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a *
OF EAST CAROLINA UNIVERSITY
PVOLUME 28
THE LITERARY-ART MAGAZINE
A Note From The Editor
A s with any publication, it is important for the reader to
understand what the publication is about and what it is trying to
accomplish. Many times the Rebel staff is asked, ~~What is the
Rebel?�T On the surface, it would seem that the magazine is simply a
literary and art publication which is born from a small cluttered
office, no larger than a closet, containing two retired typewriters,
broken-down furniture, hundreds of previous issues, and the staff's
only source of sanity " a telephone.
But, in reality the Rebe/ is much more than just a literary and art
magazine. The publication houses color, energy, excitement, drama,
and life. The Rebel is the creative talents of East Carolina University
students. The magazine acts as an outlet for the creative energies of
the students and gives opportunity to behave professionally in an
amateur environment.
The Rebel is composed of two parts: a literary element and a
visual art element. The literary element of the magazine contains
literature which reflects the individual tastes of the writers. This
issue houses literature which will feed your intellect, warm your
heart, or rekindle an experience once forgotten.
Within the visual art element of the Rebel lies The Gallery. This
section is more than just colored pages. The Gallery acts as a
showcase to display the attitudes, beliefs, and the enviroment of the
contemporary student artist.
We believe that writers and artists are an essencial aspect in
society. We feel that the Rebel allows the students of East Carolina
University to intergrade and conform within our world easily. We are
often reminded of a quotation from the late Edith Hamilton: oGreat
literature, past or present, is the expression of great knowledge of
the human heart, great art is the expression of a solution of the
conflict between the demands of the world without and that within.�
Timothy D. Thornburg
Rebel T86 Editor
Cover
Cover designed for the
Rebel by Scott Eagle
Martha Petty Letter To A Friend
WE Mii ee
-_" a
oS i UL j
i 4 i ui ee gg
Sie :
Tim Thornburg Linda Sizemore
Editor Art Director
he Rebel T86 Literary and Art Contest is designed to
ar give the students of East Carolina University an
opportunity to display their talents on a competitive
basis. All entries are judged by selected members of
faculty at ECU who use their knowledge and expertise in
determining the winner of each category. A 1st place
award for literature and $100.00 went to Sarah Duncan for
oYes, Drawn But Not Quartered,T�T a $75.00 prize went to
Jeffery Scott Jones for ~o~Two Bits A Bottle,TT and third
place with $50.00 went to E. Reinhold for oDisplay.TT The
lst place award for art in each category had a prize of
$20.00. The 1st prize award in Sculpture went to Robbie
Barber for ~~Blue Grass;TT the 1st place award in Ceramics
went to Agyeman Dua for ~~Untitled;� the 1st place award
in Design went to Leah Force for o35 Cents " Exact
Change,� the 1st place award in Printmaking went to Ellen
Moore for ~~Trust Your Car to the Man With the Star;T� the
lst place award in painting went to Fred Gallaway for
oAfter the Storm;TT the 1st place award in Illustration went
to Jeff Hoppa for ~~Amnesia;� the 1st place award in
Photography went to CCE Walker for ~~Untitled #1;� the
lst place award in Drawing went to William Leidenthal for
~Geologic Time #36;� the 1st place award is Mixed Media
went to Kara Hammond for ~~And in it is Enshrined;TT and
the Best-in-Show award and $125.00 went to Scott Eagle
for ~~Sitting Duck.TT There were six Honorable Mentions in
art: Robbie Barber in Sculpture for ~~Pogo Rock,TT Laura
Wilcox in Printmaking for ~~Kiss the Dark,T Melissa
Yarbrough in Painting for oSummer Blossoms,TT Joseph
Champagne in Photography for ~~Untitled,TT Martha Petty in
Drawing for ~~Untitled,TT and Mary Hatch in Mixed Media
for ~Untitled #1.�
The Rebel staff would like to thank those individuals
who helped in the production of the magazine: Mr. John
Satterfield, Mr. Michael Voors, Mrs. Marilyn Gordley, and
Mr. Ray Elmroe for judging the Rebe/ T86 Art Contest; Dr.
Theodore Ellis and Mr. William Hallberg for judging the
Walt Rishel
Poetry Editor
Dale Swanson
Asst. Editor
Kit Kimberly
Prose Editor
Rebel T86 Literary Contest; Ms. Julie Skinner and Mrs.
Kathy Fisher for their financial advice; Mrs. Yvonne Moye
who painstakingly withstood the use of her secretarial
skills; the radio station WZMB for its continuous
advertisement of the Rebe/ T86 Literary and Art Contest;
the Art and Camera Gallery for allowing the use of its
facilities; JostenTs American Yearbooks and Mr. Fred
Pulley for their patience and help during production, the
students to East Carolina University for their interests and
contributions; the Media Board for its advice; the artists
who lent their creative talents for illustrations; Mr. Joseph
Champagne for his outstanding photography; Mr. Walt
Rishel, Poetry Editor, for his concern; and Miss Linda
Sizemore, Art Director, who unselfishly gave of her time
and talent to help make this issue possible.
The Rebel would like to extend its graditude to the
university community who provided financial assistance
where it was needed during publication: the Art and
Camera Shop, JefferyTs Beer and Wine, and Mr. Tom
Haines of The Attic Rock and Roll Club for his years of
devotion to the Rebel.
he Rebel is published for and by the students of East
Carolina University. Offices are located in the
Publications Center on the campus of ECU. This
issue, Volume 28, Number 1, and its contents are
copyrighted 1986 by the Rebel. All rights revert back to
the individual writers and artists upon publication.
Contents may not be reproduced by any means, nor may
any part be stored in any information retrieval system
without the written permission of the author or artist.
The Rebel staff invites all students, faculty members,
and alumni to voice their opinions and/or to make
contributions. Inquires should be addressed to the Rebel,
Mendenhall Student Center, East Carolina University,
Greenville, North Carolina 27834.
A special thanks goes to the artists who provided illustrations: David Cherry, Todd Coats, Scott Eagle,
Betsy Easterly, Laura Fulton, Mary Hatch, Neil Kopping, David Poythress, Juan Scivally, and Walter
Stanford.
» fi?
Art
Letter To A Friend
Untitled
Untitled
Untitled
Untitled
Untitled
Trust Your Gar To ihe
Man With The Star
Geologic Time #36
Walking In The Light
Untitled
Kiss In the Dark
Mark V
Sitting Duck
And In It Is Enshrined
Untitled
35 Cents " Exact Change
Pogo Rock
Tribute To An American Buzz
Untitled
Untitled
Untitled
Lit Table
Untitled
Untitled
Symbolism
The Minimalists Nightmare
Summer Blossoms
Untitled
Untitled
Armillary Sphere
Untitled
Vermillion Tree
Amnesia
Light
Untitled
Lights Of America
Corridors Of Time
Untitled
Untitled
Martha Petty
CCE Walker
Richard Barnes
Laura Fulton
Erin Malone
Laura Fulton
Ellen Moore
William Leidenthal
Fred Galloway
Linda Sizemore
Laura Wilcox
Laura Wilcox
Scott Eagle
Kara Hammond
Agyeman Dua
Leah Force
Robbie Barber
David Hall
Hayes Henderson
Mary Hatch
Martha Petty
Charles Fadel
Elizabeth Raab
Leah Force
Susan Fecho
Merieh-Charles
Pilkey
Melissa Yarbrough
Joseph Champagne
CCE Walker
David Hall
Richard Barnes
William Leidenthal
Jeff Hoppa
Linda Sizemore
Richard Barnes
Chaileart
Kohskariha
Martha Petty
Mary Hatch
Richard Barnes
NOOUDLA "
""
el
41
Untitled
Untitled
Untitled
Untitled
Untitled
Untitled
Time
Untitled
Blue Grass
After The Storm
Literature
You, Brooke
Fireball
Weymouth Woods
Too Tan For January
Second Thoughts
Broken Glass
Silver Spoon
Changing Names
Right Back In My Diaper
is it too late?
Of Sorts
Storms
Water Color Still Life
Letter Review Of Peter MakuckTs
Where We Live With Epigraphs
From The Poetry Of Wallace
Stevens
Hungarian Goulash For
American Chauvinism
Corrupting Kids In Amiens
i/m not. your cat-anymore
A Run Through WhatTs Left
Of A Tarheel Life
Display
Heading Home
Two Bits A Bottle
Uncle ErnestTs Funeral
Yes, Drawn But Not Quartered
Erin Malone
Erin Malone
Richard Barnes
Linda Sizemore
Laura Fulton
Richard Barnes
Erin Malone
Hayes Henderson
Robbie Barber
Fred Galloway
Tim Giles
Marty Silverthorne
Tim Giles
Grigg Thomas
Denton
Martha Harris
Resa Rodger
Elaine Whitman
Martha Cherry
Hal J. Daniel III
Walt Rishel
Frank W. Rabey
Marty Silverthorne
Thomas Stroud
Dr. Norman
Rosenfeld
Edward Taylor
Edward Taylor
wendy lea blomquist
Sam Silvia
E. Reinhold
Jeffery Scott Jones
Jeffery Scott Jones
Crystal Fray
Sarah Duncan
63
64
64
65
fal
81
84
85
86
87
CO O)
Jl
14
18
19
Zl
26
28
29
a2
a2
ea
an
a
OSS Cage
Se Cae
4
psa peti
Untitled
CCE Walker
Richard Barnes Untitled
You, Brooke
From a poster tacked
Upon the bulletin board,
You regally survey us,
your subjects caught by chance.
Cigarettes jut
from your ears and nostrils.
You bear us a decree:
Only Stupid People Smoke Cigarettes.
Give us a break, Brooke!
Remember where you are.
We're the sick, lame,
afflicted, beaten, and deformed,
the ones who rely on county clinics
for our health.
But no.
You glare at us with the same look
I've seen on many faces
when I've tried to explain
my unemployment; when she dropped
me off here an hour ago,
her eyes as blue as yours
lashed me with the same message:
Deon 1 Fuck Tis One Up, Too.
Sitting in rows with hands
upon knees, hands as swollen
and brittle as peanut shells,
these folks are expert waiters:
WaitinT on a table,
WaitinT on The Man
(HidinT from The Man),
WaitinT on The Check.
Excuse me, Brooke.
| think I'll go outside
and burn one.
Tim Giles
eee
SS
Ss
SRE
a
~~ ~~ .
RC SS
Ce
5
loga Coats
Fireball
You were that fireball
Headed
Downhill like a snowball
Fleeing the penetrating sun
But the crest of the hill
Broke you
| stand a fractured man
Marty Silverthorne
Weymouth Woods
Strangling oaks snake
after smoky sunlit rays
filtered by this pine
savannah. Prarie grass
splinters needle-soaked
soil where whithered limbs
lie scatteded among pine cones
fat as turkeys. A pungent
whiff drifts past my nose.
The sandy path gleams.
| rise and follow.
Tim Giles
Laura Fulton
S
SSN
Laura Fulton
10
TOO TAN
FOR
JANUARY
Grigg Thomas Denton
yawn and scratch my new beard. After a sleepless
night, I find myself in a beat-up beige Duster with four
ex-preps winding our way around curves and up and
down hills. We are going, too fast for me, to Louisburg,
N.C. Dan, the driver and most experienced of the group,
takes a bite of Egg McMuffin and says, ~o~Nervous yet
Denton?� | do not answer. My stomach growls. | try to
take in the scenery as we whiz by; it occurs to me that |
have been a fool not to appreciate just how beautiful the
world really is. The guys are talking about the drugs they
tried in prep school, but I do not follow the conversation.
Instead I clench my knuckles until they are white.
oRelax, Denton,TT someone jibes from the front seat.
~We've got great sun. The cloud factor is nil. ItTs a
beautiful day to lose your virginity.TT The fellows howl. |
am not amused.
The place, not at all what I expect, pops out of the
middle of nowhere just around a curve. Nothing betrays it
except for a flagpole and a one story garage over to the
left. Three football fields of shrubless lawn indicate that
something happens here, but one not in the know could
not guess. In just two hous, this piece of rural Franklin
County will fill with oexperts� and o~virginsTT who, with
hoots, howls, and the camraderie of family plan to take
turns aiming at the big orange ~~X�T placed in the middle of
the grassy area.
I clench my fists intermittently because today | will be
one of them, and we will be aiming ourselves at the
orange ~~X.TT We will do so from three thousand feet up.
Today | am making my first parachute jump.
The regulars arrive by the carload, parking wrecklessly
at angles. In a moment, they pile out jubilantly to greet
each other. Trunks spring open, and soon ~~chutesTT cover
the area. People untangle the lines and check the
harnessess. Everyone sports a tan; in fact, they seem
almost too tan for January. They look like boyscouts
making camp, but they sound as serious as doctors
discussing a case:
~~HowTd you get these lines so tangled, John? If you'd
do it tight...
~~Mike needs a patch on the backside. Scissors?�T
oI! ordered new toggles for you, Susan, but they were
backordered.�
n outsider feels that he is invading the rituals of a
A secret fraternity, yet the exhileration is contagious.
Just moments ago, the place seemed lifeless, but
now color and voices are everywhere. Steve hoists a
bright orange, red and green windsock up the flagpole; the
wise guys salute. Chris rushes over to the garage and rolls
up the doors. Two females run over to help; together they
wheel out the phosphorescant orange ~~X�T and the huge
orange phosphorescent arrow.
~We've got a virgin today,TT says the guy next to me.
~Any idea who it is?TT | assure him | have no idea and
shrug indifferently. He knows a beginner is present
because the arrow is used to help a newcomer tell which
way the wind is blowing. (In order to land near the *~X,�T
the chutists used toggles, or guidestrings, to keep a slit in
the chute either in the wind or out of the wind. If the wind
is blowing in the slit, it pushes the chute forward. If not,
the chute floats straight down.)
~Whoever he is, I hope he uses the line,TT volunteers
another. (This device pulls the chute open seconds after
the jumper lets go of the plane, in case hs is nervous and
forgets.)
oThe last virgin who didnTt use the line Mae-Wested all
over the place,TT states the guy next to me, his face
skyward. (A Mae-West occurs when one line gets tangled
over the chute, causing it to look like two large breasts; a
Mae-West also doubles the speed of fall.) ~ooThat poor guy
broke both legs.TT | decide to stand someplace else.
he rainbow chutes disappear into the harnesses; the
more eager aimiable help each other slip into bright
jumpsuits, turning the area into an outdoor dressing
room.
oCan you help me,T coos Carla, who is very tan for
January. oMy zipper is stuck.�T
~People donTt know, they just donTt know, thatTs all,�T
effuses a fat man with a cigar that I can overhear.
oPeople have been married in the air. They ve been
divorced in the air. TheyTve jumped nude for Chrissake.
People just donTt know what a great sport this is. Trying
to hit that oXTT is better than sex.�
oCan you help me get my hair under my helmet?TT asks
Carla, as though she agrees.
The huge expanse of brown January lawn is dotted now
with unisex creatures suited and helmeted in mauve,
scarlet, evergreen, and gray; one jumper even sports hot
pink with a lightning bolt across the front. They check
with each other, borrowing goggles, inquiring about the
wind, discussing the order of the jumps.
~| wonTt jump with Susan,� jeers Mark. ~o~SheTs screwed
up our formation the last five times.�
oTell him | wonTt jump with him either,T
T
retorts Susan,
~o~and he can just forget about dinner tonight.�T
Across the field, parallel to the garage but behind the
orange arrow, the olawn chair crowd� arrives with coolers
and binoculars to watch. Most look like retirees in search
of color to liven up the graying years.
~I come here every Saturday,� volunteers one. o~ItTs just
amazing what the young people are up to. ItTs like itTs
raining people.�
~People just donTt Know what a great sport
this 1s. 1iying to ait that ~ is Weller than
)Y
SeX.
uddenly a roar goes up from the hanger; everyone
S applauds. The dragon is awake and about to come
out of the cave. To me, this is a very small plane
that rools halfway out, pauses as though to gauge the
weather, then jostles out, its propeller pointing first one
way, then another, until it rests on what appears to be a
very lumpy, unpaved runway. In fact, itTs so small |
instantaneously forget what | learned in jump school. |
explain to Dan, who is gracious enough to lend me his old
jumpsuit, that since | am going to jump today, and | am,
perhaps heTd like to remind me how itTs done.
oItTs simple,T he explains. o~You get in the plane. The
jumpmaster gets you to three thousand feet; the plane
circles the jumpsite three times. He hooks your line into
the plane and gives you three orders. When he yells ~Get
ready!T you get in the door. When he yells ~Get out!T you
crawl out onto the wing. When he yells ~Go!T you push
yourself off. Then you count ~One thousand, two
thousand, three thousandT and pull the ripcord. Remember
to pretend you are doing a bellyflop to increase your air
resestence. Look for the arrow. Keep the slit lined up with
the arrow and you'll have no problem.� Then he runs over
to the hanger window to pay the four dollars for the jump.
Soon, he and four others crawl inside the plane.
n a moment, the plane rattles down the runway and
| disappears into the azure sky. Immediately, binoculars
appear and almost every head cranes skyward. Like
looking for a gnat in summer, finding the planes makes
my eyes squint and burn. | can hear the plane, but | canTt
see it. Suddenly someone exclaims, ~~ThereTs the first
one!T and then | see the jumpers. At first they look ike a
row of dots to be connected; then, one by one, splashes of
color explode against the blue. All five jumpers land
simultaneously. (Experts can do that.) They land standing
very near the ~~X.TT Immediately they race around to the
left to their chutes before the chutes catch a groundwind
and drag the jumpers helplessly along. (Nothing is more
6
embarrasing to an expert than catching a groundwind after
a good landing, not even landing in a tree or breaking a
bone. Any of those things could happen to me in fifteen
minutes.) My time is not running out. It is fleeing. My
adrenaline surges. ITm next.
an, self-assured, ambles over and teases, ~~See
1) Denton, nothing to it. Let me help you into your
harness,TT | notice Dan moves us closer and closer to
the plane as we talk. oITve already paid your four dollars.
All you have to do now is do it. This is Rick, your
jumpmaster.�T
We stand by the plane now and Rick points at me and
says, ~You're first out of the plane.�T Virgins always go
first; it gives them less time to back out. Regulars say it
is a matter of etiquette, like offering a guest the master
bedroom. | now clench and grit my teeth.
A thuttering roar goes up from the engines. Five of us
stand there and Rick lines us up. He barks a procedures
recap over the roar and then we crawl into the plane. No
windows. Just gray metal. Not enough room. Elbows and
knees, a gray metal hook overheard. The plane taxis.
Bumpy. Shut the door. DoesnTt this thing have a door?
This damn thing doesnTt have a door! We're off the
ground. Evergreens in the front windows. This man is
driving us straight into a forest! WeTre going to die! Then
up, we surge up, spiraling now, the plane tilting and the
bodies lurching. A roller coaster. WeTre on a roller
coaster! Hold on tight. We're tilting the other way.
Everyone will lunge toward the door! Nothing to hold
onto. Oh, Jesus, donTt fall out that door. ThatTs good.
Look out the door. Squares of green and brown
everywhere. Higher and higher. Steady now. ThatTs the
earth, stupid. Those are bare fields and trees. The roar of
the props. The wind. Cold gray metal under your hands.
Steady.
~ooWeTre at three thousand!�T shouts the pilot.
oFirst circle!T shouts the jumpmaster. Heart pounding,
pounding, pounding. Think! Think! Think!
oSecond circle!TT shouts the jumpmaster.
oThird circle!TT shouts the jumpmaster. ~~Get ready!�T
down, donTt think about where you are. Just do it.
Do it! A clink. HeTs hooked my line.
~Get out!TT shouts the jumpmaster.
DonTt look. Feels like the freeway in a convertible. Nice
wind. Put that foot out. There! Hold onto that wing, hold
onto it! DonTt you dare let go too soon. Close your eyes!
Dangle the foot!
©) ff your knees. Into the door. Hold on. DonTt look
G OOOCCGOCSOS
Kk KE EK K K K K K
hen nothing. Instantly the roar of the engine stops. |
ar am arching belly first, swan-diving to earth. |
remember the ripcord, and | hear what sounds like
ruffling feathers and a gentle whoof. A force pulls me
upright as though an invisible hand has caught me. The
reality of what has happened dawns on me; my heart
pounds, my face flushes, | gasp with relief. | am alone,
completely alone without even the earth. | know I am
falling but I donTt feel like I am falling. | am floating. Blue
surrounds me. Below me, a sea of browns and greens
turns ever so slowly. I am floating and I wish I could float
forever like this: no noise, no people, just air and me.
But in what seems like no time, | can hear voices
shouting. I look down. | cannot discern the people they
are too small. | can see, however, that I will land on an
airplane.. | am coming down right on top of it. | have
forgotten to use the toggles, to look for the arrow; indeed,
I have forgotten to even think about wind. as a result, the
~~X�T is now behind me, and | must either get in the wind
or ruin what appears to be a perfectly good biplane. | pull
the toggle and feel myself moving from the site. | forget ©
for a minute that this is a sport, that I have to control my
movement. | look down. | am over a bare winter forest. A
spirograph-like spiderweb of limbs turns slowly beneath
my feet. Hearing more shouting, | realize that | am getting
close and must get in the wind to avoid landing in a tree.
I pull the toggle and feel the wind catch the chute.
Meanwhile, my feet brush the top of a tree at the edge
of the woods. The wind carries me into an open field just
beyond the forest. | yank the other toggle and float down.
The impact stings my legs, but | manage to stand. |
reach up, my fingers wide and outstretched | look
skyward. Hugging myself, | laugh. I race around to the left
of and stand by the chute until | am sure there is no
groundwind. Coiling the wires around my right arm, |
begin to gather the chute. I hear voices. A group of
regulars runs to meet me.
~Hey, Denton!T shouts Dan. ~~ThatTs some of the best
daredevil parachuting ITve ever seen! What a show!�T
They shake my hand. They pat me on the back. |
beam.
oThe crowd loved that with the plane. It looked like
you'd land right on it. And the tree was close. Man, that
was Close!�T
~Believe me, Dan,T | said, amazed.
These clowns think I did it on purpose.
oIt was nothing,� | said. ~There was really nothing to
it.T By the day s end, | will have a crick im my neck and
my face will be sunburned. With only one jump under my
belt, | will already be too tan for January. R)
13
SECOND THOUGHTS
Second thoughts
SiNk drips
into dishes
undone
at dusky darkness
Refrigerator hums
A moth
attacks my
kitchen door
and oldie goldies
in my head " parade;
sad verses ...
until tangible nightfall
dispels them
Leaves are silouettes
OU) Clee
only a
siecdow
wrestling ...
My thoughts like
dish suds
going
down
the
drain.
Martha Harris
cs
O
5
a3
7
S
=
Se
Erin Malone
16
Laura Fulton
~7
Betsy Easterly
18
Broken Glass
No
that glass is broken now
Spilling precious drops
over tiny shards
Iridescent
winking teeth
whose gleam may fool you
into greadily reaching out
and snatching them up
leaving only the sting
Resa Roager
Silver Spoon
With a pink, plastic sooon
| ate ice cream and listened to Mother
Sniff through her tears.
She couldnTt believe her baby
Daughter was sixteen
And maybe pregnant.
| waited with Mother
And her tears
For doctorTs call to see if a baby
Was inside this 16-
year old. Pregnant,
Bloated like a soup spoon.
| was too dazed for tears
And thought of my own baby.
I'd tell her (on her 46th
birthday) about being pregnant
And buying a baby spoon
That | hid from Mother.
| wanted my baby
To be a girl who'd later learn about 16-
year olds sometime get pregnant
And buy silver sooons
IN anticipating of mother-
hood and no more tears.
sixteen
Was no age to be pregnant
(I'd been spoon-
fed too long)! Mother
screamed through her first tears.
A baby having a baby!
Pregnant "
An ugly word. No silver sooons
or mother-
hood in that word. Just tears.
| was ohaving a baby.� Bul ono baby �"�
was the message at 4:16.
Later, as | lay in sooon-
position with him, | thought of no mother-
hood, no baby, no pregnant 16-year old. Only tears.
Elaine Whitman
19
David Poythress
20
ae oes
St Cota
CHANGING NAMES
Martha Cherry
hatTs your name anyway? I| like the sound of
\W certain names said aloud, and I'd preserve them, if
I could, in classic domain. Names flash by in my
mind and | roll them freely off my tongue: Debrav Dunkly
" what a funky name. He was in my history class last
semester. Rocky Stockett " built thick as a brick. He
played small-time football at Fort Union Military Academy.
Belton Noseworthy " he did have a big nose. My cousin
had a tremendous crush on him in the seventh grade.
Cynthia Smoot " sheTs a newscaster on Channel 10.
Jesse Carpenter " a street bum, World War Il hero. |
heard about him on the 6 oTclock news " how he froze to
death on a park bench across the street from the White
House after surrendering his blanket to a wheelchaired
friend who needed warmth. I'd like to write a eulogy for
dead heroes. ArenTt they all dead? So I'll let my words run
free for thee, Jesse, or whatever your name is.
ItTs a cold Saturday morning, 8:00 a.m. to be exact, in
January and | wake to the unsympathetic buzzing of my
Westclox alarm. My hand gropes and kills the nauseating
buzz. | know I have a lot to do, but why did I have to set
that blasted alarm? I try to convince myself I wonTt feel so
tired if | get up. I donTt buy it and reset the alarm for
9:00. But, as | bury myself under my psychadelic flowered
bed-blanket my Aunt Chasie (pronounced Shaw-see) gave
me for my birthday, ITm nagged by my superego saying |
have much to do.
By rolling to the extreme edge of the bed and stretching
my left arm as far as possible | manage to turn on the
radio. The music of Bruce Springsteen breaks through the
dimness of the cold room. | prop myself up on a pillow
and play my air-sax as Bruce, a.k.a. the Boss, sings that
familiar story in a down home, raspy voice. However, get
this, when the song is over and the d.j. gives his babbling
speel, | think this canTt be real, because this is what he
says: oThat was new music from the Beaver Brown Band
called ~Tender YearsT, a tune that should be finding a spot
at the top of the charts this week. ItTs hot.�T
Wait a minute here, I thought that was Bruce, the
Bossman, singing. | could have sworn the voice was his.
But really the only difference is in the name. What a
cheap bad copy cat cashing in on the sound of a legend is
this Beaver Brown Band. Anyway, ITm awake now.
My reflection radars back at me from the dark T.V.
screen as | sit up on the rock-hard bed. | look ugly at 8:25
on a Saturday morning, but doesnTt everyone? Classic
Creedance Clearwater Revival floats from the radio:
oGolden dreams of yesterday ...TT I canTt sit here and
listen to songs all my life long. ITve gotta get up.
So, I get up and fix a breakfast of instant oatmeal,
Swiss Miss cocoa, and juicy pink grapefruit from Florida.
The hot oatmeal warms my stomach and ITm full and
happy not thinking of the starving children in Ethiopia.
Upon finishing the last swallow of cocoa I wait for a song
to come on that I donTt like, then I go down the hall to
the communal bathroom, half-skipping on tiptoes because
the floor tiles are like ice on my naked feet.
Returning, I find the news is on the radio. | hate
listening to the news " itTs too real and depressing. | am
half-listening though, when, just as ITm about to change
the station, I'm struck, my attention caught by something
that matters.
he newsman on the radio mentions West Germany.
I'm thinking to myself, ~Remember what matters so
you can write it down.TT Because, though West
Germany may not matter to you, it does to me. Terry is
stationed there. Oh, you donTt know Terry either, but
maybe you have a friend like him " someone you can
say anything to without feeling like you're being dumb,
silly, or wrong.
The newscaster is talking about Pershing IITs. Well,
thatTs nothing new. Hold on, heTs saying something about
an accident. | wonder why we always mess up with our
helicopter crashes and pilots piloting to death. Nothing
ever changes except the names of the dead. Yes, he says
three soldiers are dead so matter-of-factly, like it doesnTt
matter. To me it matters because Terry is staioned there,
somewhere near Weisbaden.
le story of our friendship, but just enough so maybe
you can feel the objective correlative: TerryTs a 19
year old soldier whoTs like a brother to me. We met our
senior year at Lafayette High. Terrance C. Perdrisat (of
Swiss-French origin) came back to our high school after a
year away at a French boarding school. He was chided
because he seemed different, a foreigner, and was called
names like ~FrenchyT and ~Terry FairyT. Disregarding any
hostility of name calling, Terry broke from the
conventional crowd and | found him to be a fearless and
fun individual. Carefree and boundless, weTd go
freewheelinT in a beaten up T55 Dodge Valient (TerryTs
pride and joy) till it finally went dead and TerryTs dad sold
it to the junk-yard for thirty bucks. But thatTs another
story ITve already written about.
Anyway, Terry went into the Army and | went to
college after high school. We see each other sparingly, but
probably wonTt meet again Ttil his stint in Germany is up.
We write though, and tell each other our whims and paper
dreams of getting together. Like when | tell Mom | want to
go see Terry in Germany. Fat chance for that. She thinks
et me tell you a little about Terry, not the whole life
Puy
I'll get blown up by a terrorist bomb over there. If Mom
ever knew how Terry and I made our dreams happen in
the past sheTd understand my urgent persistance.
Urgently persistant " thatTs how I feel hearing this
news correspondent reporting from Weisbaden, West
Germany. According to this factual explanation there was
a mild malfunction during a routine training mission or
field exercise or whatever. Anyhow, itTs nothing big or
nuclear. The engine exploded. There is nothing serious
Three dead, three dead the
newsman so matter-of factly said.
Terry S there,
about it except the loss of American lives. Three soldiers
are dead. Three dead, three dead the newsman so matter-
of-factly said. TerryTs there. WhoTs dead? I havenTt seen
Terry for eight months. The names, mister newsman, give
me the names. Who are the dead or dying? But they
never reveal the names.
The newsmen keep the names locked in closets so we
won't feel so bad, so it wonTt matter, or so those closest
to the deceased won't find out by accident, but should be
told in the proper manner by an old, wise man in a drab,
spotless suit of black. When he comes to the door, he
takes off his hat, and thatTs that. Such false formality. So
those news reporters, thinking theyTre merely stating the
facts, take such pride in their informative words, when
they're actually leaving out the most important part, what
really matters. The name and identity of the dead are kept
anonymously, ritualistically secret.
he radio spits and crackles and | hiss back at it. |
mash down the small rectangular button atop the
news-sputtering box and the newsman is gone. If
only I hadnTt set that dumb alarm clock. Then | might
never have thought of Terry P. being over there with
those Pershing IlTs that blew. | would have never known.
But I must know the names. So what if the missiles
weren't fully loaded and it was a come-with-the-territory
kind of mishap. Three men are dead. Young men? Brave
men? Happy men? Stupid men? Who are they and why do
they die unknown or unrecognized? Why does it matter?
Because of Terry? Not just him, it could be anyone and
you probably wonTt care, but | wish you would.
I grab my faded Levi's from the floor where ITd left
them the night before. Hopping on one foot, | manage to
dance my way into one pant leg. Then | sit on the edge of
the bed and slide the other leg in. | pull on my lavender
E.C.d. sweatshirt, disregarding the spaghetti sauce stain
that blots out the C. Nobody | know is going to see me. |
force my feet into my Etonic running shoes without
untying the laces. | pick up one glove from beside the
bowl with the empty grapefruit shell in it. | search for itTs
partner which has somehow crawled underneath the desk.
On the way to the door | snatch my tattered hat which
matches the gloves.
As I wait for the elevator, I pace in front of the mirror
which is appropriately located so you can make a last
minute self-inspection before confronting the outside world.
I push the elevator button for the fourth time as if each
push will give the machine a little extra burst of energy
on which it will hurry itself to the fifth floor. There is a
howling wind in the elevator shaft. I hear it as I wait,
repeating to myself over and over, ~~There are thousands
of soldiers in Weisbaden.TT Reassurance is so false.
The dull metal door finally thuds open and | scuffle into
the square box that smells of cigarettes and beer. 4, 3, 2,
1. | watch the circles impatiently as they light up
signalling the systematic descent.
I finally reach ground level, the door slides back, and |
leave the elevator. | push open the dorm-front glass door
and the winter wind whistles its greeting. | praise myself
for remembering my hat and gloves (Grandma can rest
easy that I won't catch cold).
Once outside I look through the dirty plastic-glass of the
army-green metal newspaper box to see if todays Daily
Reflector is there yet. The newspaper machine that
swallows quarters and opens its wide mouth to stick out a
black and white tongue that spouts the dayTs fate is of no
use this day. The paper in the little window has
yesterdayTs date. The stories probably arenTt much
different, but the names are. News is full of changing
names.
erry is over there in Germany where death is
deployed. Three dead. Three is usually such a nice
number. ITve always liked threes. Father, Son, and
Holy Ghost and all. My best friend in fourth grade, Susan,
her favorite number was three. My favorite was lucky
seven. | hope you're that lucky, Terry.
I begin to walk, not really knowing where " a
paratactical walk. As I walk, | notice all the details,
thinking real life could very well be a story full of pieces
of glory. The sun shines bright and clear, casting shadows
from signs of bars like Pantana BobTs on the red brick
building of the East Carolina School of Bartending as |
journey downtown. Shattered glass crunches under my
foot and I look down at the gritty gray asphalt. The base
of a wine or sherry glass, with its unbroken stem curving
beautifully, gleaming as a ray of sunlight shoots through
its circular core, catches my eye. How fragile parts can
remain intact amidst the crushing blows of an oblivious
world is beyond me. Metal cans canTt withstand the
pounding pressure, but become flattened slabs of
abandoned names " Budweiser, in patriotic red, white
and blue, or the bright red of an aluminum Coca-Cola.
Walking along | ponder. ITm TerryTs friend, so close to
him that I feel him screaming to me from across the
ocean. Dead or alive, heTs there and here too, in my heart,
or in my soul, as | go along uptown at 9:00 on a Saturday
morning in January, 1985. Do I know why?
ItTs too early so everything is closed and peaceful. ITm
me in this little city, going nowhere and somewhere. You'll
see. | see no news-stand nearby from which to buy my
newspaper, but perhaps ITm just avoiding the issue, not
ee
wanting to see, really, or know where I'll end up. This is
quite nonsequitur of me, donTt you think?
I'm in the shopping district now, passing by the bus
stop where the lingering diesel fumes lift me to a
momentary high. | love the smell of fuel. | could probably
be a very happy gas station attendant, a dying trade these
days with all the do-it-yourself gas pumps.
| turn the corner to the right and a wind gust hits me
head on. My nose is cold and I have to breath through my
mouth to get enough air. Conscious of my own life,
I scan the black-printed lines
quickly, urgently skimming
sentence after sentence of
unfeeling certainty. The facts are
guite clear, but where are the
names?
breath, and pounding heartbeat, | feel so alive as |
encounter my first human inhabitants of the day.
Two street cleaners, one an old black man, the other a
young white boy, sweep the smooth red brick of the
outdoor mall. The bristles swish the pavement
methodically sweeping away dirty trash, bottle caps,
cigarette butts and metalic gum wrappers. Suddenly, the
young boy drops his broom it slaps the cold brick with a
whack. He looks sad, disillusioned, as he stands staring
blankly, seemingly unable to find the energy to pick up
the fallen broom. Does he believe it is a futile fight to try
to sweep all the dirt away? Where does all the swept trash
go anyway?
The black man sweeps diligently, never once looking up
from the ground. | donTt know if either the boy in his
stillness, or the man in his busyness, see me. | leave the
sidewalk sweepers to their duties thinking how much I'd
like to be a street cleaner. To physically and forcefully
brush all the crud away. In my mind the filth stays.
I go on toward the river. The Tar River isnTt far and it
seems to call me, conjuring up memories. | think of a
river of another name. ItTs the mighty James, full of crap
and kepone. That never mattered to Terry and me. As the
squelchy summer days approached, Terry and I would
skip school and cruise fast in his 55 Dodge to the river
" our hideaway. With my portable Sears tape player
turned up two notches too loud, weTd play Bob Marley
tunes as we sunned ourselves on the 5 by 20 foot strip of
sand we called ~~the beachTT. Then, as the tide lapped up,
swallowing the beach, weTd wade into the cool water and
splash each other Ttil we were both drenched with the
dirty brown water. It would feel so good, just splashing
and then swimming farther and farther from the shore Ttil
we couldnTt go anymore. Then, weTd just float and drift on
our backs.
ack to the story at hand. | follow the sidewalk,
B rouding the corner to the right, into the cold shadow
of Blount and HenryTs department store. Across the
street and through a parking lot I spot a Fast Fare sign. |
will find the news I seek there. TheyTre always the first to
get the dayTs newspaper. No doubt, youTve probably
forgotten ITm trying to find out the names of the three
dead soldiers who were burned to black by a
malfunctioning Pershing II. Or did | even tell you?
Anyway, | head for the Fast Fare. We donTt have Fast
FareTs back home where Terry and | are from. At home
we have 7-11Ts " a different name for the same place.
The nearest 7-11 at home is a mile and four tenths from
my house. | measured it once so ITd know exactly how far
I was going when | jogged there and back. That used to
be quite a routine for me " to run to the 7-11 and pick
up a quart of milk for Mom and the morning paper. Then
I'd trudge back home as fast as I could with the Daily
Press tucked under one arm and the brown paper bag
with the Embassy milk in it clenched in the other hand.
hat 7-11 was another favorite hang-out spot for Terry
ar and me, (second only to the river). We'd hang out
there shooting the bull with Leroy, the cashier,
reading the rock-star magazines, or playing Ms. Pacman
til we ran out of quarters or Ttil Terry got mad and
pounded the machine so hard that the screen would go
wild with grid designs. WeTd leave shouting to Leroy, ~Ms.
PacmanTs broke again!TT When I went home last winter our
7-11 was closed for good, boarded shut with tan, knotted
plywood. I almost cried when | saw it and | wondered if
Leroy was out of work. ItTs totally disgusting that they're
going to turn our second favorite hang-out spot into a
laundry mat. Well, thatTs that. The 7-11 is past. Now Im
on my way to the Fast Fare.
Looking down as | walk now because my face is so
cold, | kick a mangled straw away from a Burger King
cup. The twisted plastic worm skids and scratches across
the parking lot. | wonder how the straw got so bent and
misshapen and how a Burger King cup managed to get
transported to a Fast Fare parking lot. ItTs terrible how
people litter these days. ThereTs entirely too much trash.
As | enter the Fast Fare a cow bell clangs, announcing
my entrance. The stack of newspapers sits to the
immediate right of the door and | grab the top paper. The
news | seek is on the front page " ~Pershing II Burns,
Kills 3 Soldiers.TT | scan the black-printed lines quickly,
urgently skimming sentence after sentence of unfeeling
certainty. The facts are quite clear, but where are the
names? I need to know the names. Way down the page it
merely states, ~~the identities of the victims were withheld
pending notification of their families.�� Of course, | should
have known itTs too early to know the names. It does say
however, that President Reagan gives his condolences.
Next to the Pershing II article is a picture of the
President himself. He and the first lady are struggling to
get their squirming Siberian Husky into the Marine One
helicopter to accompany them on their vacation to Camp
David. Underneath the photo the caption reads, ~o~Lucky
Strikes Again.TT Yeah, they tell the dogTs name with such
23
importance.
I buy the paper anyway. A small 6-inch black and white
T.V. on the counter displays super-hero cartoons as the
cashier awaits my payment for the paper.
~Anything else?TT the handsome cashier says as | plop
the paper on the counter.
~ooNo,�T | say, wondering what his name is. ItTs certainly
not Leroy. This guy is white and clean-shaven. Why is he
working at a Fast Fare?
On my way out of the store | notice a Super Pacman
machine nestled cozily in the back left hand corner. | am
drawn to the machine by its electricity. | havenTt played in
months. I though ITd outgrown playing games, but I'll play
just one for Terry. The game, boxed in a tall, rectangular
cubicle, with a screen in the sunken compartment,
beckons me with its booping sounds and blinking lights. |
search my pockets for a quarter, but ITm all out of
quarters and ask the nice looking cashier to break a dollar
for me. | can tell heTs thinking what a waste of money
as he hands me the
pennies.
oI know, itTs a bad habit.�T | shake my head and walk
away knowing ITm not a kid anymore.
I've decided I must go. My next stop is for the river.
Even if the name is not the same " even if itTs the Tar
instead of the James " itTs probably just as dirty. So,
maybe it doesnTt make a difference what the name is after
all. This river is just as murky and muddy, but is banked
by concrete rather than sand and runs a little farther
south.
A fire hydrant painted to look ike a funny little man
seems to smirk at me as | pass by following the narrow
asphalt path to the river. Perhaps Mr. Hydrant has a
name, or someone was trying to give him one by painting
a face. The grass bordering the path dying from green to
brown, but not so brown as the river.
he river moves fast, flowing like it is blowing. I stand
here leaning on the paint-chipping, rusted rail. Lovers
names are engraved into
the metal forever. Leo loves
four quarters.
drop one of the silver
| rounds into the slot on
the side of the machine
and press the bright red
start button. | wonder if
there is a bright red button
like this to fire one of
those Pershing II's.
When I push the button the
(and Friends?)
As I struggled vainly to keep him
alive, he becomes trapped in
corners and dead end alleys. He
dies like memories, Army men,
Tracy. Barbara and Allen
Forever. WhoTs Leo?
Where's Tracy now? Is
Barbara still around? Did
Allen marry his
sweetheart? | wonder about
engraved names. CanTt
they change to be you or
me? Remember, the names
must be changed to protect
machine sings a happy tune
and dancing cartoon pictures appear on the screen. The
little yellow munching dot speeds across the screen,
chasing the smiling blue ghosts.
| try hard to control the little yellow Pacman, make him
go, turn, whirl, pursue, but he runs away, scared. The
game is no longer smooth and fluid. The little yellow dot
on the screen is too vulnerable. As I struggle vainly to
keep him alive he becomes trapped in corners and dead-
end alleys. He dies like memories, army men, (and
friends?). ITve lost the sharpness and mental quickness,
become lax, bending and blurring with the rest of the
world. Do little things matter, like names and video
games?
| turn to go picking up the News and Observer from its
resting place atop the bubble gum machines. Beside the
little chewy balls of gum there are multi-colored rubber
super balls trapped inside the glass container. Oh, how I'd
like one, so I could bounce it high as the sky. Mommy,
give me a dime so I can get one of those balls out of the
machine. Sorry kid, your mom is gone. | twist the silver
handle, hoping a super ball might accidentally pop out,
but it doesnTt. ITm out of dimes and time. ThatTs Ok |
donTt want gum or super balls from machines anyway.
Instead | buy some Bazooka bubble gum, the kind that
cost a penny when I was five. The little squares of pink
chewy goo, wrapped in the Bazooka Joe comics, now cost
a nickle. The obnoxious cashier (ITve come to the
conclusion heTs obnoxious through his unnerving tidiness)
says, ~Bad for your teeth,TT when I pay him with five
the innocent, or the guilty.
| watch the river for a while, composing poetry in my
head. The river moves too fast and I canTt hold my
memories intact. | thought it was a fact that a memory-
picture stands still if you make it. I canTt hold the river
still. The river is moving, and so must I. | must move on.
If | stand still with my memories the river will carry me
away like dead, drifting wood or trash. It will take hold of
my heart, seize my mind, make me think with yearning
that | can recapture lost time. Remembering is perhaps
too sentimental. But, what the bell. ItTs a lot more than
that. ItTs me " me and Terry and God (what a number is
three) by the river. The river was " or is " our dream.
That river we always find our way back to, through
changing seasons for various reasons. Present merges to
the past, then back to the present in the end.
The river looked so different each time we went back. |
was almost fooled into believing it was someplace else "
but it wasnTt, or isnTt. Once, in the winter, the river was
frozen solid and Terry and | were drunk on Saki and
Chinese beer. WeTd been to Mr. LouTs Chinese Restaurant
where Terry used to work. Well, we whizzed on the river
shore like never before and | would have sworn it wasnTt
the same river we'd gone to in the sunny warm of Spring
- or in the summer months when the river beach was
crowded with beauty-bathers, family picnicers, and motor
boats.
Then again, on a dark, starry night around Christmas
time, Terry and | stood side by side, gazing at the vast
immenceness of the river, and | thought it must be an
24
ocean. oNo one here by that name.�T
~But you must be mistaken.�T |
~No, sorry, no one by that name here,T she says all too
quickly and automatic-like. I explain to her that this is the
happen, but it doesnTt. So, | go back to my home new phone number that Terry " Private Perdrisat " sent
away from home. me in his last letter. | should have known better than to
When I get back to the dorm room itTs about 10:00. ItTs call 4000 miles. This clean-speaking lady suggests | try
afternoon in Germany. I figure I'd like to talk to Terry, so the old number.
ll call him up.
ut, | am here now, standing silently, all alone by the
River Tar, far from home. | wait for something to
:
|
|
This is doing me no good and ITm wasting my money
The operator connects me with Weisbaden. A distant talking to a complete stranger. The last bill was thirteen
purring signals the ring of the phone. A woman answers. dollars for eleven minutes and | canTt afford extravagant
~Hello, may | help you?TT Her voice comes in so clear, expenses. I ask the operator how I go about getting my
like sheTs calling from next door and I think this really money back for this mixed-up phone call. But I know I'll
can't be Germany, so many miles away. | ask for Private have to pay it anyway so | hang up after an abrupt
second-class Terry Pedrisat and she says, goodbye. | won't call again. ITm tired of paratactical
oWho?� I spell out the name slowly, P-e-r-d-r-i-s-a-t. But journeying. | guess I'll just wait for TerryTs next letter to
she says, find out if heTs alright. RI
=S ene
So
Neil Kopping
25
Right Back In My Diaper
I'm standing in my diaper
again in the thunder feet
purple fingernails silver
lightning cracks and pops
the telephone poles and
transformers electrocuted.
squirrels fry and sizzle
before the rain puts them
Our Tity 1@ jum Our Shit
in my diaper | scoot like
a cat with worms as teen
girls chew gum and try to
think about blow jobs even
though they can't do it
yet Garrett drives a Bigg
Wheel into the side of my
house over and over and
over | laugh at him while
he turns into a dalmation
driving a fire engine with
a rotating snorkel the sky
turns orange as woodcocks
fly by my head coming at me
like cross eyed bullets my
knees grow scabs my toes
are prunes my fingers jerk
my eyes become crystals
freeze
Hal J. Daniel Ill
ee
=
2)
B
is it too late?
Staring all around
inside you.
| see through your eyes
myself.
| see the dreams and shelters
I've constructed around me ...
and itTs so wrong
| never know what | want.
Never!
| know not what | feel.
yes | donTt.
| wish the sun would go away!
The past holds so much for me ...
Say!
Can you hear me?
You're all so far away.
so far.
| know not what | feel.
ls it too late to be real?
is it too late?
to be what | want?
Will | find enough? ...
Walt Rishel
Of Sorts
Numbers scare me: Ugly, confining, and
confusing, misrepresentations of
what they claim. They are like the grains of sand
that fall and tell of time. What love " no love
ever hears of time, as time is only
numbers. Life is not so simple, so neat.
I'll be damned if ITm some added, lonely
figment of some twisted mind on a street
somewhere getting random samples to add
together, get some total, make some graph,
plot me: The middle of the latest fad,
so he can go home to relax and laugh,
take a walk at dusk by a brook that sings,
thinking of love, of all numberless things.
Frank W. Rabey
Ellen Moore Trust Your Car To The Man With The Star
Hi
William Leidenthal Geologic Time #36
34
STORMS
Mockingbirds sing in a silver maple tree
the corn dances in the wind
When the heavens burst
The rain pounds the earth
And the lightning converts us again.
Marty L. Silverthorne
WATER COLOR STILL LIFE
At last the rain began unpainting the Earth,
Washing out all the greens and yellows and lavenders and such
as it fell.
Everything that once had color was slowly turned a whitish-grey,
sort of like the shade on the bellies of dead fish.
And all the greens and yellows and lavenders and such
simply ran out of the land and collected in small filmy puddles,
and waited for the sun to come take them silently away.
Thomas Stroud
32
Walter Stanford
mm a RET EEC DEI SEA ALI
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Paws
Linda Sizemore
36
Untitled
&
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Kiss In The Dark
Laura Wilcox
o7
Wilcox
SSAA
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Scott Eagle Sitting Duck
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Seah
Kara Hammond
40
Agyeman Dua Untitled
Robbie Barber
Pogo Rock
David Hall
42
Tribute
To An American Buzz
|
|
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{
Hayes Henderson
Mary Hatch
oWe can forgive a man for making a
useful thing as long as he does not aa-
mire if. The only excuse for making a
useless thing is that one aamires it in-
tensely. o
" Oscar Wilde
Untitled
43
46
Charles Fadel
Elizabeth Raab
Lit Table
Untitled
Leah Force
~To evoke in oneself a feeling one has
once experienced and having evoked
it in oneself then by means of move-
ments, lines, colors, sounds, or forms
expressed in words, so to transmit that
feeling that others experience the
same feeling " this is the activity of
4/4
OM.
Lae
Le
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Susan Fecho
Symbolism
" leo Tolstoy
Merieh-Charles Pilkey
47
Melissa Yarbrough
48
Summer Blossoms
49
4
» 2
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sit
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de eas
i aS
Joe Champagne Untitled
50
CCE Walker
Hy
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Lai
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Untitled
54
cones
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David Hall
52
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Armillary Sphere
Untitled
Richard Barnes
53
Wiis = ~~-. : | Vermilion Tree
Jeff Hoppa
Amnesia
Richard Barnes
"As long as man... is merely a passive
recipient of the world of sense, i.e., does
no more than feel, he is still completely
One with the world; and just because he is
himself nothing but world, there exists for
him as yet no world. Only when, at the
esthetic stage, he puts it outside himself,
or contemplates it, does his personality
differentiate itself from it, and a world be-
comes manifest to him because he has
ceased to be One with it.�
" Friearich Schiller
Chaileart Kohskariha
Gh PRG
Martha Petty Corridors of Time
58
[oe
Mary Hatch Untitled
59
Letter Review of Peter MakuckTs
WHERE WE LIVE
With Epigraphs from the Poetry
of Wallace Stevens
Dr. Norman Rosenfeld
Il.
And out of what one sees and hears and out
Of what one feels, who could have thought to
make
So many selves, so many sensuous worlds,
As if the air, the mid-day air, was swarming
With the metaphysical changes that occur.
Merely by living as and where we live.
~ooEsthetique du Mal�
Dear ~o~Christmas at North Mountain,�T
Of all the selves and/or worlds that are Where We Live,
you are my sentimental favorite. It must be the loose-
jointed intensity with which you become that place "
trying to see it in StaffordTs ~~dear detail by ideal lightT? "
so that along with your name the inverted commonplace
echoes a plea from itself for alpha-Christmas:
Just north of Phoenix
A desert place that wants us
To see it:
And then the images resourcefully sketched, a plenum of
magi and such in terrain of austere grandeur:
Ten royal palms,
Ten growing shadows,
Tumbleweed, rocks
And pale verde.
And the overlook peak
With saguaro staggered
Up the slope
As in my favorite western "
The part where nothing happens.
ItTs good to be free, the layed-back irony perhaps hints, of
commercial myth (Christmas minus X-max equals
westerns minus shootouts, say). In any event, thereTs just
the right kind of feast for a visita like this:
We enjoy it with devilled eggs
And chicken,
Scallions, black olives, and wine.
And one good toy for all, aerial in the American grain:
We toss a football
With Mexican kids
Until the shirt-sleeve air
Turns cold the moment
The overlook peak turns red
With afterglow.
In the twilight of a casual pilgrimage,the narrator, yourself
in meditation, ponders that into which the families blend
in departure " world rewarding with transmutations of
being, of nothings as well as the things " nativityTs
ground, eternal in the changes that occur, merely by living
as and where we live:
The rocks keep us warm for awhile,
Then the Mexicans leave " their tail-lights
The last warm color.
Now we are gone,
Roling south under the magi stars,
Our bones, pits and crumbs
Already in animal mouths,
Our voices fading from
The tables, palms
And stones.
60
Far out, ~Christmas at North Mountain,TT for the way
you are from ordinariness to immanence, and so for the
silences you bring, within and around; for your candor,
Shaker-like simplicity and utter lack of pretention; for you
avoidance of hieratic props, your irreverent-reverence,
unamazing " amazing grade so quietly voiced and let be.
Amid so much media rant and decrible frenzy too few will
hear your hummed offering. But it is not meant for the
many, I Know, although it would want to include them in
shirt-sleeve communion with the beckoning mountain.
It.
From this the poem springs: that we live in a
place
That is not our Own and, much more net
ourselves
And hard it is in spite of blazoned days.
~Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction�T
Dear ~o~The Commons,�
Between the world you symbolize and the self that
speaks within it there could never be commerce. Caught
in a double bind at alienation and need for expression, of
divorce yet fateful linkage, that self, beyond all capacity
of reptillian dozers or cranes to cancel it, envisoned a
metamorphosis permanetly etched in time:
They are changing its look.
A bulldozer pierces its skin,
Noses in a red depression
And mows down trees at the edge.
A crane comes up
With jawfuls of earth, the stump
And dangling roots of an oak "
An image of Saturn
Fisting his half-eaten child.
A rust wind blows at dusk
From the diggings, dirt sifting
Back. There is nothing to help.
In our daydreams
Or the flickerings of deep sleep,
The Commons will never change:
The bell is clanging,
We gather in the sun,
The rifles are about to speak
May 4, 1970
Kent State University
Narrator, no less through cadence than imagery and an
inexorable march of recognitions have you fulfilled a
poetTs obligation " to know your world and imagine it
well. The gouging actions of the Saturnian machinery at
working lunch; the resignation figured in the curtaining
dust and wind: the final epiphany, so ironically inscribed
as a COMmmencement Ceremony
manqueT " poetry of each powerfully gestural symbolism
is not easily erased.
With sorrow rather than rancor (as one imbued with the
soul of a Mike Hamer, witness for peace) you could not
forget the massacre of those protesting massacre, as
though corrective landscape surgery could cover up a
national infamy. The anonymous o~theyTT I believe you
intuited as a cause bureaucratically decentered, a source
of evil piecemeal and banal. Therefore you held a course
outside of diatribe: you became cinematographer (stop-
frame, montage) of a place that is not our own, not our
best selves. Yet as you tell, it is one place where we live
" in the never never land within us where the rifles are
poised to speak what they had once spoken forever.
II.
After the final no there comes a yes
And on that yes the future world depends.
No was the night. Yes is this present sun.
oThe Well Dressed Man with a Beard�
Dear ~~Deliverance,�T
Showtime. LetTs get on with it.
The overheard mirror holds us in its convex stars.
Now I nearly belong to this monstrous family.
Green rubbery arms and legs, my head bulged "
A last mintue fear of the hydrocephalic ITm
helping
You squeeze out. You pant. | root for the bright
blood
Like a fan. You grunt and cry out and sweat
In the stirrups, the mirror gaze that keeps me
From running off drunk with my buddies. And
now
You crush my wrist, give me pain like a gift
I've needed, wanted, ready at last to be born.
Transparent, naked, you are a gutsy person. You are
O.K. It isnTt easy to evoke pathos and comedy at the
same time " the Chaplinesque, high art of the clown
" but you manage it. Nor any easier to achieve an
alchemy of the real/surreal " the art of a Kafka,
magical realism in fact " but you do. That you buffet
about an Oedipal theme, intentionally or not, within this
breathless mix is a crazy bonus. But if none of all this
were so, | would still have to bow to the triune
suffering, lonliness and victory of birth as it sounds
within you, and how your beautifully synchronous turn,
with its powerful image of touch, absorbs and absolves
all previous visual phantasmagoria and inscape
absurdity.
In the end, the feminine principle is your appeal. Her
present to you is a son, a yes on which your future
world depends, where you will live.
IV.
There wee ghosts that returned to earth to hear
his phone
64
There were those that returned to hear him read
from
the poem of life,
Of the pans above the stove, the pots on the
table, the
tulips amoung them.
They were those that would have wept to step
barefoot
into reality.
~Large Red Man Reading�T
~Reality is the beginning, not the end.�
~An Ordinary Evening in New HavenT�T
Dear W.W.L.,
Made up of so many more than those to whom I have
written, you are a gathering of selves, of poetic worlds in
search of a hearing. Well, more than a listener, | have
moved by you as by a friend.
A good book of poems is partly a human being in
another, more permanent form " flawed like the first yet
gifted in speech, intense in desire according to the
discipline of art. As Stevens romantically insists and as
you reveal, its substance in our time should be a natural
thing, of the substance of the poem of life,/of the pans
above the stove,/the pots on the table,/ the tulips
amoung them.� Nothing need be trivial to the imagination
of our time; for the imagination knows that reality is the
beginning, not the end. It is, W.W.L., what you know, as |
have found.
Hopeless, here, to engage any more of you. It would i
please me, sometime, to send other letters " to the
sonorous and lonely ~~DziadekTT; to the paradoxically
comforting yet dispairing ~~Letter PoemTT; and to the 4
polymorphous-perversely (sublime?) sexual (Kundalini?)
martial tennis poem, ~~Players.�T
For now, in neglect of so much that I find in you that is
empowered, as William S puts it, to repal, to rescue, to
complete,TT let me underscore your passion for accuracy
of perception, the scrupulous craftsmanship with which
you explore the uses of memory or probe the value of an
experience. | should have spent more time on these
matters in the letters.
Enough to say that I have walked in your mid-day air
and breathed some of whatever you breathed for good or
ill " and felt some metaphysical changes swarming there.
Yrs wuly,
NR.
P.S. Peter Makuck is a Professor of English at East
Carolina University. In addition to Where We Live, BOA
Editions (Brockport, N.Y.). 1982, his book of short stories,
Breaking and Entering, is available in the book store. RJ
Richard Barnes
62
Erin Malone
63
Ly
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Malone
Erin
hard Barnes
Ri
64
Linda Sizemore
Ww)
~Oo
Hungarian Goulash For American Chauvinism
One nation, under the neon Christ.
On a banner: oMy mother taught me how to be free. My daddy
taught me how to stay free: kill a Commie for Mommie.�
Headlines: oMad Bomber strikes again! Blows Hungary up. Entire
Nation burned alive in violent inferno!
They made paprika. You put it in chili and goulash.
Edward Taylor
Corrupting Kids in Amiens
Gregorian echoes fall from the walls,
carried to the ears of the long solemn halls.
The ears of the children of Christ, in their
cathedral, happy in a time when their lives were
but a oWayside in.�
But traveling by the stars that chart the darkness
of my mind, on a pilgramage to the beginning of the
past. | stopped a while in Amiens. And to the rejoicers
of the glory of God, | sang an ode of modern man. To
which the parishers grabbed for stones, all but the true
children of Amiens.
Edward Taylor
66
Juan Scivally
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67
i/m not your cat anymore
i/m afraid you/re gonna
smother me
(Gemseless)
until
| believe in you.
- fear -
and the belief in a threat,
" hed...
making me run.
you said you liked
the way i looked:
framed
against your backdrop
" caught in escape "
maybe you won/t be in my garden.
it/s only mine
to hide in
as you are mine
to hide from.
how can i know
what i want?
except to wait ...
and pounce when impulse strikes ...
but you nailed my little cat feet
to the table
with picture-hook nails.
wenay lea blomquist
68
David Cherry
69
A Run Through WhatTs Left Of A Tarheel Life
A fog has settled on the farm
The briar leaves have touched me
With their thorns
As clouds hang on tobacco barns
And old tired dreams reborn
Through | may see that weathered sun
Orange in the morning
The way water colors run
Down the shallows
Of the stream | run
Down the breast of August days
And up the far bank of the road
The crow downs with a scream
Toward tar banks and ground
As sweet as stoic bitter
A teasing myth
A thorny sound
In swirls Of seperating mist.
And early Autumn haze
| do not love these southern summers
More or less
Than crucifixions full of thorns and nails
Rotting rust and tortured flesh
But bodies need their bails of faith and rain
Rustic and blood red in welded weather vanes
As old souls need
To weep and grieve
Above the seed of better days
Leave their burnt through August agony
Resting in a shallow grave to pray
And prove some tired test
Sam Silva
70
Laura Fulton
74
Scott Fagle
Display
| see him glare from among the trees
and half-circle to take furtive glances
from another angle.
He interrupts my attempted isolation
with apparent purpose,
as if | had unknowingly sat in his spot,
and he is clammering for a way to tell me so,
without words.
In the bushes straight ahead,
he pulls at his trousers.
His bare flanks shine through the greenery.
| nervously scratch symbols in the dirt before me.
Is this a planned performance?
| set up symmetrical designs of stones and grasses,
clear simple shapes of earth,
barriers " ancient, protective devices.
Will they work?
Will | know how to use them?
He sinks out of sight,
then reappears;
Bare ass in the trees, smiling my way.
This man seems to live minutes much longer than mine.
He moves like cold honey.
Has he forgotten he stands pantless in the woods before me?
As | finish my final scrapings,
he grasps his clothes and pulls them to.
E. Reinbold
TZ
Heading Home
| went to hug the boys goodbye;
But they were Off,
Long gone in childhood worlds
Of caves and clouds and castles.
Oh, | found them alright,
Charing down the shadowy forest paths
To brisk battles unfought yet won.
The boys were brave,
They stood talll.
They killed.
They raised each other from the dead.
We're saying so long now, | said;
Tears filled my eyes,
Obscuring my long gone childhood dreams
Flashing so brightly, alive and alive.
Oh, They hugged me alright,
Clinging to invisible guns and arrows
That would sound the warning volleys.
| would tell them.
| stood tall.
| failed.
We said so long and | drove off.
Stephen Logan
73
oTWO BITS A BOTTLE!�
UNCLE ANGUSES!
WILD AND WONDERFUL!
WARM WATER TONIC!
Two bits a bottle for a dimeTs worth
of the choicest ingredients and
a thousand dollarsT worth
of the most up-to-date kind of hope.
HOPE! distilled through a filter
of old peopleTs dreams,
HOPE! a thundering roar from an organ
with a deeper voice than GOD,
HOPE! flashing from broad red letters
painted with gold trim
on the side of a horse-drawn wagon.
YOu, Sl;
won't you buy a pint jar of magic cider
from a man with a crowa-tickling tongue
and spinning stars in his eyes who offers
invented testimonials from good country people
who've smiled, looked upward, and,
clapping their hands, trembling, creed,
oMIRACLE!�
Won't you buy
UNCLE ANGUSES!
WILD AND WONDERFUL!
WARM WATER TONIC
two bits a bottle?
You, Miss, wonTt you buy
the preferred panacea
of Skeeterville, Bolene, and Canebreak Flats,
good for all the disquietudes of modern life,
and taken faithfully by one
stately old gentleman who,
when he finally died, (God rest his soul),
died with a smile on his face
and money in his bank
and was buried in the corner of the town
cemetary
reserved for community pillars " won~t you buy "
UNCLE ANGUSES!
WILD AND WONDERFUL!
WARM WATER TONIC!
two bits a bottle, and ...
Yes, boy, the moustach is real,
waxed to keep it pointed (brings in the ladies!),
and yes, son, the horse is beautiful "
rub her neck gently, and yes, son,
74
~ll take your money and taking cure
your auntTs humped shoulders,
had the dog that under the porch lies
licking his leg, black with blood and flies,
and yes, son, | shall pour the light
back into the eyes of your grandmother,
for | am the giver of shoulders, legs, and eyes,
for |am the bearer of all cures,
for | am the bearer of this cure, FANNY:
and | bring you \\i
\\
UNCLE ANGUSES! \\N
WILD AND WONDERFUL!
WARM WATER TONIC!
two bits a bottle.
by Jeffry Scott Jones
pal us \ :
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Walter Stanford
load Coots
UNCLE ERNESTTS FUNERAL
Chrystal Fray
hen I was a little girl, my Uncle Ernest died.
W | lay motionless in bed and listened to the
rumblings of my brothers preparing for school. The
frantic search for matching socks and clean Levi's
invariably created a roar that reverberated throughout the
house. My room was set aside from the boysT rooms. |
slept in what should have been a very small dean, but,
due to the recent increase in children it had been
converted into my bedroom. ChuckieTs stereo could be
heard emitting the funky, thumping rhythms of Rick
James, in his most radical mood, singing, screaming of his
love for ~ooMary Jane.TT My mother screamed twice, ~~Please
turn that down, boy,TT and the volume ebbed, then died
away.
My mother always dressed the boys first, though this
task was not easily accomplished. She ironed four pairs of
identical jeans (somewhere in the complex jungle of
clothes, boys size 8 to preteen fourteen), discovered four
pairs of identical white athletic socks, lined the children
up, baby Jeff first, and wet-brushed their hair.
oYa'll got your lunch tickets?TT she would ask.
Chuckie would have his, he always had to eat, and the
others would have to be found. Coats, hats, gloves, shoes
were retrieved from under beds, behind dressers, and
between JeffreyTs mound of bedsheets. Teeth were
checked, (Greg was sent to brush his a second time) and
the boys were shuffled off to school.
Then my mother dressed me. She starched and ironed a
frilly dress and matching ribbons, much too formal to
wear to school, to my school anyway. The other girls in
class wore Levi's, like the boys, with brightly colored
sneakers that matched, flower-spattered blouses and cute
tee-shirts with ~~DaddyTs GirlTT or cartoon characters on the
front. | always wore stiff cotton dresses, my panties
showing when | climbed on the monkey bars. My
elaborate arrangement of ponytails, the result of a long
and painful process, seemed to be an object of extreme
pleasure to my mother, but the girls at school giggled as |
passed, and hushed their conversations if | drew near.
Jealousy, my mother said. Only sinners let their daughters
wear pants at school.
| sensed this morning would be different. Something in
my stomach fluttered nervously, preventing me from
crying for my mother, like | usually did on a school
morning, offended by the attention my mother gave the
boys. | knew with me, preparing for school was different.
My mother meticulously dressed me. | was an only girl
(but | would be offended anyway). This morning |
remained quietly in bed nibbling ferociously on a thumb
nail.
oCrissy,� | heard her call from my doorway. | listened
for her to continue, but did not answer.
oYou ainTt going to school today,TT she said, knowing |
was awake. o~l want you to go to Uncle ErnestTs funeral
with me today. Get on up now.�
sat up in bed leaning back on my hands for support.
| The news rotated in my head for a moment as I tried
to understand what she meant. | knew what funerals
were for, they were for dead people, a ceremony, a
gathering, like my birthday party, only for dead people.
Yet all the images of Uncle Ernest were vibrantly,
insistently alive. Uncle was my dearest friend, better than
any friend I'd ever had at school. He came to our house
every Friday after he got paid, a baseball cap cocked
sideways on his head. | never knew what kind of work he
did (my mother said ~~odd jobsTT), but he always had lots
of money. He showed up on Friday, arms loaded with gifts
for all the children, all five uf us, and a pack of Juicyfruit
gum in his shirt pocket. | sat in his lap and played with
the fat stomach that hung over the top of his pants, part
of it showing through his shirt (he only had one, | think)
where a button had popped. His face glowed like Santa
Claus; fiery red highlights on his checks shone through his
yellow-brown skin. Mommy said he was part Indian, thatTs
why he was that color, plus he was a drunk, she said, an
ALCOHCLIC, thatTs why he was red and smelled like
Jeffery smelled when he went too many days without
brushing his teeth. But he was always smiling, laughing,
hugging, holding and giving sloppy kisses that wet the
whole side of your face. Uncle Ernest was the happiest
person | had ever known, happier than | had ever been. |
vowed to be an alcoholic one day.
He always brought an extra, special, bigger gift for me.
Once he even bought me a pair of pink sneakers with a
green racing stripe on each side. He slid them under the
table with a wink, hoping to escape my motherTs hawklike
scrutiny. She never let me really wear them, but | put
them on when | played in my room.
nd on that morning, my mother stood in my
doorway telling me we were going to Uncle ErnestTs
funeral. He might be having a funeral, | thought, but
he must be having it for someone else. Uncle Ernest was
alive.
oCG mon Crissy, get up,
her usual demanding self.
oO.K.�T | said, swinging quickly to the floor, a sudden
excitement causing me to tremble violently. The funeral
had to be important for my mother to allow an absence
from school. | rushed into the bathroom, tripping on a G.I.
Joe lying near the door. | threw it impatiently into the
hallway and watched it strike a wall and lose an arm.
oQuit playing, Crissy, and take your bath!TT mommy
T
mommy pleaded softly, unlike
Ne
screamed.
ooO.K.�T | said, bathing hurriedly from the birdbath water
in the sink. | peered through a crack in the door and
watched my mother as she ironed my stiffest, frilliest,
most uncomforatable white dress.
A white dress!! For a funeral? My confusion grew as |
thought of all the women who had come over after
GrandmaTs funeral. They were dressed in the drabest,
most unadorned black dresses that I had ever seen; long
and shapeless and sad, not stiff and bright and lacy like
the dresses | was accustomed to wearing. My mother wore
black to that funeral too, but I wasnTt allowed to go. None
of us were, my brothers nor I. But | was going to Uncle
Ernest's funeral and I was wearing a white dress. | knew
his funeral must be special and | must be special. | was
wearing a white dress.
y mother hot-pressed my
hair to make it straighten o
and lie down. I fidgeted ee
excitedly, listening to the grease .
sizzing as the heated comb kel
glided through my hair. My
mother popped my head twice
and growled at me to be still so
she wouldnTt burn.
When the hot pressing was \
finished she took a large heated
curling iron and loosely curled
the ends of my hair. I wiped the
grease from my face, ears and 4
neck and surrendered myself to o
the tedious process of being
dressed. Slip, dress, white socks,
and patent leather shoes " the
latter shined in military fashion
" were slipped on me without
a hitch. For once | didnTt protest . -£ /
the overdone outfit. | wasnTt 4 A
going to school. 7
My mother dressed quickly while | sat rigid in a chair in
the living room.
oDonTt move or youTll mess yourself up,� she said as
she left to take her bath. ITd begun to play, quiet as a
mouse, | thought, with a doll ITd found hidden behind the
couch, but she yelled from upstairs, ~~Crissy, get
somewhere and be still!!�T
| heard her heels click loudly as she came down the
steps. She had madeup her face, her lashes were black
with mascara and her lips shone with glossy red lipstick.
She was prettier than | had ever seen before. She wore a
black dress.
~How we gone git there, mommy, daddy got the car,�T |
asked, suddenly realizing that a funeral place (whatever
that was) was nowhere in our neighborhood. Our
neighborhood only had houses in it.
~A limousine gone come from the funeral home and
pick us up in a few minutes,TT she answered impatiently
while bending over to pull up a sock on my leg. | knew
she wasnTt exactly pleased with my hyperactive energy
that morning and | was treading a dangerous path towards
unleashing her anger, but I risked another question
because I had to know.
oWhy,� I said, looking as innocently as possible, into
her face.
She gave me a long, ~ItTs too long to go into,T look, the
kind | received when I asked about babies and why daddy
didnTt come home sometimes.
~Because itTs supposed to, Chris. Now be still!!TT she
yelled as | backed away, cringing from the sound of
irritation in her voice.
A knock at the door saved my lips from an inevitable
shut-up pop. The limousine had arrived. Mommy and |
climbed in the back seat of a long white car while a
miserable man in a small suit held the door open. His hair
was Curly, shiny and slick and
when he caught me staring
at him I think he smiled a little.
The car was white, like my
dress, and | knew it must be
special, like I was special. And
this funeral, it was special too.
Two other people were
already seated in the back. A
gangly man and a large, pale
- woman, both dressed in black,
~ looked suspiciously at me as |
clung desperately to my mother.
They were old, with miles of
deep folds around their faces
which flowed like melted wax.
They had the same miserable
expressions as the man who
held the door. They were
monsters, creatures, like
Frankenstein, pieced together
from decayed flesh. | hated
them. Suddenly the fat creature,
the old woman, smiled at me,
and the bald skinny one smiled
too. The folds vibrated like a shaken bow! of jelly and the
creatures became funny. | smiled too.
oBetty, is this little Crissy>TT the fat creature said and
reached out to touch me. | cringed.
oCrissy, donTt act like that!T� my mother whispered,
grabbing a huge chunk of the skin from my arm and
twisted it fiercely. ~~Speak to your Aunt Alice and Uncle
cam.
I Knew that danger lurked around any corner, so |
complied.
~Hello, Aunt Alice,T I said, grinning foolishly.
The creature, Aunt Alice, leaned against the back of the
seat and grinned back.
~~SheTs a doll,T she said, the other creature nodding
stupidly in agreement.
| had not noticed that the miserable man had driven us
out of our neighborhood, and, as | looked out of the side
window, | saw a large dark brick church ahead. | knew
funerals were held in churches from the funerals I had
watched on television. The preacher preached at funerals,
78
oErnest come back! Ernest!�
oWho is that, Mommy?� I asked.
oShe does that at everyoneTs funeral,TT she said.
so | had made the connection of funerals with churches
through my knowledge of preachers. | hoped our preacher
would be there to preach at Uncle ErnestTs funeral. Our
preacher was loud and eccentric, sometimes he would
jump high into the air, screaming violently, ~oThank ye,
Jesus, Amen,� and dance across the pulpit, sliding and
jiggling, and | would erupt in an uncontrolable fit of
giggles causing my mother to give me a shut-up pop on
the lips. | hoped he would be there. Uncle Ernest would
enjoy that.
he driver pulled up in front of the church and the
four of us filed out. The two creatures got out
slowly, bones popping, creaking, old door hinges |
thought. When they stood up I noticed the man was very
tall, much taller than the fat creature Alice. He was thin,
like Uncle Sam in the Army posters, with bones sticking
out everywhere and beside Alice he was hilarious. Alice
was short, not much taller than me, but wider than our
washing machine. Mommy caught me staring and jerked
my arm. We went inside the church.
I counted the ten people besides ourselves that were
already seated, scattered in pews from front to back.
Flowers were placed in stands in front of the church and
lighted candles sat on an organ positioned near a side
door. Mother and | sat in a pew in the very front of the
church. The pew was marked with a satin ribbon similar
to the one | wore in my hair. This was my special pew
and | felt special sitting there. Aunt Alice and Uncle Sam
sat beside my mother and | didnTt see why they were
special (but | knew better than to ask).
| looked around at the unknown people in the church
and the reality of being at a funeral overwhelmed me. Five
women and five men sat and they all wore black. Their
faces were stony, emotionless, but they were all old. The
thought that Uncle Ernest may be old entered my mind,
but | dismissed it as | looked at the tired drawn faces of
the people in the church. None of the cheerfulness, ~the
gaiety or the laughter of Uncle Ernest was in the
dilapidated faces of these people, and they were black! So
black that their features were indiscernable. Only their
eyes shone, but not like eyes at all, more like white
circles pasted on black construction paper. | decided they
weren't people at all, just cartoons, funny cartoons Uncle
Ernest had brought here for my amusement. The panic |
had felt a few moments before gradually disappeared.
Besides, Uncle Ernest wouldnTt frighten me. He was my
friend.
A quite rustling sound came from behind the pulpit and
a dark robed figure moved towards the front of the
church. | could see our preacher " whatTs his name? " |
donTt know " open his Bible and place it on a metal
stand similar to the one my music teacher used at school.
| expected his display of explosive preaching to begin any
moment. He cleared his throat, coughing softly into his
hands, and begin quietly speaking to the small gathering.
B the church. ~~Family and friends, we are gathered
here today to release our brother, Mr. Ernest Burt
Thomas, into the kingdom of the Lord.�
And | KNEW. The preacher said this, although in a way
I didnTt quite understand. Truth pulsed through my veins,
the weight of it pressing me forcefully against the hard
wooden pew. The creatures, the cartoons, mother, and
me, we were all there to see Uncle Ernest, dead. My mind
attempted to erase the reality of it all, and I felt so alone,
but the truth attacked victiously as the image of a sleek
white coffin, brilliantly white, appeared directly ahead. |
had not noticed it before. | could see the raised lid lined
with white satin material, and Uncle Ernest's profile
peeking from within. | was nauseated.
~Ernest was a good man, a hard worker, and a devoted
family man,� the preacher said.
~~Amen,�T yelled one of the cartoons as she flew up from
her seat.
~~He was a kind-hearted man,T
momentum.
~Hallelujah!T replied two more cartoons in unison.
~o~He was an honest man,� screamed the preacher
raising his arms to the sky, and he began to dance, and
when he danced, everyone danced with him. The ten
cartoons gathered together in the aisle of the church and
shook, shireked, screamed and cried. Mother cried softly
into her handkerchief while Aunt Alice and Uncle Sam
held each other and rocked slowly back and forth. |
marvelled at how few people could make so much noise.
~Guide him, Lord,TT the preacher screamed, and the
audience replied.
"Ves. (ord.
oPROTECT him,�T
"Yes lord =
OAV ly,
~Yes, Lord,
Yes, Lord, I said, although not knowing why. The
preacher's frenzy died as he wiped his face, dripping with
perspiratio, on the bib of his robe. He finished his prayer
and asked the family members to view the body for one
last time. | was petrified, refusing to move from my seat.
Mother pulled at me furiously, but | would not move. She
left me finally and lined up with the others to view the
body.
rothers and sisters,T he said, again glancing around
T
said the preacher, gaining
79
Two of the other people managed to get in line ahead
of her. One woman collapsed in front of the coffin
screaming and crying uncontrollably.
oErnest, come back!! Ernest!!TT
| ran to my mother, crying now,
~Who is that, Mommy?�T I asked.
~She does that at everybodyTs funeral,� she said.
Two men, | recognized our limousine driver, came from
a room in the back of the church and pulled the woman
from the floor.
~Mable, donTt come to no moT of dese funerals, ye
heah? said the driver as he dragged her down the aisle.
~She reads the obituaries every day and picks out a
funeral to go to,T Mommy explained,�T ~o~She just crazy,
donTt pay her no Ttention.�T
into Uncle ErnestTs face for a quick moment before
moving off to talk to the preacher. I stood back,
forgotten, waiting for everyone else to view the body and
summoning the courage to look into that coffin.
~~HeTs laid out so nice,TT stated one cartoon.
~~He looks good in death,� another replied.
oVery lifelike,T said another nodding his head in
M y mother stood over the body and looked down
agreement with himself. A woman, coming from a room
beside the choir stand, sat down at the organ and began
to sing and play. She was very thin with long arms that
flapped dramatically as she played. She had her hair piled
a mile high over her head and, as she swayed, her mound
of hair shook, threatening to topple over. Her voice was
soft and almost inaudible over the loud organ. The music,
slow and dreary, disturbed the calm scene of the body-
viewing and nearly incited another riotous performance by
a cartoon who began to weep loudly.
~Brothers and sisters, let us prepar to leave and gather
together again at the gravesite for the internment
ceremony,� said the preacher.
finally saw the last, fat cartoon waddle away from the
| coffin. | held my breath and peered deep into Uncle
ErnestTs face. What | saw was not the worm infested
mound of rotted meat, (something my oldest brother,
Chuckie, told me to expect from all dead bodies), but
Uncle Ernest, laid out white as snow, in a snow white suit
and a pink rose in his button hole. ITd never seen him
dressed so nice in his life. | reached over and gently
pressed my fingers into his cheek, but quickly jerked
them away. He wasnTt rosy and warm, but hard and cold
as ice. I leaned over and kissed him on the lips. The smell
of old wine was still lingering on them. I looked at him
and a smile played softly across his mouth. I knew he
wasnTt dead, only o~visiting the Kingdom of the Lord.�T
TheyTll like you there too, Uncle Ernest, and ITll come and
visit you some time, | said to myself. I kissed him one last
time.
I heard my mother gasp from across the room. She
rushed over and jerked me away from the coffin and
shook me wildly.
~You donTt do that to dead people!� she hissed.
| only smiled to myself, glad Uncle Ernest had enjoyed
his funeral. RJ
80
Richard Barnes
81
Are You The New Person Drawn Toward Me?
Are you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with take warning, | am surely far different from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think its so easy to have me become your lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloyTd satisfaction?
Do you think | am trusty and faithful?
Do you see further than this facade, this snooth and tolerant manner of
me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic
man?
Have you no thought O Dreamer that it may be all maya, illusion?
Walt Whitman 1860
Yes, Drawn But Not Quartered
Yes, | am new to you and most assuredly drawn toward you,
And | will hees the warning so clearly given of your dissimulation.
But do not undervalue my judgement or presume me incapable of clear
perception "
Do you think it is ever so easy to become a lover?
Do you think any friendship worthy of the name dross-free?
Do you think yourself untrustworthy and capricious?
Do you think me an ingenue unable to see beyond your public
countenance?
Do you suppose yourself invincible, safe from an advancing intrimacy?
Have you no thought O Viking that | may be illusion too?
Saran S, Duneon
82
Mary Hatch
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Malone
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84
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Hayes Henderson | | .
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86
i)
Fred Galloway After The Storm
Biographies
Writers
Wendy Lea Blomquist, an art major,
recently transfered to ECU from
Appalachian so that her rats, China
Cat and Sugar Mag, could run free in
the lush tobacco fields year round.
Martha Cherry, this yearTs third place
prose winner was flabergasted when
she found out that her first published
story actually paid off. She is a junior
in Physical Education.
Hal J. Daniel III, a perennial
contributor to the Rebel, is a
professor of Speech, language, and
Auditory Pathology here at ECU.
Grigg Thomas Denton is the author
of this yearTs first place story and
probably doesnTt even know it.
Sarah S. Duncan, a senior in English,
is this yearTs esteemed first place
poetry award winner.
Chrystal Fray, a senior in English,
has once again graced the pages of
the Rebel with an award winning
story, but we still think kissing dead
people is gross.
Tim Giles, a graduate student in
English, is a most prolific writer
whose prose and poetry has appeared
in the East Carolinian, Sandshill
Citizen, Fayetteville Observer, and
has even echoed through the esoteric
halls of the Greenville Art Museum.
Martha Harris is a graduate student
in Rehabilitative Counseling who sees
this, her first work to be published, as
her bid for immortality.
88
Jeffry Scott Jones has been a regular
contributor to the Rebel and, for the
second time in three years, received
second place in the poetry contest.
Stephen Logan received his
undergraduate degree in
Communications from the University
of Miami and is presently a graduate
student in English here.
Frank W. Rabey is a sophomore but
has obviously been spending too
much time spinning and selling the
vinyl at Record Bar since he is
majoring in Undecided.
E. Reinhold received third place in
the Rebel T86 Poetry Contest for
oDisplay.�T
Resa Rodger is excitedly looking
toward her May graduation after an
extended East Carolina career as an
English major with a concentration in
writing. This is her second
appearance in the Rebel.
Norman Rosenfeld is a professor at
East Carolina University. In this issue,
he has submitted a letter review of
Peter MakuckTs Where We Live.
Marty Silverthorne has two poems
published in this issue. They consist
of Fireball and Storms.�
Thomas Stroud, a graduate student in
the English Department, has a cat,
Griffin, who is ~o~very inspirational.�
His wife, Carolyn, appeared in the
Rebel T85 and, yes, is expecting in
May.
Edward Taylor has ~~Hungarian
Goulash For American Chauvinism�T
and ~~Corrupting Kids In Amiens.�T
Elaine Whitman hails from Salisbury,
N.C. She is a Senior in English with a
concentration in writing and is
interested in Soviet culture.
Artists
Robbie Barber, majoring in Sculpture,
won lst. place and Honorable Mention
in the Sculpture category.
Richard Barnes, a senior in the
Communication Arts Department with
a concentration in Graphic Design, is
vice-president of the Visual Arts
asan
Joseph Champagne is a graduate
student from Miami, Florida. He shot
the color transparencies for the Rebel
86.
David Cherry, is a Printmaking major
and did several illustrations for this
yearTs Rebel.
Todd Coats, is a senior in the
Communications Arts Department and
is currently working in Raleigh.
Agyeman Dua won Ist place in the
Ceramics category.
Scott Eagle is a senior in
Communication Arts. He won Best-in-
Show and designed the cover of the
Rebel T86.
Betsy Easterly, is a senior in the
Communications Arts Department.
Charles Fadel is studying painting.
Susan Fecho is a graduate student in
Printmaking. Her speciality is paper
making, and is working toward an
interdisciplinary degree.
Leah Force is a senior majoring in
Ceramics. She won 1st place in the
Design category.
Laura Fulton, a senior in the
Communication Arts Department, is a
member of Design Associates.
Fred GallowayTs painting ~Walking In
The LightTT graces the entrance of
The Gallery. He won Ist place in the
Painting category.
David Hall is an officer in the Visual Arts Forum.
Kara Hammond, a senior, is working toward her B.S. in
Art with a concentration in Painting. She won 1st place in
the Mixed Media category.
Mary Hatch, a senior in Communication Arts, is President
of Design Associates.
Hayes Henderson is a Painting major and is a frequent
contributor to the magazine.
Jeff Hoppa won Ist place in the Illustration category. He
is in Communication Arts with a concentration in
Illustration.
Chaileart Kohskariha is studying Sculpture and Painting.
Neil Kopping, is a junior in the Communications Arts
Department concentrating in illustration.
William Leidenthal, a graduate student, won 1st place in
the Drawing category. He received his undergraduate
degree in Painting for the University of Hawaii.
Erin Malone spent her Christmas vacation touring
Germany. She is a senior in Communication Arts with a
concentration in Graphic Design.
Ellen Moore is a senior from Richmond, Virginia. She won
Ist place in the Printmaking category. Ellen was the editor
of the Rebel 84 and the Rebel T85.
Martha Petty, a graduate student from Florida, won
Honorable Mention in Drawing.
Merieh-Charles Pilkey is a Sculpture major.
David Poythress, a senior in the Communications Arts
Department, is concentrating in Graphics.
Elizabeth Raab is a member of the Communication Arts
Department.
Juan Scivally, is studying painting.
Linda Sizemore, a senior, is Art Director of the 1986
Rebel and a member of Design Associates. She is in the
Communication Arts Department with a concentration in
Graphic Design.
Walter Stanford, majoring in illustration, has previously
appeared in the Rebel.
CCE Walker is a senior in Communication Arts with a
concentration in Graphic Design. She won Ist place in the
photography category.
Laura Wilcox, is a senior majoring in Printmaking.
Melissa Yarbrough won Honorable Mention in the Painting
category. She is a senior in Painting.
art #¢ camera sho
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COORDHNAT. NG COUNTK OF LITERARY MALAI S
Quotations in Gallery by permission of Oxford
University Press
