brown ex-
clamation point in the snow. A short
laugh. The old teeth leaning like tomb-
stones.
oHey, Pop, that b-b-brush-hook ainTt
to l-lean on,T I said, imitating Flaherty,
the crew boss, who cruised around in a
nice warm Jeep as he checked on the
progress of jobs and got his jollies by
bellowing and getting as red as the big
flop of hair on his empty Mick head.
oMock no manTs affliction,� says Pop,
serious again. He hates to see you havea
good time. But Pop is a tough too and
suggests to Westy that I need an unbibli-
cal kick in the ass.
oOh, Pop, what you said. A religious
guy like you.�
He spat and we locked eyeballs.
ooSwearinT is takinT the LordTs name in
vain and I ainTt done that.�
Wind wooshing.
b
oThen what do you call what you
just said?�T
oJest a cuss.�
oSwearing, though, is taking the
LordTs name?�
He chewed and gave me a thoughtful
B-movie nod.
oJesus Hairy Christ!� I said. oLive
and learn, huh West?�T
Look at Westy. Feel the knife of
silence. See, I didnTt have much of an
audience then. Westy was still PopTs dis-
ciple, still a bit Jesus-freaky, and ole
Pop was sore because I tested the Brush
King that morning on a live tree. The
Brush King was new and made for bushes,
vines, briars, and the like. Gas powered,
hand throttle, it had a shoulder sling and
you swung the open, 12-inch rotary blade
ahead of you, the blade being on a long
shaft of about five foot. The whole thing
looked like a mine-detector, or maybe
like a big bass guitar, and revving it up
for a cut, I felt what those acid-rocksters
up there on the stage must feel: POWER!
So I brought down a tree with an eight
inch trunk. Two swipes. Ging. Like
nothing. Pop almost popped off. And
good, because he was getting slightly off
his conk and had lately been getting on
my wick. This number: o... thatTs the
trouble with you kids ... spoiled... re-
sponsibility ... years for that tree to
grow... And so on, ad nauseam, as
Little Bo Peep said to his sheep. I just
laughed. Not the tree he was upset about,
but his job. He was in charge of the three-
some, even though I was driver. Brush
King could have easily been broken and
Flaherty would have known had he seen
the tree. So it comes down to the buck.
The day was freezing. Brush King
buzzed and chinged along. We steered
our faces, wind-raw, back and forth. Westy
worked both sides of the road, feeding the
cut brush to the big red fire. And the wind
"why it floated his hair, like it does in
romantic poems. Once in a great while a
car would pass, a big Caddie, carrying
some rich guy from one of the mansions
on the hill, a guy who thought to himself
"no doubt"that what we were doing was
healthy and meaningful, was, like his
own Horatio Alger past, hardly bearable
for its rugged beauty.
51
52
At lunch, sullen, we sat in the cold
truck-cab (trying not to touch knees) and
ate without saying a word. Westy tried to
get something going but gave up. My
hands were taking a beating because I
forgot my gloves that day. Every so often
I held them to the Brush King motor or to
the fire and they'd sting back to feeling. I
was hoping Flaherty would notice my
gloves sitting on the timeclock back at
the garage, eight miles off, and bring
them out to Blueberry Hill. But he didnTt
and I was nervous about going to get
them. Not afraid of Flaherty but embar-
rassed at having been stupid enough to
forget them.
After lunch, we worked steady, cut-
_ ting swaths twenty foot deep on either
side of the road. Stopped a few times to
fill the Brush KingTs tank or change a
blade. Road curved away and Pop was
ahead of me by about thirty yards, out of
sight around the corner, putting me and
John Henry to shame. Ears ringing from
the saw, even when shut down. Now my
hands, barked, were bleeding from the
chap. Around three, I decided to chuck it.
I suggested to Westy that we pack it in
and have a long coffee at ScottTs diner,
kill the last hour.
He shrugged. oSee what Pop thinks.�
oHell, w-we c-c-cut enough brush for
a month!�
With Pop out of the way, Westy laughed
openly.
I went up to where Pop was.
He said, oTold ya I could cut more
brush than that Tere thang.�
oRight, Pop.� Then [ hit him with my
diner idea. I should have known. He leaned
on his brush-hook, looked off, and nar-
rowed his eyes. Spat. oI git paid by the
hour, not by how much I cut (sniff). And I
reckon to do an honest dayTs work for an
honest dayTs pay.�
oYou ~reckonT, huh Pop?�
He reckoned. Pop reckoned so much
and washed so little there was a juice
stain on his iron beard and a dirt crease
on his neck and behind his ear. I looked
about, half expecting to see a camera
hidden in the trees, a director, some flunky
with a takeboard. Reckon my ass. I had
had it. Told Westy to hold the fort. Going
for a coffee run, donuts too. You wait
right here. If Godot comes, tell him IT1l
be right back.
Getting into my car back at the ga-
rage (after I got paid off atthe treasurerTs
office), I see Flaherty who sees me and
drives up. He leaned out of the Jeep. oYa-
ya-ya m-mean ya left p-poor old f-f-fuckin
Pop out there on Blueberry Hill?�
Me: oR-Right. B-But Flaherty?�
He: oWha-What?�T
Me: oF-F-Fuck you.�
(7:45 The woman with the long hair,
foxy face, and freckles is walking out.
Nice struts. I see you think so too, Herr
Doktor, mon frére.)
A few days after Blueberry Hill. At
Harry's Bar. Westy comes up to me and
asks if I got sick that day. Was I O.K.?
Westy was not only a good actor but hooked
on forgiveness. Bless those Christians.
What would people like me do without
them? Pop, however, was hard-nosed.
The few times I saw him after The Inci-
dent, he was stony. He was walking up
Logger Hill and I stopped to offer him a
lift, for laughs, to get a few Pop-isms. It
was fairly icy and that hill would tax any-
one, never mind an old man with faithful
dog. But once Pop saw who it was, he
said, like out of an ancient western, ~ooMuch
obliged, but I reckon I like it out here in
the good clean air.� Zap! Score one for
Pop. You got me, Pop. Touché. The next
time I saw him was about a year later and
I had the new T-Bird, airconditioned, and
there was Pop, in the blazing August,
still on Logger Hill. Almost like he hadnTt
moved. Light blue work shirt dark with
sweat down the back. I pulled close, leaned
on the horn, zoomed by, leaving ole Pop
out there in GodTs good clean air.
Busy with schemes in different places,
I didnTt see Pop at all for a while. Westy,
now and then. WestyTs painting had gone
public"stag party posters you could see
in a few local bars. Peter Max imitations.
He also relettered the signin HarryTs Bar
when drink prices went up. Everyone
told him how talented he was, gave him
advice. He lapped it up. Loved being with
bar-fly connoisseurs of art, men, like
Pop, whose opinions had weight.
One day I was in the town hospital.
This chick had suckered me into visiting
her sister with her. Coat-hanger job, I
think. I said hello, plunked down the
flowers, and went to wait in the hall.Ina
nearby room I noticed Pop. I wasnTt sure
at first but the name on the door was right
(I had forgotten Pop even had a name)
and of course there was the old brush-
hook profile.
oHow are you doing, Pop?�
His eyes widened.
~Remember me, Pop?�
Faint spark. oYes, you're...�
oSteve.�
oThatTs right ... Westy.�
oSo how are you doing, Pop?�T
~~MachineTs run down.� He touched
his heart. oITm lucky though. Most men
nowadays donTt get their three score
and ten.�
He looked bad, pale, wasted. The big
hook nose was pointed toward that heav-
en all his money was riding on. Christ, I
wished I had stayed out. I could see it
coming: a death-bed sermon. All the
equipment was just right: the upside-
down bottle with a tube in his arm, the
heavy breathing, labored words, oscillo-
scope with its little blippy hills and val-
leys. The whole scene. It was too much,
Pop, too much. Bad script. I kept imagin-
ing a white team bustling about, doing
mouth to mouth, thumping the shit out of
his chest, swarming in general. But what
did we talk about, Pop? Did we talk about
Westy? Yes.
oWestyTs in college now. Good boy.�
oRight, Pop, good for nothing.�
oHe'll be an artist, I reckon.�
oA bullshit artist, Pop.�
oAlways sensitive. Kind.�
oRight, kind of like a toiletseat.�T Pop,
you were drifting, on drugs probably,
you ole junkie. At any rate, more talk
about WestyTs goodness and talent. Which
is a laugh. I wanted to make you realize
this before you kicked it, but you were too
high, Pop. See, itTs me, not Westy who has
evolved. Me, not Westy who is talented.
Me, not Westy who will thrive. But what's
the use? If only you, Herr Doktor, could
tell him.
Then this chick of mine entered the
room. Pop deep into his B-movie. She
came up close and he began to talk to her.
oWhat I told your husband was wrong,�
he burbled, coughed.
I flashed her a question mark. Hus-
band? Not me. Not as long as milk is for
free. Why buy the cow is what I always
Say.
oWhat is that?T she coaxed.
oT told him (cough) long ago that mar-
riage (cough) was for weak men. But I
have been a fool. I was afraid of life. But
these last years I have found somebody
to love and have been happy.�
Chick tells him what a beautiful per-
son he is"whatever that means. She takes
his hand, tightens her lips to a thin line.
Into each otherTs eyes they look, fever-
ishly. And I begin to think sheTs getting
hot, ready to climb in bed with ole Pop,
right there. But in comes the nurse"
beautifully rumped and titted I remem-
ber"and we have to leave. I fight for one
last minute with Pop, alone.
Entitled: ~oo_Death-bed Promise.� I had
to ask Pop if Westy, his favorite, his dis-
ciple had been to see him. He looked at
me funny but didnTt answer. A far focus
in the eyes. Then the eyes bugging like a
little coronary was starting. Then tears.
Talk, mumbling about Shep and loneli-
ness and me and cutting brush and Shep
and dying and me being a great artist. It
was all mixed up. Was he seeing me or
Westy? But he seemed to know. And then
about Shep and me being sensitive and
knowing what he meant. I figured it had
to be me and Pop at last knew, knew deep
down what a lousy miserable sentimen-
talist I was, knew what I could do and
Westy could never do. Pop knew all right.
(8:30 ItTs just me and you, Herr Dok-
tor. You tsk and look impatient but Ihave
some time left. DonTt ask me to fork it over
yet. You wouldnTt want to upset a senti-
mentalist, would you?)
Final scene. Pop lived"where else?
"in the country, out in GodTs good clean
air, about three miles from town. After
retiring, after years and years and days
and days of honest work, Pop didnTt have
enough pension for toothpaste, so he got
a job as caretaker at the Hanna mansion.
Hanna made a fortune from Prohibition,
was a hustler of my own secret heart, and
wintered in the Florida Keys. They say
he had four or five houses in different
parts of the country, the best parts, so he
could choose his weather. Like touching
the dial on athermostat. He was probably
PopTs age. But preserved, younger look-
ing. I had seen him a few times around
town. In any case, I drove up the long
curve of the drive that was lined by pines.
Late afternoon. Pop said I should talk to
53
54
the maid first. But no lights on in the big
house. On the front door was a huge iron
knocker in the shape of a fish. Clang.
Clang. Nothing. I stood wondering what
the maid looked like, wondering whether
this was PopTs new love and whether he
had a thingy going. But the door stayed
unanswered. And we will never know.
Very mysterious, like so many other
things about ole Pop.
I went toward the carriage house
where Pop lived. Sunset a fog of blood in
the trees. Where was Shep? Here Shep,
' here Shep. I began to whistle. A good
home ... some little boy, I reckon, might
like a nice gentle dog. I got to thinking
that if Shep was the same Shep I used to
See waiting for Pop under the oak tree by
the garage, then heTd probably be on Med-
icare too, be so gentle heTd have to be
carried around by these dream children
on a litter. A family would want Shep
about as much as theyTd want a pair of
crippled toothless grandparents. I turned
the corner of the carriage house and saw
the bare ground where Pop had him tied
for a while next to the apple tree. Nothing
but a small dog house and an empty-ended
chain next to a chipped pot of water. Maybe
the maid had put him aside for some rea-
son. Shep. That was an original name.
Probably named after a psalm: the dog is
my Shep I shall not want. I thought of
Westy. Pop was poetic all right.
Lodgings of ole Pop. Door opened on
a big room with a soot-blackened fire-
place of fieldstone. Heavy wooden table
and chairs. There was a day bed in the
corner, gray sheets turned down, rumpled.
Pendulum clock on the mantle, stopped
at 11:45. All this from the open door. Then
I took a step. It was like being hit in the
face with a bag of shit. Shep? Nothing. I
looked around. Very dim. Another cau-
tious step. On the table was a frying pan
with pale grease in the bottom. Shep?
From under the table came thump, thump.
Backing toward the door, I called him. I
wondered if he were vicious. Pop said no,
but you can never trust a dog lover. Come
on, Shep. Come on, boy. I wanted to get
him out of the stench. He didnTt move
right away, just timidly wagged his tail,
ears fearfully back. The dog would be too
smelly to put in the car and I thought of
abandoning the whole thing. But, like a
Boy Scout, I had promised, and Shep was
now moving toward the light, a milky-
eyed Rin Tin Tin with matted hair, lame
and gone in the teeth. Then, by PopTs arm-
chair, leaning in the corner, I saw a rifle
that he probably used for prowlers or
rabbits. It was a Remington .22 automatic,
an odd thing for an enemy of the wheel.
Huh, Pop?
Shep waited, thoughtfully, behind
the carriage house, as if he knew what I
had in mind. In the light, you could see
his eyes were the same white color as the
greaSe in the frying pan. I saw, ina flash
(to coin a phrase), PopTs B-movie look and
knew this was the right thing. Abraham
and Isaac with a slight twist. Shep stood
in a little open space, not looking at any-
thing, not seeing. The spot was right. No-
body from the big house could have seen.
I went close, aimed behind the ear. I
waited, but no angel. Bip, bip. Shorts
donTt make a dramatic bang. Shep whim-
pered and collapsed like a pile of dirt.
Felt a little funny. Put the rifle back. Ac-
tually, though, I saved the taxpayers
ShepTs room and board for a week. Gas
for the wardenTs truck.
Grabbed the tail with one of PopTs old
newspapers; under it were these mangy
black gonads that, like swollen fists,
Squeezed out an angry squirt, then a yel-
low dribble. I dragged it across the field
and flopped it in. Floated away with a
kind of snaggle-toothed grin that upset
me a bit, kind of made me want to drill him
again. But that grin wouldnTt last. I know.
I used to hunt up that way and those
woods were lousy with fox and weasle.
Well, Herr Doktor, thatTs about it. Pop,
as you must have guessed, is dead. Westy,
ever the rebel, sits at HarryTs Bar, second
red-topped stool from the end, occa-
sionally threatens to ogo to sea,� or to go
to Paris to continue his art studies. And
me? ITm a sentimentalist"thatTs my
trouble. I seldom drive past a brush-cut-
ting crew on some back road and not
wish...
HOMECOMING
(the last Marine)
Dressed in drag the homocide queen drives home
In his Chevy-Stock-Super-Eight.
Children stare and whisper
As homocide drops the slick kid with a shiny .22.
Bruised, the kid lays spastic in the street,
ScreaminT in Spanish
And stops breathing when the crowd strolls away.
The heat arrives for their nightly fare,
And homocide shines ivory at the thought; then moves.
The ChevyTs tires burn out slogans from the sixties,
While neons spell ominous notes.
A silk-shirted Marine leers against a blazing streetlamp
And the homocide queen laughs and kicks the mud off his runners
As he parks his engine in front of Roosevelt Memorial Dome.
CampaigninT for glory,
He gut-screams his Sol story
To all the junkies and queers.
A little boy in black stands off to the side
Alone,
Staring through the mortals and their fears.
The queen climbs the dome and
Everyone stops to hear
That one shrill shot
As homocide splatters against the concrete sphere
They all shrug their shoulders and say what a sorry thing,
And move home to contemplate.
The little boy spits on the blood with disgust,
And runs crying out of the gate.
Kim Shipley
95
Peter E. Podeszwa
HONED BONE
And for one blind moment
| was allowed
To slicken through her past
And discover the sources of her
Imagined terrors
Her just as imagined securities
Her just as imagined embarrassments
| was to have been careful not to
Disturb the furniture
| was to have taken pains
Not to kick too clumsily
Any of the cream curtains
Any of the sharp
Shin-biters
Any of the outcroppings
Which could too easily be broken
Which too easily could be scarred
Which could too easily fall
The furniture was filmed
With a clear but dusty layer of skin
Underneath the tracery hid
Complex and meandering
Jumping back and over arms
And into folded cushions
Underneath wild patterns
| was allowed
To touch but gently anything
Racked in reach
And my hands draped blithely
Carved cold lathings
Musty breathless frames
Feeling but lately the
Subdued and flashing surface
And the crisp bird breast beating
That was not surface
But joist and angry
Underneath
| was allowed a breadth
Of sensual exploration
Denied even to the closest heart
Even to the wisest mind healer
Even to the simplest maid
Through all | moved as a shadow
Not as an intruder
Not as a father
Not as an icon
| was allowed
And | achieved the depth of a shadow.
Gene Hollar
o/
58
9 String Blues
by Robert Glover
The Day
I am in love with music and this
romance drives my dream"I play blues
guitar. Iam a player not a musician.
ITm not concerned with what all the
notes are anymore, except maybe the
deepest one. That one I wonder about.
Mundane themes are out, intricate
phrases are in, and ignorance is no
excuse. A large price to pay for homage
to a dream, but then I am in love.
My dream is like a gold coin on a
chain. The inscribed side is the night-
mare of traveling four faceless days a
week, of suicide love and hungry palms.
The coinTs smooth side is the sweet
illusion of legs and voices"the anatomy
of my muse. Since it is impossible to
avoid the nightmare, I find myself in
constant quest for legs that wonTt dis-
solve into mists, and voices that donTt
turn on me. If there is no sweet illusion,
no muse, my fingers stiffen and my
pick seems limp, useless. The bluest
blues.
I need no trophies but I like to hunt.
My prey often goes uncaptured, elusive
muses and love affairs are like that,
but my music must have no glass eye.
Ahead of me, turning onto the side-
walk, is a long brown dream. A taut
limber muse; I sigh like crushed velvet
and want to feed at her thigh. Some-
where in my head I hear a string break
in the middle of a high wailing blue
tone. Naked love. She passes, we smile
as I tear a green leaf from an over-
hanging bush. It bleeds its green juice
into my hungry palm. I glance back at
the musical thighs swishing through
the summer heat.
I cross the street. The pavement is
hot and sticky. I stop and crease it with
my sole. And skip gravel into a clump
of grass two feet from a crumpled paper
cup. ItTs orange and out of place like
discordant meandering.
I overtake another illusion; a young
muse wrapped in faded denim folds.
The swish of her thighs is in a higher
key than the other, and the rhythm of
her sandles is lighter, livelier. Her
music lures my lust into a tight bulge.
I ask her why the long hairs in my brush
aren't hers. The skin behind her knee
glistens as she walks faster. I notice a
love message preserved in concrete
that rain and time have filled in with
dirt. The past rapes the present but the
future is still virgin. The girl gives me
a stern look as she cuts through a hedge-
row and disappears. Gopher baroque?
I tear another leaf from a bush and
it too dies quietly in my hand. I wonder
where the muse is that will give me
her music to play tonight? Powder blue
slips slowly from her smooth brown
limbs as I dance lightly up and down the
wooden spine of my guitar. The sounds
of blue love spoken with the turn of a
knob. She turns and smiles.
I turn to recross the street and notice
an empty can sitting on the curb. I tip
it into the gutter where it rolls in the
gust of a passing car and finally drops
out of sight through the iron griddled
drain. I know that tune too. Blues with
guts. Blues with feeling. Deep intense
tones stretched out to edge city. Red
sky night in Tampa with her fingers
deep in my warm mouth. My belly
Slides across her petal-soft skin, down
between her legs. We choke on our
blue hearts, our pain, our joy. Deep press-
ing tones break in our throats as I bendto
kiss her open lips.
The Night
I stand in the colored lights with
my memory full and slow tearing blue
electricity in my fingers. I reach for my
soul and a string breaks under the heavy
heart of this blue fool. The string hangs
there, limp and useless. I work higher up
on the neck and reach again. As the band
comes thundering up behind me, I won-
der what that note is by the time it breaks.
The set ends with a curl and a wrinkle,
and weTre through for fifteen minutes.
Fifteen unrehearsed minutes.
I drop down onto the dark vinegar-
smelling, sweat floor where lovers
wiggle and coo to cocaine music with
the loosened mind of Saturday night. I
recall someone saying how depressing
it all is. I canTt remember who saw that
and felt compelled to judge it outloud,
but I can hear them. A voice like cotton.
Raw cotton, fresh from the field and
still full of seeds. I remember saying
that we all love it, we eat it, and it just
smells funny thatTs all, so relax.
A lovely voice has bought me a
drink. Her hand is knotted with tur-
quoise and silver; I press the cold glass
to my cheek. I will stretch this break
into twenty unrehearsed minutes of
pure human sound. I drink and listen
to a voice that sounds like lace.
And so it goes, until Saturday night,
so brilliantly rehearsed, but so emo-
tionally executed, is over. There is sud-
denly brightness where there was dark,
cool where there was heat and deceit
where there was truth. I laugh to my-
self and try to avoid the beer spills and
disillusioned faces.
The merry ones sit and sip the
dregs of another exhibition. These I
like. These are players too and they
sound like satin sheets to me. Full of
electricity and twenty hours to hunt for
new music, the blue fool crouches nearby
muse hunting. The dwindling mass dis-
solves through the swinging doors as I
saunter over to a single satin sheet.
I hum an intricate phrase as she
presses closer to me. Hard. Harder. In my
mind I hear a string break. It sounds
vaguely like a scream. Of revenge"of
fear"of loneliness. I ask her her name.
We move outside where itTs loose
and warm. I hear the city creeping on
its boney ribs. We pass full flickering
rooms with voices distant and hollow
calling ofill me, fill me.T Feel me, feel
me, try to play touch and care. Suicide
love and hungry palms for one more
faceless day. I notice that the ribs are
gnawed but unbroken.
oYou play that tune youTre hum-
ming so well,� she says. I want to ask
her how does she know. Eyes search
and bodies maneuver as the guitar
player wails. Lust to sex, sober to dim,
lost and found"blind. I tell her that
some night soon IT1l shed a string for
her and itTll sigh away like olove�
whispered.
We're walking to her place and the
night has grown stilted. Velvet-lit dirty
streets surround us with their waning
fever. We stop to watch Neon Nigel
dance in the late void where aimless
feet council. I press her closer.
The blue fool has a new muse who
moans like scattered sheets, and some-
where in my head I hear a string break
in the middle of a high wailing blue
tone.
59
PROMETHEUS
| have found myself stapled to the board
more than this once. | am no hero,
for the fires | have lighted, | also consumed:
and that scorpion of a bird
is blessed with my failings,
not with my darkness.
The one who begged for the flame
was asking for suicides.
| tried to explain, but the torch drowned
as we found the blood of the heart
the same on the knife,
forcing us both to flee in the darkness.
| stay on this board of reminiscences,
while the fire-beggar wears the wings loosley,
bound to breezes with guilt and laughter.
Even consuming or blood-ridden.
both of us are fond of the darkness.
Joseph Dudasik
60
STUDENTS OF MICROFORM
to know more about life than those who live it
they shut themselves off from it in order to study it
in a cold dark room where even the lights seem lifeless
on the strange metal machines records of records of
actuality recorded turn the shadows of reality flicker
centuries pass
still, silent, they sit and live too much
it kills them makes of them unreal things
incapable of experiencing life firsthand
yet experts on it death in life and life in death
once more
they move among the mortals dead yet alive
they live by studying the death they will know yet more
Donna M. Padgett
61
. =>. mpe= 8 4
»
RL yyy "6" lc tT SS.
INTACT
We drove up the driveway. A pink
haze slowly turned to gray. I wouldn't
have seen the house had it been much
later.
It was a two-story house, once bright
yellow. Paint chipped from layers of
splintered wood. Sickly branches scratched
against the storm windows. Neglected
shrubs in front of the house looked un-
even like a box of crayons when a few
colors arenTt in place. The grass had
been cut except for a thin, ragged strip
that wound its way down the center of
the sandy driveway. I walked the three
brick stairs, grabbed the black brass
doorknob and went in. My mother and
father followed.
There was a wall-length bookshelf
already filled with magazines. Sheldon
thought of everything. I lifted a Geo-
graphic from the teakwood shelf. The
spine caught the ledge; the clunk came
and went. I glanced at the date of the
magazine and also at the pastel fish on
the cover. I studied the room while
turning the pages of the magazine
swiftiy, abruptly, frequently.
All the furniture was Scandina-
vian. I was impressed, but why had
Sheldon bought a house for us without
my consent? Where did he get the money?
My bewilderment stayed concealed be-
hind ecstasy.
There was no couch, just four very
comfortable chairs. I didnTt sit in all of
them, just one; they all were the same.
My father and mother sat across from
me. Pots of white stones with tall plants
rested on the rug. Above one plant hung
Jeff Robb
by Colleen Flynn
an oil painting of a desert"just sand
and sky.
Music was playing.
Opposite the bookshelf was a French
door. White sheer curtains extended the
length of the dark wood. Only shadows
could be seen through the glass. Final
agreements on the house were being
made, I thought.
My parents were quiet. Also silent,
I continued to search the room for some-
thing familiar. Everything was new.
Where was my piano, marble coffee
table, and Bentwood rocker? Black
sculptures were everywhere"heads,
spears, elephants. There were ivory
dragons and wood carvings. Nothing
was mine. I wondered if some of our
things might be in boxes upstairs.
I was impatient to see the rest of
the house, especially the room behind
the white sheer curtains. The door
opened slowly. Just one small, dark-
haired man entered the room.
oHello, ITm Dr. Pemberton would
you like to step into my office?�T I
walked in expecting Sheldon and my
daughter but no one was in the small,
intact room"just two brown chairs, a
large desk, metallic lamps, and more
sculptures. I heard muffled voices from
the room I had just left.
oQuit the games everyone!� I wanted
to shout. I was anxious to see Sheldon
and for everyone else to leave. The
small man walked in. oLetTs talk,� he
said, patting my shoulder. oTell me
about yourself.� I forgot the minutes
I had spent waiting and watched his
steps toward the black leather chair
behind the desk.
63
Dear Robin: ITve survived half the summer in this
cross-roads town of produce markets and migrants,
pumping gas and cleaning windshields for Danny and
the boys. ItTs strange that the cucumber pickers are
called omigrants� and the buyers and brokers are
labeled Respectable; theyTre all migrants.
The station serves as the truckerTs lounge, since
it is the only one around that services trucks.
The drivers curse the long-haired bastards working
on the loading docks, while counting their crystals
for the long haul, and accuse the troopers of
harassment for citing them for doing 70 on the
Straight into town. Old man Hadley still complains
about the drunks in the streets, and his hardware
store still sells beer. | usually eat at the
greasy spoon out by the stop-light"DillyTs Grill"
yeah, thatTs it, where even the floor is greasy,
and there is a greasy complexioned waitress with her
support hose held tight by a quarter twisted into
the seam just above the knee. Janet keeps inviting
me over oafter the kids are asleep,� and | keep
working until midnight when Roy gets home from
the mill. She knows it is intentional. You wanted
me to leave grass alone, and | have. CanTt afford
it anymore. Old Sunnybrook is just two-fifty a
quart, though, and usually | only drink two a
week, not counting Saturday night. Sunday is the
only day we are closed, so | just sleep or lie
around, and listen to the voices drifting in from
next door that wonder why all the young folks
seem to be leaving town. Your parents still donTt
talk to me, and will be relieved when the fall
semester opens and | leave here. SO WILL I.
Enjoy Myrtle Beach. See you in September. Ray
Ray Harrell
SONG AND DANCE MAN
In the oldtime
when | was a child
| would walk down
the road to the filling station;
| remember
they had a machine
with a rooster inside,
and for the
low, low price of
onethindime
heTd dance and crow and flap
till feathers flew
and blood ran.
Now | call myself a man
and | feel just like that bird:
trapped, but eager
to perform
Doug White
65
VAGABOND
He walked away that night
Just left me
In the drug store parking lot
Gazing at the ice machine,
Green newsstand"paperless,
Glass, pop tops, crumbly pavement
| sat on the curb
Curled like a drunk and broke twigs
| broke twigs
Skinned the bark down to white fiber
And ground it into the sandpaper-like curb
| ground it back and forth
Up and down until
| made a sharp point
To shove around the fine sand grains in the asphalt.
Colleen Flynn
AUNT EMMA
Hump-backed, vulture-like, Emma prodded
the tip of her cane, down and out"
first her cane, then her foot,
then the other foot"
baggy stockings, old black shoes.
My scared little brother, thinking Emma
a man, stayed at Grandma NonieTs house
while | walked the path to the pecan tree, stopping
to let Emma catch up.
On the way we passed a fig tree. Emma fed me
the fruit, a flesh ITd never tasted"
then she backed against the pecan tree for the bark
to scratch her hump, squirming and itching like a bird preening"
Crouching over pecans, we cracked them open
with bricks. She picked hers out whole and took them
to her mouth with hooked fingers. She chewed
with hardened gums and few teeth and cringed at the taste
of bitter shell in her meat.
After our meal she perched in her rocker and puckered
her faded lips. The wrinkles in her forehead deepened.
Emma whistled shrill random notes and swayed, swayed
in her own uneven rhythm.
Allison Thompson
67
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The Last Indian
in the Whole Wide World
by Sheila Turnage
oYou've got to go.�
oWhy?�
oNo white man in his right mind
would pick up a fake Indian in a
breech cloth and a green velvet shirt,�T
the Texan told me.
I stared dejectedly at my Brogans.
He was right and I knew it. But I still
didnTt want to go. 3
I was hot"about 110 degrees worth.
ITd been trying to push a van up a 65
degree incline for three hours. I was
pissed off. I wanted to go swimming.
I sat in the shade and tried to be
logical. The van would not budge. We
needed a four wheel drive vehicle to
get it up the side of the wash; the near-
est four wheel drive vehicle was in
town, fourteen miles away. It was a six
mile walk to the highway. The Texan
and Mark were barefoot.
It looked like it was up to me and
the Indian.
I stared at the Indian with hate in
my heart.
Yara saw me looking at him. He re-
peated his last speech: oUgh. NeedTm
four wheel drive. Woman and Yara go
for help. White man no stop for Yara.
Stop for woman.�
He stood there with arms crossed
in front of his velveted chest. He rocked
back and forth on strong brown legs.
He was wearing hand-made leather san-
dals and a tan breech cloth. The Wyo-
ming sun highlighted his blond hair.
He blinked his green eyes at me.
oYara know short cut to highway,� he
promised, waving in a general wester-
ly direction.
Mark and the Texan looked at me
hopefully. I sighed and started to the
cave for a canteen.
Yara grabbed my arm. oNo needTm
canteen. Yara know plenty water on
way.�
Executing one of my worst moves
of the day, I followed him into the sun.
Without a canteen.
It turned out that Yara had forgot-
ten where water was. oWoman weak to
need water,T he told me.
I had plenty of time to think up
ways to kill him while I followed him
up and down mountains. I sucked
small, gritty, germ-ridden stones to
keep my mouth damp. An old Indian
trick.
I also had plenty of time to figure
out what had happened to the peaceful
existence I had been enjoying in the
not-too-distant past. Only that morn-
ing, as a matter of fact.
I wasnTt sure how I ended up living
in that cave. ITm still not. Something to
do with bikers and too much acid anda
man named Butterfly.
But it was nice as far aS caves go.
It was roomy; maybe 20 by 30 feet. It
was tall enough to stand up in. It had
good smoke ventilation.
It was formed tens of thousands of
years ago during a geological orgasm.
This particular upheaval left tre-
mendous slabs of sedimentary stones
propped up against, leaning against,
overlapping, holding onto each other.
I lived in one of these stone lean-tos
with a boy named Mark.
ITm not sure how long I lived there.
I had no sense of time passing, just of
69
light followed by dark followed by
light.
We spent the light periods swim-
ming in an ice cold stream that pooled
in front of our cave. We ate sunflower
seeds and berries, and peanut butter
and jelly sandwiches.
We talked about Philadelphia and
Geronimo.
We read fantasies. TolkienTs tril-
ogy. Frank HerbertTs Dune. We took
walks on sharp stone paths.
The same kind of stones that formed
our cave went all the way down to the
streamTs edge. We splashed water on
them to cool them off and used them
for pallets. We dozed away hours in the
sun.
Dark periods passed just as peace-
fully. We slept curled up in sleeping
bags spread on hard stone floors; or we
did until the night we heard a large an-
imal outside our cave entrance.
We didnTt have enough curiosity to
wait around and find out if the animal
was a former occupant. We moved into
the teepee up on the ridge.
The teepee, Mark told me, belonged
to a man named Yara. He said Yara
was one of the last true Indians in the
whole wide world.
The teepee looked authentic enough.
It was made from tanned animal hides
sewn together with something that
didnTt look like it could be bought at
Sears and Robuck.
The skins were supported by three
14 foot poles the last Indian in the whole
wide world had cut himself.
It was surprisingly warm inside if
we built a fire in the center of the dirt
floor where Yara had arranged smooth,
flat stones to make a hearth.
Mark told me how the three of us"
Mark, Yara, and me"could live there
for years, eating nuts and berries,
swimming and sunning.
He scoffed"gently, of course"at
the unenlightened masses who live in
cities, worrying about gas and school
zones and the God Almighty dollar.
oLook at us,� he told me. oClean air.
Plenty to eat. Happy. A beautiful home.
A perfect climate ...�T
I helped myself to some sunflower
seeds. oThis whole place will be under
three feet of snow in four months,� I
Said.
oBut Yara said...� He trailed off.
He rubbed the cut on his nose, the one
he got diving into some too-shallow
water that morning. He looked like I
had just hit him in the stomach with a
copy of Dune. oThree feet?�T
I nodded and studied my toenails. I
felt like a Judas.
oBut Yara said ...�� He wandered
out of the teepee.
It was several days before I met
Yara.
I didnTt hear him walk up to the
teepee. I opened my eyes one morning,
and there he was, standing in the door-
way, Staring at us.
He was tall; about 6T4�. He had
shoulder length blond, curly hair and
the greenest eyes ITve ever seen. He
was dressed in full Indian regalia.
Mark sat up beside me. oHi, Yara.�T
oUgh. Who white woman?T�T
I wiped the sleep out of my eyes
while Mark introduced us.
oUgh,� Yara re-iterated.
That pretty well summed up my
first impression of him, too, but I only
smiled. I was, after all, a guest in his
teepee.
Yara squatted on his haunches pro-
fessionally and started munching on
berries. oYaraTs friend say white man
have party on other side of valley. Big
party. Dance, music, food. Maybe a
thousand white brothers in all.
oYara walk twelve miles to party
and see.T He curled and flattened his
hand several times, presumably to in-
dicate that he would walk over moun-
tains to get there.
oReturn in morning with news for
Mark and woman.�
He disappeared through the tent
flap and started across the wash on
foot.
He returned the next day in the
front seat of an off-white Ford van with
Texas license plates. The Texan was at
the wheel. He had his Stetson pulled
down low over a sunburned face.
oUgh. Party looks good. Me take
um teepee to white manTs party. Live
there,T Yara explained.
His plan was deceptively simple:
load the teepee into the van and go.
The Texan backed the van as close to
the teepee as he could.
The loading went smoothly.
Then came the going part and we
hit a snag. The van would not go up
the 65 degree slope. No amount of
pushing, pulling, swearing, or praying
would convince it.
Yara made his fateful announce-
ment: oWoman and Yara go for help.�
I kicked at squatty skunk cabbages
as [ trailed behind my Indian scout.
After about an hour and a half, Yara
turned around and smiled at me.
oWoman: short cut. See? Yara know
short cut.� He pointed straight up the
side of a cliff.
He knew short cut, alright.
Short cut was a mountain-goat
trail. It went straight up and straight
down.
oWoman come with Yara.�
Woman went. She had no choice;
she was lost.
Woman had to hang on to trees to
keep from falling over cliffs. Some-
times woman had to drop ten or twelve
feet from two foot ledge to two foot
ledge with an 80 foot drop if she missed.
Woman was not pleased.
On they went. Up and down.
After hours of courting death, Yara
turned and beamed at woman. oHigh-
way Over next ridge. Come with Yara.�
Yara and woman dragged them-
selves up the next ridge. Sure enough,
there was the highway. There was also
a Sheer 150 foot cliff and a river be-
tween them and the ribbon of road.
Woman started to cry and say mean
things to Yara.
Yara sulked.
They finally back-tracked down the
ridge, wandered around until they found
a path, followed it to a bridge, crossed
the river, and trekked to the highway.
A kind-hearted soul driving a rat-
tle-trap pickup gave us a ride to a serv-
ice station in town. There was a four
wheel drive jeep at the gas pump.
The man who drove the jeep was
busy filling up a cooler with a case of
Budweisers.
Yara surveyed the situation with
his arms crossed in front of his chest.
Great style.
oUgh. Four wheel drive jeep.
Strong car. But driver fill box with fire-
water; may be crazy. Yara find other
help.�
I, however, was in no mood to look
for other help. I didnTt care if the guy
drank Buds or chocolate malts and te-
quila. I wanted to go home.
I was standing beside the driver be-
fore I realized I had no idea what to say
to him. There were lots of possibilities:
~Excuse me, sir. You donTt know me,
but I just followed a pseudo-Indian over
some mountain-goat trails and I would
like for you to take me home now.T
Or: ~Some friends of mine, in a fit of
stupidity, drove their van down a steep
incline and canTt get it back up. How
about a tow?T
Or: ~This is a small town and I know
thereTs not much to do on a Saturday
night. Would it be forward of me to in-
vite you to go out in the woods and
move a teepee to a party?T
71
72
Nothing seemed quite right. I just
stood there and watched him fill his
cooler.
Finally, he turned his head enough
to look at me out of the corner of his
eye.
oT know you,� he said.
oYouTre one of them damn fool hip-
pies thatTs been living in the caves down
on the flats. I seen you with my bi-noc-
ulars. Them caves are full of rattlers,
you know.�
I hadnTt known, but it seemed rea-
sonable enough.
oYep, thatTs state-owned land you
live on. Wild life reserve. ITm the rang-
er. My nameTs Dan.�
We shook hands and I[ told him my
name.
oHow old are you?� he asked.
eae:
o18? Well, little girl, I guess you
want me to pull those foolsT van out of
the wash. Just let me finish filling up
this cooler.�
He finished packing the styrofoam
box, mumbling under his breath. Some-
thing about 18 and parents and tanned
hides, and that not being the kind of
wild life the reserve was meant for.
Yara and Dan didnTt hit it off too
well. Yara had overheard Dan telling
me he was a park ranger. As soon as
Dan got the jeep pointed out of town,
Yara launched into an impassioned
pidgin English speech"something to
the effect that all land should belong to
the Indians.
Dan sipped his Bud thoughtfully.
oYep. I can see your point, blondie.�
I sat in the middle, a personified
buffer zone.
It was my job to pop tops for Dan;
he kept me busy. Dan told us about free-
dom, honor and patriotism.
oT fought a God damned World War
for this country. I killed Krauts; lots of
"em.
oWhy? So America could be taken
over by a bunch of hippies that think
theyTre Indians.
oIt makes me sick.�
Yara spent his time staring out the
window in haughty Indian silence and
glaring at me when I opened beers.
It was dark by the time we got back
to the van. The stars were strutting. The
wind shivered across the wash. Mark
and the Texan had built a fire.
Yara, in a fit of repentance, de-
manded to be allowed to hook the van
to the jeep.
oIndian get white man in mess, In-
dian get white man out.�
While Yara was trying to hook the
chain to the jeep with one hand and
keep his breech cloth in place with his
other, Dan surveyed the crew.
A sunburned, barefoot Texas wear-
ing a Stetson. One boy with a skinned
nose. A half naked honky masquerad-
ing as an Indian.
He called me over to the jeep. oYou
shouldn't have to live like this, little
girl.� He handed me a beer.
oT like it,� I told him.
Dan shook his head.
Yara finally squirmed out from
under the van, ughed at us, and indi-
cated that it was time to pull the van
up the side of the hill.
Dan and I climbed into the front of
the jeep. He started the engine and
banged the jeep into four wheel drive.
We took off, dragging part of the vanTs
engine behind us.
I heard a Texan yow! and turned
around in time to see a Stetson hit the
ground and two heads disappear be-
neath the front of the van. Both heads
came out swearing.
Dan backed up and put the jeep in
neutral. He stopped gunning the motor
long enough to find out what integral
part of the vanTs engine the Indian had
hooked the chain to.
oItTs the steering rod,� the Texan
Said.
~~Where is the bastard?TT Dan asked
me calmly.
I pointed at Yara, who was stand-
ing about 30 yards away, arms crossed
in front of him.
Dan threw the jeep in gear and
started after him. We lept over boulders.
We skidded around trees. Dan was ob-
livious to the tearing sounds coming
from beneath his jeep.
Yara would run a few yards, wheel
around, and throw his hand out in the
traditional Indian salute.
oHalt, white man.�
The headlights would zero in on
him, and he would lunge behind a tree
or rock as Dan smashed the accelerator
to the floor.
I loved it. Fuck this lying on rocks
and eating sunflower seeds. I'll take
mauling fake Indians over that any day.
Dan eventually tired of the chase
and we circled back to the TexanTs dead
van.
We drank beers and talked about
cars until one oTclock that morning.
Yara slunk up and down the hillside in
silence.
The Texan bemoaned the fact that
the steering rod, which looked, oddly
enough, like it had been dragged up and
down the side of a mountain, would cost
$120 to replace. He had $6.27.
Dan listened, guzzled beers, and
made nasty remarks about stupid hip-
pies. Then he got up, went to the jeep,
and started the engine.
oCome on, little girl. LetTs go buy a
rod for these stupid hippies.�T
No amount of talking could con-
vince him that there were no auto-parts
stores open at that hour of the morning.
~Sure there are. I know one on the by-
pass. Get in.�
I got in. So did Yara.
oIndian get white man in mess. In-
dian get white man out,� he explained
as he settled his blanket around his
shoulders.
Off we roared to an auto-parts store
that wasnTt open. There we were in Lan-
ders, Wyoming, on Saturday night. And
lo and behold, the only things open were
the bars.
The five bombed Indians in back
stared at us in disbelief as we filed up
to the bar.
~oWhatTll it be, little girl?�
oScotch and water.�
~oMake it a double, bartender. Injun,
what do you drink?�
oUgh. No drinkum firewater. Poi-
son.�
The IndiansT eyes widened. Then
they howled. They practiced their war
whoops. One danced on the table. oNo
drinkum firewater,� they yelled. They
laughed until tears ran down their fat
brown cheeks. They wiped their eyes
on permaprest shirt sleeves.
Yara sat on his bar stool, staring at
the bottle with stupid Indian stoicism.
The eight of us closed the bar. By
the time the bartender ran us out at 4,
the Indians were only able to mumble
~no drinkum firewater� and put their
heads on the table. Occasionally one
would focus in YaraTs direction and
snigger or give a feeble war cry.
Dan offered them a ride back to the
reservation. We all staggered out to the
jeep. All except Yara; he walked
straight as an arrow.
oT hate Indians,T Dan whispered.
oThey'll steal you blind.�
Then he shouted: oAlright, women
in the front and men in the back. ItTs
cold as a witchTs tit out here.�T
Dan and I both knew the Indians
came in a package of three males and
two females. I pretended not to notice
when three Indians climbed into the
front of the jeep.
Dan didnTt.
oAlright, one of you Goddamned
Injuns ainTt no lady,� he growled. oCan't
tell the savages apart,� he told me.
oThey all look alike, just like hippies.�T
The man in the front seat smiled at
Dan and whimpered in a falsetto: oWeTre
all ladies up here. LetTs go, big boy.�
Dan stood outside the jeep, fuming.
He still wasnTt sure which one was a
man. He calmly reached under the front
seat and pulled out a 357 Magnum.
~Here. This is ready to go. If any of
them make any trouble, shoot them.�
I stared at the pistol. The Indians
73
74
were dead quiet. I was scared shitless.
I tried to keep the gun pointed away
from the vital organs of everybody con-
cerned. I prayed it wouldnTt go off.
Dan was drunk.
We lurched out of town.
We ran into a ditch.
We hit a stop sign.
I kept the Magnum pointed straight
up at the canvas roof.
The Indians kept their heads low.
Yara sat in the back. He was sitting
oSitting Bull� style in the center of the
floor with his eyes closed.
Somehow, we all lived through the
15 mile drive to the reservation. The
Indians scrambled out of the jeep,
thanked us quickly and politely, and
darted out of range of the Magnum.
They managed to steal DanTs coat
and his small stash of beers. Also the
cooler.
Yara transferred his personage to
the front of the jeep and the Magnum
was restored to its sanctuary.
We rode in silence until Dan de-
cided to stop and owater the local flora.�
Yara and I listened to him careen
around the side of the jeep and bounce
off a fender.
Yara kissed me.
I didnTt mind; I was out collecting
experiences and I had never been
kissed by a fake Indian before.
He moved my head to his shoulder
and whispered in my ear: oWould it be
presumptuous of me to say that this
whole trip is absurd?� With a New Jer-
sey accent.
I started. New Jersey? A whole
sentence? A four syllable word?
Yara lowered his eyes in embar-
rassment. He had blown his image.
My eyes couldnTt help following
his. I focused on a breech cloth floating
about seven inches over his lap.
Why it was floating, I donTt know.
Maybe it was from being so close to
some real Indians. Maybe it was from
seeing a white woman hold a gun on
them. Maybe it was from sitting cross-
legged on the floor of a jostling jeep.
I'll never know, because I promptly
committed one of the two cardinal sins
a woman can commit with a man.
The two cardinal sins are pointing
and laughing.
I just laughed.
Not at the breech cloth in particu-
lar, not at what was under it. I just
laughed.
Yara never spoke to me again.
The sun was coming up when we
got back to the van.
Dan looked at the van, sighed, hic-
cupped, and reached into the glove
compartment for his checkbook. He
wrote the Texan a check for $120.
He looked at me and shook his
head. oLittle girl, you shouldnTt have to
live like this.� Then he made one of the
nicest propositions thatTs ever been
made in my direction: he offered to
adopt me.
I was dumbfounded. I could only
Shake my head.
He nodded at Yara, got in his jeep,
and roared off.
The rest of us moved to the white
manTs party the next morning.
The Texan spent DanTs $120 on pe-
yote; he never retrieved the van.
Yara conned some strong-backed
men into carrying his teepee 12 miles
to the party. It took them two days.
I left the party a couple of weeks
later in a blue Volkswagen headed for
Spokane.
Yara was on the highway hitch-
hiking in the opposite direction.
His legs were brown.
His curly blonde hair was pulled
back in a ponytail.
He was dressed in full Indian re-
galia and a pair of dark green Foster
Grants.
He held up his hand to oncoming
cars in the traditional Indian salute:
oHalt, white man.�
The cars whizzed by.
No white man in his right mind
would pick up a fake Indian in a breech
cloth and a green velvet shirt.
AT FORT DONNELSON
| walk along the trenches"strange lines
of battle so deeply drawn. Still
bleeding after a hundred years
beautified
landscaped
kept for tourists
Grassy ditches, graves uncovered, veins of
glory and defeat
A sign there tells of the battle
first major water-to-land victory
first loss for the Cause
men dying reduced to
Statistics
It is April
Dogwoods bloom along the edge of
woods overlooking the trenches
In February, the woods bleed
with pyracanthia berries
They say the dogwood blossom is a tiny
remembrance of the Crucifixion"
so these red berries count the drops of
blood spilled here
like an endless abacus
The berries are everywhere in February
Under the cannon
on the shore of the Cumberland"
a field of picnic tables
The earth rolls softly into water at
the point, where Kentucky and
Tennessee join
The guns above me are silent
The sign says
we could have held them off if
we had had three more
Karen Brock
75
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Jeff Robb
76
QUILT-MAKING
Decide on a name.
Go through hundreds
before the perfect pattern
is discovered.
Windmills, wedding-rings,
monkey-wrenches,
dutch dolls, dresden china,
JacobTs ladder, log cabins,
cathedral windows.
Cut the shapes
in your pattern carefully
from newspaper.
These will serve as guides.
Lay them aside and gather
yards of smooth cotton.
Arms full of sky-blue,
primroses, prairie grass,
violets, daiseys, and sunsets.
Pin the newspaper shapes
on the pure cotton.
Watch the thin surgical line
as you slice
through thready veins.
Breathless at the bite of scissors
and crunch of cotton.
Cutting and cutting
the shapes and colors.
Assemble the material pieces
like a puzzle.
Use small, strong stitches
that cement color and cover
raw edges.
Stitches that cramp
fingers and neck
and blur blues into brown
spots of needle blood.
Pierce the quilt back edges
with nails on a wooden frame,
cover with cushioning cotton filling.
Sew front and back
steadily together
in ever-widening fans
that ache and ache
until they meet.
Remove the frame and hem edges.
Take your labors
and wrap the warmth
around your body.
Rejoice in its perfection.
Hold it to your breast.
Touch its smoothness
with a tentative finger.
Love it before
it is taken from you.
Kim Murph
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FROM: Central Prison, Raleigh
Dear Theresa,
The walls canTt keep the freedom out. It seeps in through the grey windows like smoke
from the iron-works. But it is like oxygen. It steams in through the hissing hot radiators. It
is true freedom. ITve seen it come as an ashen moth, once, and also as early morning fog.
At night | think | hear it humming along the cold steel bars, quietly, quiet as the
ringing of moonlight on railroad tracks.
| have a friend here now. HeTs a pale, retarded boy with gold-framed glasses that
never stay up. He doesnTt speak much at all, only hums with his overly moist lips curled
into a tentative smile, as if he were a bird too pleased with his song to let anyone else hear
it.
At first | hated him, as if he were invested with my own weakness, but that was before
| understood freedom.
His sister comes to visit him often. | asked him where she had gotten the hideous
scars that marred her eyes and mouth. Smiling softly with his delicate bliss he said that
late one night, after his family had gone to sleep, he crept into his sister's room and had
tried to draw a beautiful design on her face with a razor blade, so it would stay there
forever.
When she visits they smile at each other with real love, and, somehow, her scars are
beautiful. To forgive is to go deeper into being free.
Stratum by stratum of freedom; Theresa, no longer do | dream of a body that ripples
like a brook of light. Your bucking body, subtle, glimmering like moonlight misted into
arms and thighs. No longer do my dreams caress your back that rolled when we made
love like a pale wave wanting me like the sand.
No longer, for pain is healthier than illusion. My horrible brothers smell. They rut like
drunken lions. Their sex is old and brutal, useless as jagged metal. They have beards like
pumice. They break their rank carnivorous breath into the plaintive ear. The steel bars
grow, extend toward the stars, penetrate into the depths of the heart, ripping through
blood-torn sheaths like a lion invading the entrails of his kill. Their love is the love of the
hawk for the rabbit, the love of the lightning for the tree. Their freedom flares in sparks of
semen. Hatred is their transcendence.
But, oh, not mine. Theresa, | want to be brave, to rise from hatred like fire
disembodied of its flame, to see, to forgive, and somehow even to love. | want to know
freedom beyond my understanding, something like peace.
Yours,
Jeff Rollins
Peter E. Podeszwa 79
80
WRITERS
SUE AYDELETTE is twenty-one
years old. SheTs sure of that.
KAREN BROCK is a sophomore
from Jacksonville, majoring in
English with a concentration in
writing. She has previously pub-
lished poetry in Fountainhead.
TERRY DAVIS teaches in the writing
program at ECU. Vision Quest, his
first novel, will be published by
Bantam Books this spring.
JOSEPH DUDASIK, infamous for
barstool blues and comedy at the
Rathskeller, has published publicly
in Tar River Poets, read at St.
Andrews, ACC, and heaven help
him, Richmond Tech. A _ frothy
watercolorist, he has had various
one-man and group shows. Toshow
his faith in the system, he got busted
in 1969.
COLLEEN FLYNN is a sophomore
from Edenton, majoring in Educa-
tion. She plans to teach math during
the school year and have summers
free to travel and write. This is her
publication. debut.
DAVID GERRARD is a Chapel Hill-
Raleigh residence hybrid who writes
poetry and compiles pig data.
ROBERT GLOVER is a senior
double-majoring in English and
Philosophy. He edited the 1977
issue of The Rebel, and won one of
two fiction awards from Rebel 76.
RAY HARRELL has a oconfused
past and a dubious future.� Heis an
English major from Wayne County.
This is his publication debut.
GENE HOLLAR is a graduate stu-
dent who teaches in the English de-
partment. This is his second appear-_
ance in The Rebel.
RICHARD HUDSON is a native of
Tarboro. He graduated in 1976 from
St. Andrews College with a degree
in Literature, and is currently atECU
seeking his MasterTs in Rehabilita-
tion. He has previously published in
Aspects and St. Andrews Review.
ROBERT JONES has published
poetry in This End Up. His one
regret is that he will never get to play
center for the New York Nicks.
REGINA KEAR is a grad student
who has lived in England and
Ethiopia. A soinetimes member of
the Poetry Forum, she has read at
the Roxy Theater and published in
various little magazines.
PETER MAKUCK has published
poetry and short stories in several
national magazines. An active
member of the Poetry Forum, he
teaches in the writing program at
ECU.
S. PHILLIP MILES breathes poetry.
He presently makes his home in
Fayetteville, where he is ofrequently
filthy or drunk.� This is his third
appearance in The Rebel.
KIM MURPH is a Special Education
major. Disregarding a Halloween
poem printed ten years ago in the
Long Elementary School paper, this
is her publication debut.
DONNA PADGETT is a graduate
student and instructor inthe English
department. Having given up on
ogetting ahead� in public relations,
she is pursuing an ascetic life, which
includes writing.
JO ELLEN RIVENBARK is a junior
from Wallace majoring in English
with a concentration in writing. This
is her publication debut.
JEFF ROLLINS is a senior English
major from Hickory. In the past four
years he has maintained a member-
ship in the ECU Poetry Forum, ed-
ited Rebel 76, appeared as featured
poet in Jar River Poets, and recently
served as assistant Trends editor of
Fountainhead. This is his fourth
appearance in The Rebel.
KIM SHIPLEY is from Michigan and
has a fondness for asparagus with
Hollandaise sauce. He is afreshman
drama major who has previously
published poetry in eyrie.
MARY C. SNOTHERLY is a member
of the North Carolina Poetry So-
ciety. She works for Eastern Airlines
in Raleigh.
ALLISON THOMPSON has shed
her vulture wings to fly to Hawaii in
different form. She expresses
special thanks to Luke for helping
her through the ink blots.
SHEILA TURNAGE is a senior from
Farmville who likes blue, warmth,
listening to music, and getting
drunk, onot necessarily in that
order.� Her long range plan is to
avoid starvation as painlessly as
possible.
LUKE WHISNANT has finally rea-
lized that what he thinks he is doing
here is not what he thinks he is
doing. His poetry has appeared in
various North Carolina magazines.
DOUG WHITE claims to write ofrom
the depths of despair.� He is a
sophomore History major from New
Bern, currently working as co-news
editor of Fountainhead. This is his
publication debut.
TIM WRIGHT is a junior at ECU,
majoring in English. This is his
publication debut.
ARTISTS
CLAY ANDREWS is a transfer stu-
dent from N. C. State. Heis currently
pursuing a BFA in Communications
Art with a minor in metals.
T. E. AUSTIN holds a BA and an MA
in Geography from ECU and is cur-
rently teaching in the division of
Continuing Education. He has been
taking photographs for 21 years.
BILL BASS is a senior BFA painting
major. His greatest loves are art
from the heart and soul, classical
music (Obscure Russian compos-
ers), and Bergman films. Bill would
like to pursue a professional studio
Career in the New York area.
JEANNE BRADY is afirst yeargrad- .
uate student with a BFA in print-
making. Her work communicates
the humorous and satirical aspects
of the human figure. This is her first
appearance in The Rebel.
SCOTT BRANDT is a twenty-one
year old Communications Art major
from Atlantic. After graduation he
Plans to pursue a Career in graphic
design and become fantastically
wealthy.
BILL BROCKMAN is a junior Com-
munications Art major/printmaking
minor from Greensboro. This is his
first appearance in The Rebel.
VICKIE CHAMPION won oBest in
Show� in the Third Annual Rebel!
Art Show for her mixed media piece,
oThe Hungry Wait.� She is a grad-
uate student with a BFA in painting.
This is her first appearance in The
Rebel.
FRED CHENEY is a senior Commu-
nications Art major with a minor in
Printmaking. He hopes in the future
to be able to explore surf and photo-
graph remote coastlines. This is
his second appearance in The
Rebel.
ROBERT DUNNING is currently a
junior BFA-BS candidate who hard-
ly ever painted as a child. Dunning
aspires to further his education
while preserving a vigorous interest
in anthropological research.
DAN EARLY is a sophomore Com-
munications Art major from Scot-
land Neck. He hopes to minor in
painting. This is his firstappearance
in The Rebel.
ANTHONY T. EDER holds a BFA in
painting and is currently a graduate
student in art at ECU. He plans to
graduate within the next year. This
is his first appearance in The Rebel.
JEFF FLEMING is a senior double-
majoring in painting and art history
"and he still uses crayons.
BRENT FUNDERBURK is a former
butterfly. He hopes to receive his
MFA this spring. Brent has done
freelance work for Tarheel, Era
Press, and various government
agencies, and is currently illustrat-
ing a ChildrenTs book.
TOM HAINES received his BA in
Marketing from Gannon College. He
is a BFA candidate in Art at ECU. His
main interest is his wife. He is cur-
rently president of the Attic.
TERRI HOLTZCLAW holds a BFAin
painting and is currently working on
her MFA in textiles. This is her
second appearance in The Rebel.
KIRK KINGSBURY is a transfer stu-
dent at ECU with an AssociateTs De-
gree in Commercial Art and Pho-
tography. Kirk has worked as a staff
photographer for the Photo Lab for
the last two years, and he has re-
cently been accepted at the Roches-
ter Institute of Technology where he
will receive his BFA in Photographic
lllustration.
DAVID McDOWELL received his BA
from Pembroke and his AA from
Southeastern Community College.
He is currently teaching in the Art
department and seeking an MFA in
printmaking. This is his second ap-
pearance in The Rebel.
ED MIDGETT is a senior printmak-
ing major who plans to graduate
next semester. This is his third ap-
pearance in The Rebel.
JOHN MORRIS graduated from
ASU in 1974 and is now enrolled at
ECU as a graduate student in paint-
ing with a minor in drawing. This is
his second appearance in The
Rebel.
DAVID A. NORRIS is a junior from
Charlotte who hopes to major in
printmaking, minor in drawing, draw
a successful syndicated comic strip
and write run-on sentences.
PETER E. PODESZWA is a junior
Communications Art major and cur-
rently serves as head photographer
for the Photo Lab. This is his second
appearance in The Rebel.
JOHN QUINN is a overy unpreten-
tious person.� He is an MFA candi-
date in sculpture who draws in his
spare time.
ROXANNE REEP won first place
mixed media in the Third Annual
Rebel Art Show. Her biography is
found on the inside front cover.
JEFF ROBB is a senior transfer stu-
dent. He holds an Associate's De-
gree in Communications Art. This is
his first appearance in The Rebel.
JOHN WALTERS is a Senior major-
ing in sculpture with a minor in
drawing and an interest in print-
making.
