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PNTOR CME ee TY OLA ti
MANAGING EDITOR i. oc55 0 es DOELD ACL Grae y
RIT DUNECTOR Se CLOT TY) © 1G bis
BUGINNESS MANAGER 5 0 a CGaUIG SUM
TURE AND PRAGUE REAR ee COT
A Note on the Cover
The drawing which appears on the cover of this issue of THE REBEL was executed by Edward Reep as
one installment in a series of drawings he has done which were inspired by the tiny Japanese verse from,
the Haiku. Consisting of only 17 syllables, the Haiku is sub-genre in which poets have been working for
centuries, and which is still enjoyed by all classes of Japanese. Illustrated images of the Haiku are known
as Haiga. However, Mr. ReepTs drawing departs from this definition in that there has been no attempt to
oillustrate� the poem. Instead the images are used as a point of departure and pursues a course parallel to
the Haiku. The staff would like to thank Mr. Reep for allowing us to lift an image of the Haiku from its
original position as an integral part of the painting; that image is given below. Its occasion was the death of
the poetTs 12 year old son:
,
Tedesya APTI
A~2_ bit- a Piides as 2. fn gy ~ 7 bk Quin
4
THE REBEL is a student publication of East Carolina University. Offices are located on campus at 215
Wright Annex. Inquiries and contributions should be directed to P.O. Box 2564, Greenville, N.C.,
27834. Copyright 1974, East Carolina University Student Government Association. None of the materials
herein may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.
Peratiction .... |; Serna {hein Tice Sek eee ee
unre .oF Lariam... JOTI, | es Bs bared Send cece page
ite, . . Thorie WI eich so cas geet ce aces page
mumrner: 1941... Thomen Wiaitery 8s hind ial Gs ee Doan page
ms of the Flies... .Johniteebeinbichls: 09190 TA Ree, page
Meavenly Eyes. . .Bentley Shatterglass. 05... el page
nes in General. ; SOME MGODUIL. .. «cca. cc ce sain ane acs page
Rititied. . . Teresa SOW «ais Gok sen ori ena Sebo page
mititind .. Theresa ClaNG 5 scce talc oll als eas sear Bee eas a page
mirvinant.. Jett Rollinese 1G . Poe Fe er Be page
my: Dinne WilkWwa en ree Oeics ewan as a page
tard Tina WitkoUMel 68 cnc cisce onan ake Goan cane ameee is ane page
Pitied. . . Judith Ellewesthoouks ociunk AaB are. .aieepia vee page
A Contemporary Nursery Rhyme. . . Judith Ellsworth ..........--...-- page
Coffee Pots and Mirrors. ...Ruby Shackleford ....................... page
mb y Orr WEN. . . PUL ICRC sh 5 cn ey ae 1 gers sat page
Os hess Ct ans eeT page
Mis. Therese Clark. c.nsosdinies) Fe eh $e PORT TOUS. 0k page
Mthetic Humor. . -Lyniteneek ks. Fite Sadie Be eis page
mecy to Tomorrow. . .Wbole Matton 0 eS OSes ee page
Untitled. . EI ae acd ivr, eal a We cane beens bid oied page
mrnat Price Sex. . .JOWMAIOMANGEE so sus ois ox'so ide es ee sisi Dia da page
FOR THE great L.F.: ROBERT PAUL SMITH,
an HOMMAGE...John Robert Wallace ....------- +--+ +-+--eeee. page
Mt Ohh CRM Nand eh cemas ate page
ishing Well... . Teresa Speight «:.--..:6:5 sis nee eels eR ew Ries SaaS page
The Gallery... oe eee BOR oO. weed Tr Pe page
DRahenta .. Jatt ROMMEClel 0 ies Sd IS Penh page
nN Arrangement of Angels. . . Pi Brrr... i io page
Biographical OR Poi Os oh Ch ee ee page
|
NU OGUCEON
Experience and occasionally a colleague might remind us
that projects such as this, executed during oneTs student years,
should not meet with an evaluation hurled down from the stern
and unyielding critical summit of Arnoldian ~high
seriousnessT. For regardless of the difficulty one encounters
getting contributors to see the fact, this is not serious
business. For the most part this is apprenticeship and, as such,
it wants a liberal attitude and a soft treatment from the
reader. The very fact that THE REBEL is a university publication
implies a certain naivete and thus necessitates a conscious
loosening of oneTs critical standards to allow for the blunders of
the inexperienced. After all, it is in the nature of youth to be
emotionally excessive, full of wrongheaded idealisms, and
overly fond of trampling artistic decorum to the ground in
pursuit of a single vision. Indeed, the art of restraint is as alien
to most young men and women as the dove is to Indochina.
Living tends to breed caution in the intelligent individual,
and for this reason the mature reader is likely to anticipate
confronting material herein which is morbid and suicidal, so
much so as to indicate that it had no cause to be either of these;
he may rightly expect to confront material which is innocent
and naive, as only those who have not yet lost their innocence
can be; he may anticipate that 7HE REBEL will cry to him of
death and dying in that noisy shout which could belong only to
one who has never known death or consoled the dying. He
may anticipate all of these excesses and still not expect THE
REBEL to be a serious creative effort.
Indeed youth tends, rather paradoxically, to be as ignorant
of life as it is full of it. But there is a germ of condescension
festering somewhere in this attitude which | cannot help but
think unhealthy and unfair. Such an attitude presupposes two
things: first, that the essential questions to which youth
addresses itself are questions which will be substantially altered
with age; and secondly, that youth lacks the skills of artifice and
craft which characterize the work of more seasoned
veterans. Hopefully, both of these presuppositions will be
tempered if not dispelled after a close reading. It is also an
attitude which is fundamentally mistaken in this instance. At a
glance the reader will discover that the list of contributors to
this issue spans the continuum from young to fully mature,
from eighteen to fifty. The themes of love, death, the death of
page ii
love and the love of death are treated by a variety of artists who
incorporate an equally varied treatment of these ancient themes
within their work. Herein will be found the familiar states of
innocence and experience recast in distorted images indigenous
to the modern situation.
To mention only a few of these contributors and _ their
works, two poems by Jeff Rollins ~The Palm of Darkness� and
oTo RobertaT offer some insights into the subtle yet beautiful
intricacies of pre-fall existence, when indeed we have more
innocence thanwe can trade. As transitional pieces, those most
painful situations in which one is witness to the death of
innocence are treated in poems by Theresa Clark and Sara Van
Arsdel. The strange and haunting mixture of memory and
desire, so characteristic of the April of which Eliot spoke, is
considered in poems by Thomas Walters and Lynn Carrol,
taking such liberities with this theme as is necessary to reshape
it around a post-waste-land milieu, and perhaps to sow some
seeds of resolution where there were no avenues for
such. Those neurotic fragments of the American domestic
experience which disarm even the best of us occasionally are
the subject of poems by Teresa Speight, Diane Witkowski and
Judith Ellsworth. In much the same vein Bentley ShatterglassT
~Heavenly Eyes� and Jeff RollinsT oRemnant� confront us with
a mushy corpse and too many cigarettes respectively, and still
the reader is forced to surrender a twisted smile if only because
he may share some uneasy identity with the protagonists.
As to the question of topical revelance, this issue of THE
REBEL offers ~~One of the FliesTT and ~TThings in General� by
John Robbins, both of which loom even larger in the memory
as South Vietnam suffers through its last bloody days as a
nation. It will take very little urging to convince the reader that
she will linger many more days as perhaps the most horribly
mangled limb of the American conscience. Undoubtedly Mr.
SexauerTs illustrations convey much the same impression with
alarming precision and clarity. Likewise, ~~What Price Sex?�T by
John Alexander and ~~To the Great L.F.TT by Bob Wallace usher
a problem familiar to cocktail conversation into the realm of
art.
Asa final note, | would like to thank my staff, Glenn, Phillip,
David and Carol for the vast amount of energy and talent which
went into production of this issue of THE REBEL, and to offer
my special thanks to Dr. Norman Rosenfeld for his advice and
assistance. | would also applaud the students and faculty of the
Art department for their overwhelming support and
encouragement as well as their contributions, without which
this magazine would remain lost somewhere in the realm of
possibility. As for the principle of organization which
structured and attempted to mate the written with the visual
arts, tone served us_ best. What we have here is an
arrangement. It is left for you to decide whether we have
arranged angels.
28 March 1975
page iil
Palm of Darkness
We are in the palm of darkness,
where young men drink themselves
to less than stone, and shudder,
too much, too much coming back In surges
We are in the throat of August
where passion paces his room, and )
loneliness lies unblinking |
among the sleeping shadows.
Moonlight slides from a crescent of
shoulder, giving itself to
the lambent colors of touch
A broken gasp,
spilt drops of madness ~ool,
The airy sound of time
is stilled upon sensation.
We are in the palm of darkness;
and lucky,
being born with more innocence
than we can trade.
page 2
_ ~}
Boe &
o|;
*
a ll ~Oh. a
oe
b *3 Tea
WOLFE
A boy walking university brickwalks,
mind teeming, mouth open.
A leaf: the books moldering on the shelves
A stone: the smell of their pages.
A door: ideas and people between the covers.
Drool over the delicious Jewess.
oOh, my god, listen to that will you?�
Hunt, hungry, through all the
Autumn burnt patches of the world
Altamont Brooklyn Monk
voracious nicotined saint:
And lesions waited in the lungs.
hal
hy
A
a.
page 3
~T. Yue -
SUMMER: 1941
And children playing in the dirt:
kicking it up into clouds, imagining
it to be
thousands of things.
Fires and fogs and poison gases.
Little boys gasping in the dust,
pretending death
and laughing.
page 4
OOM
ae
Zz
Seg ge
ee
+ ses
/
4
~al
Fi wise
As flies to wanton boys are we to
the Gods. They kill us for their sport.
King Lear (/V, 1, 36)
The body lay on the knoll, curled around a scant bush, a
fetus awaiting a birth that would never come. Its head was
missing. The boy sat looking at the body, amazed by how
undramatic a man with his head blown off really
looked. There should be more. More ... blood,
maybe. What blood there was had dried in the
late-morning sun; it looked like maroon road tar, and there
wasnTt enough of it. Maybe some had run down the incline
of the knoll and was under the body?
The boy reached for the dead man, to roll him over and
see if there was more blood; but as his finger tips made
contact with the fabric of the dead manTs uniform, his hand
stopped. He smiled at himself, and leaned forward, but he
could not force his hand to take hold of the dead
shoulder. Humiliated, he glanced around to be certain none
of the guys were watching as he pulled away from the
body.
"This is stupid,TT the boy thought, ~nothinT but a dead
slope head.�T
page 6
af |
CoE
Sweat started to issue from the boyTs forehead; he
picked up a corner of the green towel around his neck and
wiped at it. Sitting in the foreign heat drained of energy
and emotion, he toyed with the corner of the towel and
pondered. Why had he hesitated? Why had he not just
rolled the body over? Who would care? The yellow dust
and dirt? The sparse vegetation? The fuckinT flies? No.
The entire hill top, protruding from the jungle like a
juarpiged | man going bald, would not care.
il =
He wool ~look ia ig blood later. He wanted a
cigarette first. The boy lit a cigarette from the crumpled
package in his pocket.
He inhaled the smoke and held it in his lungs, trying to
understand why anyone would want to smoke in this heat,
and deciding not to look at the body. What did he care
anyway? He had seen bodies before, maybe not as many
as the guys who had been here awhile, but enough. The
other guys never paid much attention to the bodies; they
were too busy talking about hamburgers, beer and
pussy. They might think he was weird.
The boy sat there sweating and fumbling the crumpled
cigarette package in his fingers. ~~Warning: The Surgeon
General Has Determined That Cigarette Smoking Is
Dangerous to Your Health.T
oMommy, itTs my turn to read the cereal box this
morning! Charles had it yesterday, mommy. Mommy! |
want to look at the pictures. Make him give it to me,
mommy!�
oCharles, give the box to Sherri Lynn.�
oThere take the fuckinT cereal box.�
oDonTt say fuck at the table, Charles.T
oThank you, mommy ... mommy ... mommy.�
The boy threw away the cigarette package and inhaled
more burning smoke. His neck was starting to ache under
the weight of his helmet, so he took it off; laid it at his feet
and watched a fly land on it. Then another fly, circling,
page 7
""" = = " "==" " ~e -
smaller and smaller circles, circling and landing there too.
A rivulet of sweat ran down the boyTs cheek. He wiped it
away, watching the flies walk around on his helmet as if they
were scouting for the best the hill had to offer. He looked
from the flies on his helmet to the hundreds jigging about the
mutilated body, then turned back and swatted at the two on
his helmet with his hand. One of the flies left to
search some other sector of the hill; the other merely circled
a few times and returned to the helmet.
oNow young ladies and gentlemen, today we start on
the subject of diptera. Flies. We will be concerned
primarily with the common housefly, which we shall have to
capture for use in our projects. We will be drawing and
disecting them.�
oFuck!�
oCharles, donTt say fuck in the classroom. Now then,
the secret to catching these evasive little creatures is to hold
the hand above them as you grab. This way the fly, diptera,
flies up into your moving ...�
The boy held his hand poised for the attack. He knew all
about flies; he had drawn them, their intestines and
everything. He knew the fly wouldn't hesitate to roll the
body over; the fly would eat the body. How was it ole Mr.
Able put it?
oMany species act as scavengers and do much good in
the reduction of carrion ...�
The boy relaxed the perched hand and sat back.
~Go get it,TT he whispered so none of the guys would
hear him talking to a fly, ~~DonTt let them screws have it
all. Look at it!T Indicating the decapitated body, o~ItTs a
GoddamnT'd feast.�
There was no evidence of a brain, at least nothing that
looked like his idea of a brain. There was just the lower
gum and some teeth in a gunky montage. There were
eight, nine . . .ten teeth, but one of them stuck forward at a
right angle to the others and didnTt look much like a
tooth. He counted it anyway. Ten teeth on a lower gum,
everything else missing ... gone.
It wasnTt all messy and spread around like it should
be. Just the montage of reds, pinks, browns and purples of
varying degrees. The boy made a frame with a finger and
the thumb of each hand and, trying to push the reality of
this art work from his mind, held it up to block out all but
the colorful debris. It was wrong.
page 8
There should be more.
Maybe it should look softer? He reached out; he would
just touch it very gently to see how soft it was. He
stopped. What would he wipe his hands on if it was softer
than it looked? He didnTt want to use the green towel
around his neck; he wiped his face with that. He didnTt
have a handkerchief. He pushed the hand closer; it didnTt
look all that soft anyway; just short of contact the boyTs
hand stopped again; he would wipe his fingers on his
trousers. A little gunk wouldnTt show in the jungle dirt on
his trousers. The hand began to shake. He leaned into his
shoulder to drive the hand forward; it wouldnTt hurt the
trousers, but the harder he forced, the more the hand
shook.
oWhat if | fuckinT puke?�
oCharles, donTt say fuck while youTre pukinT.�T
He pulled the hand back and sat up.
~That would be great if the guys saw me puke.�
He had not been able to force his hand close enough to
frighten the flies feasting there; he was being silly. It was
entirely possible that he had killed the body, that he shot the
head away. It was silly not to touch it. But then, why
should he touch it? A man could be in a jungle fighter
without touching the bodies. Couldn't he?
The boy turned to the brave fly strolling around on his
helmet. He swatted again. The fly lifted, circling toward
the body to land in the technicolor montage, the boy
watching, hating, feeling the fly laughing at him. He looked
away, but immediately snapped his stare back. He wasnTt
going to let a fly stare him down.
BSA
He stared.
His eyes began to water and the lids jumped to ward off
a needie of sunlight reflecting from the dead manTs
buckle. It was one of those chrome buckles with a big red
star in the center.
page 9
oe
oWonder how many fuckinT nations use stars?�
oCharles, donTt say fuck in front of the stars.�
He looked at the buckle, then quickly back at the fly. It
was one of those collectorTs items. He looked back at the
buckle. He had seen some of the guys wearing them; and
now, here he sat with one of his own. Right there! Where
he could reach out and touch it! Couldn't he?
Most of the red had flaked away from the star; the
buckle was generally pitted and scratched; the belt was
worn and cracked. It had character. It certainly was a
collectorTs item.
oWasn't much, he would say to the big-tited blonde on
his lap, running her fingers through his hair, oThey jist come
a-runninT at me, see, with this belt shinninT like a babyTs ass,
and | shot off his fuckinT head.�
oCharles, honey, donTt say fuck in front of mah big tits.�
The boy wiped sweat from his face and wanted a
cigar. He had never smoked a cigar in his life, but he
wanted one now. He would need practice if he was going
to smoke cigars in front of the big titted blondes. It
wouldn't look right if he lit one and got sick in front of the
girls. All alone in a circle of tits, puking his guts out. That
would be worse than puking in front of the guys, and
besides...
What if there were no stories, no girls; he could touch
it? Couldn't he?
He looked around to be certain none of the guys were
sneaking up on his prize while he was thinking. It was his.
The guys were starting to clear the balding, jaundiced
pate of bodies, wounded, weapons and_ usable
equipment. The fight had ended a few hours before dawn,
everybody had rested some, and now the aftermath, guys
dragging dead buddies and stacking them like cords of
decayed wood, other guys gathering weapons and usable
equipment, and still other guys rumaging through the fruits
of their labor for boots, or trousers, a watch, ring, camera, a
canteen, or anything which could be sold, or was better
than what they already had, especially a belt with character.
The helicopters were starting to arrive, circling, awaiting
their turn to drop into the diarrhea and decay, large knives
cutting through the stench waiting for a cargo of death or
deformity for that other world behind the tree tops. The
boy wished they would hurry. The sun was high now. It
was getting hotter; the shade had been blown away; the
bodies were beginning to stink.
page 10
The boy looked at the flies feasting on the brainless
body, disgusted than even a fly could find sustenance in the
gunk and decay.
~If the body had won,� the boy thought, o~it wouldn't be
laying there. It would be getting on a chopper to be
delivered to a respectable grave. It wouldn't have to lay
there in the fly shit and stink.
oNotice how flexible the ear lobes are. Just feel them,�
Mr. McGauhey said over the drone of mourners in the next
room.
oYes, | see.T
oYour brother looks very natural and content.�
oYes sir, you sure done good for Uncle Paul. Don't
Uncle Paul look good, Charlie?�
Charlie didnTt answer.
oWe try to mix our powders and blend them into the
flesh so the subject doesnTt appear quite so.....: o2
oDead?�
oWell, yes. We feel it makes it easier on the family and
loved ones if the subject appears less ... shall we say
deceased.�
oWell, sir, you sure done that, anT / want you ta know
we appreciate it. DonTt Uncle Paul look good, Charlie?�
oLooks fuckinT dead ta me.�
oCharles! DonTt say fuck in front of Uncle Paul.�
Hi) al ! ~iy Mie t ne
s Se
ft Pn ee 7 ve .
> \.- es hse: a
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aN AMNMIM A. bcbg
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wae | cad
' is Min'y Te bows | ~
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Ye Qehi+ tO eree. = HN th
aL,
Ltt
A body in a grand box, or ... this. The boy would like
to see the fleshy powders make ole ten teeth look less
deceased. But that was the flyTs job. ThatTs what flies were
made for. God's gift to losers.
Somebody laughed.
The boy turned and saw the only prisoner taken by
either side. He was seated in the middle of a circle of the
guys. He was laughing, and the guys were laughing with
him. The only prisoner, and he was wounded, but not bad.
~Look at ~em sons a bitches laughinT,�T the boy thought,
olike ole bosum buddies talkinT about a damned ball
game.�T The boyTs hands curled into fists, ~oThey ought ta
shoot the greasy little prick, then they'd have somethinT ta
page 11
a re
"" =
laugh at.�
An interpreter was telling the guys how the prisoner's
outfit had been lost and had not known anyone was in the
area until the unexpected contact. So what, the boy and
the guys had been lost too, and were just as surprised by
the contact, but they had won. That was the
difference. The enemy had only killed forty-five of the
guys, but the guys had killed over two-hundred and sixty
counted bodies. God knows how many others. One of the
guys had said that if you counted ten bodies, you had
probably killed twenty-five of the sneaky little pricks. That
would mean the guys could report enemy casualties as
two-hundred and sixty actual, and, say ... three hundred
probable. The reports would show five hundred and sixty
dead rounded off to six hundred.
The reason for this was the meat hooks. Everybody
knew the enemy carried meat hooks. After a fight, they
would hook their wounded under the arm and their dead
under the chin and drag then out. The boy didnTt know
anyone who had seen them do it, but one of the guys said a
prisoner told him that was what they did. Besides, it was
common knowledge.
oAnyway, we won,� the boy whispered to the flies,
othatTs the important thing. We won.�
The flies were not impressed.
o| bet there ainTt one fuckinT place in this whole fuckinT
world that a guy can go without beinT bugged by fuckinT
flies!TT
oCharles donTt say fuck in front of the whole fuckinT
world.�
oFuck!�
The boy swatted at the flies, this time his hand came
close enough to set them to flight. He continued striking as
they bobbed and circled and buzzed and disappeared,
except one. The one fly continued to bob and circle until
the boy sat back breathing the heavy air of fatigue. The fly
returned to enjoy the brainless feast alone.
The prisoner laughed. The guys laughed too.
The boyTs eyes stared hate and disgust at the
fly. Thinking of diarrhea, without looking away, he let his
hand glide down his leg to the rifle laying on the ground at
his side. The hand creeped down the rifle, to the
soundtrack of laughter, until it found the familiar grip just
behind the trigger. The boy lifted. Not to fast, very careful,
patience until the butt of the weapon was fitted into the
page 12
| | natural pocket of his shoulder, and the laughter tapered off.
The boy pulled the weapon tight into the pocket and laid
| his cheek across the synthetic stock. His finger reached for
the trigger as his eye located the fly through the rear
| sight. Careful. He adjusted the allignment until the fly
appeared to be eating on the front sight blade.
Now. He would do the right thing. Now he would make
the world a better place to live. His finger tightened on the
| trigger. He sensed the recognizable slack before the sweet
explosion, and stoped.
The fly just sat there, eating.
The prisoner and the guys began to laugh.
The boy held the rifle, held his world in that rear
sight. He would kill that son of a bitch. He
would. Wouldn't he? A fly? Sure he could. But he might
get in trouble for it. How could he justify killing a fuckinT
fly?
oOh Chaaaaarles?�
The boyTs arms began to shake under the strain of
holding the rifle. He tried to hold the fly on the front sight
blade, but the shaking looked like major convulsions
| through the little hole in the rear sight. He would do it! He
. could do it!
iu} | He could do it!
Nf Couldn't he?
1 0 Bang,� his eyes burned to the pain of salty sweat.
| CouldnTt he? Oh Beautiful ...
oBang.�
Couldn't he? For spacious skies ...
oBang ... bang, bang, bang.�
The boy threw the rifle to the ground, tears streaming
through the jungle dirt on his face, as he reached out and
grabbed the chrome belt buckle with both hands. He jerked
" the body. Bits of pink and maroon fell to the ground; the fly
~ held on.
~~GodTs gift to losers!�
The boyTs fingers were trying to move too fast. He was
"*# fumbling. He stopped, took a deep breath, poised his
i hands, firm, deliberate, he disengaged the buckle, and
- ! placing his hand flat against the dead hip pulled the belt
through its loops.
He was a winner. He would have his prize!
His grip tightened on the belt as he laughed at the fly,
joined by a chorus from the circle around the prisoner. He
grabbed the body by both shoulders and lifted.
oDo your stuff, baby!�
There was more blood.
page 13
a ee ee a ee
oYou're the only family this fuckinT screw, this fuckinT
loserTs got.�
it was dried and clotted like brown clabber.
oDo it to him. Yeah, man. Do it to him,� the boy
encouraged the fly, through the laughter lodged
somewhere between his stomach and throat.
He shook the body and the tooth that reached out at a
right angle fell and hit his arm. He stopped.
The fly was still there looking him square in the eyes.
oFuck?
He shook the body again, but the fly held fast.
oPuck!
He let the body fall and stood up. The fly was still
there. He dropped his prize belt and released the buckle on
the one he was wearing, pulled it through the loops, put the
buckle in his hand and wrapped the belt around twice.
He would have the big-tited blonde, and he wouldn't
puke. He wouldn't puke!
oCharles donTt say puke while you're fucking.�
He whirled to the body, swinging the belt into the pink,
purple and maroon. Meat fell to both sides of the belt tip as
it rebounded revealing a faint black spot where the fly had
been.
oSherri Lynn, look at CharlieTs new belt!�
The boy let himself drop back into a sitting position in
the dirt and grinned at the faint spot.
He leaned forward against his knees and rubbed his chin
with pride which rose higher at the feel of the soft nap made
stiff by the dried salt and jungle dirt in his beard. He looked
down at the arc of salt around his arm-pit already darkened
by the moisture of a new day. A good day. He grabbed the
towel from around his neck and covered his face with the
green terry, wiping away the sweat. It felt good. It was
good. The sweat was good. The dirt was good. It was
good being a winner!
oSherri Lynn! Charlie is to have the fucking cereal box
every fucking morning for a fucking month, and | donTt
want to hear one fucking word about "die
page 14
ATTA Wide} f TT) ~Want
nity i 4 UME LAN "iy Aine ayy
ar aad | 4 at
eo
NS o4
aie
we
1 i = =
i
ne sae anil
aiili
oAlive?�
The voice was above him, the face not in full view, only
the forehead and eyes.
oIs he breathing?�
SomeoneTs hot hand was on what remained of his
chest, pressing only slightly. Another thumped his
stomach, the over-ripe fruit. He knew his chest would not
rise. He also knew it would not fall.
o~He seems dead.�
oIt was a major conversion,� he had thought looking
into the mirror. Felix had been talking to his image, singing
oBaby Face� perhaps, or whistling a Bachian fugue. He
had finished his shower, was preparing to shave when the
Angel had spoken to him. He was watching the quick-soft
ooze pile upon his palm when a voice, winging out of the
drain, had said:
oFelix Culper, you are chosen.�
oIt was a major conversion,TT he repeated into the
blurred image.
~Did anyone see him fall?�
~o~ThereTs a shoe.�
He could hear coins rattle and click.
o~Nunn-Bush.�T
Another hand moved under the pile of pants and mush
that had been his hips.
page 16
| ~~ThereTs no wallet.�
~o~LookinT thT streets.TT
| oWhy me?�
| oCall thT. police, somebody call thT...�
o~Does that matter?�
17 oNot now.�
But chosen for what? he asked the image.
| He would find out.
He had left his wallet at the apartment.
oNo identification?�
oNone.�
oYou can hardly make out his features. Except for
those eyes.�T
He felt something warm and thick in what must have
been his mouth. It tasted like nails.
~o~Should we cover him?�
| oWait, just wait.�
The eyes, just the eyes left?
Father FulmanTs eyes had kept their steady gaze as he
explained his major conversion and his plans to salvage
| what few souls were left in the human race. The good
Father had smiled at Felix, picked up the phone quietly and
| dialed the police.
: Felix had left before they arrived.
~Where are they?�
oWe need to get ~im off thT street at least.�T
~~Someone cover him for Chrissake.�T
~| donTt think | can...TT SomeoneTs feet clicked across
the concrete. There was a gag and a cough, something wet
scalded the hot streets.
| ~Week stomach. Someone cover the lower parts.�
sel ~~Watch thT glass there.�T
Felix had paused outside the glass doors of the A&P,
paused and smiled and pushed through them. He walked
quietly to the bread counter and began opening the loaves,
} tearing slices of white, wheat, and rye bread and handing
ros the pieces to the customers who strolled by blinking in
} confusion.
The manager had quickly called the police and the sirens
whined outside the glass doors.
/ Felix had left before they arrived.
.
i A throbbing, red light brushed across his eyes now. The
jj hum of voices and opening doors. A rattle and click of an
page 17
aa ee ee
SS SS
aluminum stretcher. Hands were on him again. Smoke
from cigarettes and the smell of alcohol and white
lines. They began tugging at his pants.
He had tugged on the little girlTs polka-dotted
sleeve. The sleeve was embossed with the morningTs
breakfast yolk.
He had whispered in her ear: oSuffer little children,
come unto me.�
A pair of silver-rimmed glasses and red lips turned upon
Felix.
The lips coiled into a rage.
oWhat thT hell do you think you're doing?�
oMama?� The little girlTs voice rattled in her throat.
Felix tugged and whispered: oSuffer you come.�
The lips flapped and coiled. A fat, freckled hand began
motioning for a policeman who stood near the corner.
Felix had been chosen.
He left before the policeman could reach them.
It must have been an ambulance. His eyes stared up,
into the lights lining the sides of the vehicle. The voices
were muffled. An occassional outline of a clean, cleft chin
was drawn by the flare and shadow of a match to a
cigarette. He could see the cheeks puff and collapse as the
attendants smoked.
He could not hear his heart beating. His eyes remained
open. Why had they not brushed them closed?
Chosen for what? He could not think. He had stood
quietly in the park beside a statue of Socrates thinking. He
watched two flies mate on the philosopherTs furrowed
brow. As the flies climaxed he made a resolution. There
was only one thing to do. He left the park and headed for
the nearby skyscraper. Socrates continued to stare into his
knuckles.
On the ledge, the wind blew across his face, tilting the
paper-clip crown down over his eyes. Voices and hands
were frantic and waving. Soon the air would vanish and
there would be no light.
On the slab, staring into the arcs of ceiling lights, he
listened to them rustle in their green gowns. They were
untangling his clothes from the mush and bones. There
were slight giggles which punctuated the hum of the
archlights.
Someone suggested, ~Close his eyes.�
A hand brushed over, blocking out the lights.
It was the necessary darkness and he ascended.
page 18
Xs
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ay Hy
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v
U
oGeneral, my magazine is concerned over reports of a
drug problem amongst our fighting men. We would be
interested in your reaction to this.�
The general thought for a moment, oTo what?�
oThe drug problem, general.�
oOh, well, | think todayTs black soldier is the finest
fighting man this country has produced.�
~Your squad leader tells me you donTt want to walk
anymore,� the captain said looking down at the black
soldier seated, barefoot, at the edge of a jungle trail.
oM'feet hert.TT the black soldier mumbled without
looking up, standing, or caring that it was his company
commander speaking to him. Why should he care? This
wasnTt his war. He knew he would die in this jungle and it
would still require an act of congress for his ole lady to crap
at the court house.
~~Get on your feet, boy!�T the platoon sergeant yelled as
he ran up to stand beside the captain, ~~An ah best be
hearinT some ~sirs,T passingT ~tween dem fat lips!�T
Eubanks neither moved nor spoke.
oYou know you could be court-martialed for this,
private.�� the captain said, motioning the sergeant to silence
before he had a chance to speak again.
ooM'mo-fukinT feet hert.�T
oThis manTs been askinT fer it fer a long time, sir.TT the
sergeant said with insight, not feeling narrow, but aware; he
had served with enough niggers to know how they were.
oYou, want to go to jail, private?TT the captain asked
struggling to keep his voice calm.
Eubanks looked at the captainTs familiar feet. This was
page 20
| his war. The black soldier felt he had spent half his life
| squatting scared at these feet, ~~Mister CharlieTT towering
over him with those ivory voices ringing in his black ears.
| | ~Ah donTt givT mo-fuk wut yoT do. MT feet hut, anT ah
14 ain't walkin no moT,� he said, tootired to care, and too
disqusted to be afraid.
The long, awkward Smitty and his tail, Reickard, had
| stepped off the path and were sitting in the underbrush
| against a jungle tree enjoying a chew of SmittyTs Red Man
/ tobacco and observing EubankTs confrontation with
authority. The tobacco was hard to get in the jungle, so the
two soldiers did their chewing discretely. That way, the
screws, who didnTt really chew anyway, wouldnTt be
bumming their tobacco.
Smitty spit. ~oWhatTa ya think da CaptinTll do?�
Reickard spit. It wasnTt as pretty as SmittyTs, but
Reickard was just learning, ~It would be difficult to discern
at this point.�T
SmittyTs voice rolled around the large wad in his mouth
as he pushed it from one jaw to the other, ~Won't do much,
not ta no nigger. Not no more.�
o| hardly think the captainTs inclined to tolerate such
| disobedience,�T Spit. It was still mediocre, ~~no matter what
the manTs pigmentation.�
ill | oWhal, he might be a nigger, but heTs tall as
anybody.TT Smitty let fly a beauty, ~TSides, ~BanksTs a good
. gunner and good gunnerTs hard ta find.�T
| oShit.TT Reickard slobbered on his chin, he rolled his
eyes toward the tree tops, embarrassed by how strange the
simple word had sounded coming out of his mouth.
=
IU MANS
oBoy! You better get offTn yer ass! | wanta see some
~tentions! | wanta hear some, sirs! OffTn yer ass, boy!TT
i he oThink about what youTre doing, son,�T the captain said
| Sy remaining calm, ~oYou could be putting a black mark on
oe ar your record that will plague you the rest of your life.�
A The soldier looked at the black skin on his feet amused
by the captainTs ignorance and mumbled, ~Fuk it.�
~You ain't talkinT to no captinT like dat, boy!�T
~GoinT ta jail anyways. Fuk it.�
; The Sergeant First Class grabbed the lapels of the
\ soldierTs shirt and jerked him to his feet. ~oYou ain't gettinT
away with yer shit! Not while yerTre wearinT that uniform!�
The black knocked the sergeantTs hands aside, ~TDen
Se ahTll takT da sons a bitch off! jus git mTon a choppa,
) baby. Sen mTta jail, but git mTass outta herT!�
oDonchu call me baby.T the sergeant retorted, his
mouth moving faster than his mind as he snatched out his
\4
page 21
a "
SS SS
pistol, pulled the slide to the rear, and let it go home with a
live shell, oTake off that uniform, boy, yer jus one morT of da
enemy out herT. I'll send yer fuckinT saddle home.�
Eubanks looked to the captainTs expressionless face, but
the officer just looked at the sergeant, then turned his back
and walked a few feet away. The soldier looked at his
sergeant, the gun in his hand. That goddamn gun! This
goddamn jungle!! All the fucking guns!!
ooMotha-fuck ya and yoT mo-fukinT warinT shit!�
Smitty spit. ~oThink that sargTll shootTm?�T
Reickard decided to wait. Maybe his wad wouldn't look
so small if he didnTt spit too close behind Smitty, oITm rather
inclined to doubt it.�T
oShit. BetTs first time heTs had dat howg-leg out in
years. Ah doubt he ~members howta use it.T� Spit.
oOur sergeant has a role problem. He is so busy trying
to be what he thinks he should, he has forgetten what he
is.T Dribble.
Reickard reached up and wiped his mouth with the back
of his hand as Smitty tilted his head forward and cocked it
to look at his squat friend, wondering how he could see
through the dust and sweat caked on his glasses, oReick,
yer fucked up.�
Reickard looked at Smitty and smiled as he pulled a dirty
white linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped off the
back of his hand.
oListen, son,� the captain said walking back to where
Eubanks was standing, ~TMy feet hurt too, all our feet hurt,
and our backs ache, and we're on edge, but...�
oDoc said mTfeetTs too bad foT dis shit.�
The captain studied his young soldier for a silent
moment remembering a voice from somewhere in his past
telling him how even a harmless snake will strike if it is
cornered. The officer didnTt want to hurt this black boy; he
didnTt want to hurt anyone. He was tired, tired of hurting
and fighting and killing. He just wanted to go somewhere
quiet, lay down, and make babies, without making noise.
oSergeant, does this man have a light duty chit?TT the
captain asked trying hard to remember where he was and
wondering how he got there.
oNo, sirlTT the sergeant answered, offended that the
captain had felt it necessary to ask. ~~HeTs had one for two
months, sir. But | brought that shit to a screechinT halt. |
went to medical and talked to them myself, just before he
shoved off. They said they were just honoring his
complaint, but said they couldnT find nothinT wrong. He's
returned to full duty, sir.�T
page 22
oFuk it.�
~Smitty, did you by any chance read in Time magazine
where the general said ~that todayTs black soldiers were the
finest fighting men this country hadT ever produced?�
~What da shit does he know? He ainTt seen no fightinT
men fer thirty years, cept maybe on da boob tube.�T Smitty
spit, beautiful.
~Perhaps youTre right.TT Reichard leaned forward and
decided to just let it fall to the ground between his legs.
~~| think the generTlTas generalizinT.TT Smitty said
transferring his wad.
Reickard laughed his own peculiar small laugh, ~Why,
Smitty, you...1 do believe you made a pun.�
Smitty looked at his giggling friend, trying to figure why
he had picked him, out of all the men fighting this war,
oWhat da fuckTs a pun?�
oOh, why thatTs a...�
oAnd will you clean dem fuckinT glasses.�
oOh, goodness, ~I didnTt realize they were so..."T He
took his dirty handkerchief from his pocket and started
wiping the glasses, ~~But you know, now, Sergeant Jackson
was pretty good, and he was a negro.�
~~HeTas a nigger,TT Smitty said as he leaned back against
the tree, ~~and heTas damn good.�
Reickard held the glasses up to check his work, not
satisfied; he spit on the lens and winched as he was visually
reminded of the tobacco in his mouth. He was afraid to
look and see if Smitty had seen him. ~~Why, the day he was
killed,TT the small soldier continued, trying to undo his
damage, with the dirt-saturated handkerchief, o~He was on
his feet, running back and forth behind his platoon,
directing fire as well as any platoon sergeant, and...�
ooBang.TT Smitty spit.
The captain spoke with a strained voice, his lips taunt
like the sound would waiver if he opened his mouth to
speak freely. ~Private, there isnTt going to be any
helicopter,TT the officerTs patience was gone, and his civility
was following close behind, ~~YouTre on full duty like the
rest of us, and you'll walk like the rest of us; only, you'll
walk to jail.�
The captain looked to the sergeant for silent
confirmation of the order, then turned, and walked away.
The last time Eubanks had seen his company
commander tight like that, the captain had shoved the
barrel of his pistol through a prisonerTs front teeth, for
spitting on the interpreter. The captain had told the
prisoner he would answer the questions, and the prisoner
page 23
had. Eubanks decided he would not push anymore just
now: he sat down to put his boots back on.
o1 ITm...AhTm gonna be right on yer ass, boy!T the
sergeant stammered, waving the pistol in EubankTs face,
oYou miss one step, you even so much as hesitate, Ah'll
shoot you right in yer lazy ass, yer lazy good-fer-nothinT ass!
You got that, boy!�
oDonTt miss, motha-fucker! �
~I'd feel lot betterTd dat phoney cock suckerTd put dat
howg-leg ~way forT he fuckTs ~round anT shoots somethinT,�
Smitty said getting up to move out with the rest of the
company.
ooYou canTt seriously believe he would shoot Eubanks,�
Reickard said getting up.
oEubankTs ainT~t who ahTm worried ~bout.�
oWell, possibly more expedient than sound, but one
must admit that the sergeant and the captain did solve their
problem with Mister Eubanks,TT Reickard said as he tried to
improve his range with the standing position. It didnTt help,
his effort was too intense and the tobacco flew out of his
mouth leaving brown saliva streaming through the stubble
on his chin.
Smitty just closed his eyes and shook his head, ~~Reick,
you are really fucked up, | donTt know why ah let you foller
_ yer as fucked up as hoganTs goat.�
Reickard wiped his chin with the back of his hand and
reached for the handkerchief. He hesitated, thinking,
forming each syllable before he spoke, ~~Least ah ain't a
phoney cock sucker.�
o| am,�the General answered, oYes, | am convinced.
Why, / have discussed it at length with my staff,� he
scratched his crotch, oand | am convinced there is no
problem.
"tt | tT """"-
]
A AUT Pr WUD WA VAY |W Y
gaa WAN a AA Ai AERA PAUAY WET OOVUTLITEN OT BITIVIT'S
WeIRy aba a | ii ALY
MAL i : 4
|
page 24
(untitled)
dazed by her own distored illusion
taking stock in her green virginity
she bought a diamond dream
with an affirmative
when he spouted oiled words
the poetry of prosperity
soon the wedding wrings her marriage to the millionaire
the two impaired in the playful act
VVATLAIM UALSEMAT=ILAcIoSoe (c101|[81c1¢ MAIO MEE O) Z- 1107
but now prisoner of a platinum palace
the weasel woman in mink is clawing her cage
yh «i
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sis De
untitled
| died in the winter
and from the sowerTs bag
was planted as seed.
Within the bleak and silent chamber wails
the black procession
shed enough tears to turn my fingers
into roots
and hold me to the earth.
they cut the earth
and laid me in my bleeding bed--
my ears fell silent to the promise.
Thawing rains came,
turning my eyes to glass to see no stars,
and the cheating worm
went beyond my guarding hands
and ate my heart.
In spring the land from the tree of life
came knocking at my chamber door--
ijt came in and took what it could find.
When all was gone
| took my box of earthly treasures,
kissed my moulding lips,
and | went home.
page 26
page 27
b
a
. @
OA TT REY A TL TE eS TE IIR Sue! nh UL if eT fi! 1/00 A
" _ ee ee eer rere a en acm --
He walked outside the restaurant. An hour for lunch
was too long, he thought. He had forty minutes left before
he had to be back to the publishing house. A boring job"
he looked at the wet pavement " at least it expected little of
him. Nothing like the newspaper was, no, nothing like that.
It was a chilly day. The night before it had rained but
now the sky was clear. A small white cloud remained, light
as a memory, spoiling the absolute blueness of the sky.
Clay wandered downtown, stopping by a little junk
shop. He walked in, a bell tinkled. The man behind the
counter turned and seeing Clay his eyes lit. The man
greeted Clay as if he knew him, ~~Hello!TT Clay smiled
Se politely. Everything in the shop looked dry, faded. The
= 4 items had the look of discarded stage props that had once
; A Theld magic of a wonderful play but were now left to
sruminate in disuse. The old boards in the floor creaked as
F zc lay walked about. A thin, blue scarf floated irritatingly on
Mone of the counters. Clay looked the other way.
, The sun shone unevenly, falling lightly, playfully on the
Mrées: yet glaringly onto the buildings, leaving the symbols
Ro much human effort with a guant, pale look. A leaf,
fught in a whirl-wind, danced for a second and fell to the
ide-walk. Clay tried to stop the leaf with his foot, but the
wind took it again. He walked back to work.
There were nights when Clay would read, and there
were nights when he would get blind. He could spend long,
rapt hours buried in Drieser, or Gide, sitting at home near a
window. He also loved Dostoevsky; the ashtray would fill
as he read. Afterwards heTd go to bed feeling
well-read. How nice to be well-read, he poked himself.
Clay was going out. There was a bar downtown where
he often went. It was too heavily carpeted, too heavily
upholstered, a place for the climbers to feel successful. The
pianist on seeing ClayT would always begin to play
Gershwin. (Once on a drunken, happy night Clay had
demanded to hear ~~Summertime� three times.) ~By
yourself tonight?TT the pianist called. Clay smiled politely
and sat at the bar. ey
He drank. Groups of twos and threes sat laughing at the
tables, speaking the languages of office, and school, and of
friends newly married. oLok 4
Clay-was. on-his third dgj
witha high school geometpy,
to him. .o~l never was too"go¢
oIn sureyitTs. interestin , Plato. liked it.T The
teacher went to~the r om. Clay, alone again, lit a
cigarette; his reasoning beginning to leave. A song drifted
Wig@ht-and slow through the air, the notes playing on the
rising smoke of his cigarette. The melody was warm in the
dim orange light---warm in the orange light, he stroked her
brown back, got.her hair in his mouth---T~Another?�T asked
the bartender.
oYes, please, and get one for the math, | meanh,
geometry teacher too-T
The next morning ClayTs cigarette tasted like. cotton,
and he made his coffee strong.
~ He started a conversation
, cher who wasrsitting next
ometty,TT Clay offered,
©
33
page 28
eae |
Ca maa ae
PO) |
bs) A ae
page 29
Envy
Look at the shape of your fear.
Touch it. Polish its features
with the anxious knowledge
of the blind,
but do not compare.
When envy snaps the spine,
and sparks short hate,
remember
what waits in the space
of two notes, coiled,
what strikes in that red silence.
Like a lizard on the water,
lie and wait.
untitled
Six years of your talking to me, very excitedly.
yadda yadda yadda
words skip from your mouth.
Your eyebrows charge up, hands flutter:
all signs of interesting conversation.
Only ITm not listening.
I'm not noticing how much
your long hair looks like a wig--
a piece stuck on your face.
Your face a puppet's--
jaw moving up and down,
wood knocking wood.
| try to believe that you're real (as you once were)
but | canTt get beyond the little dance you do.
Smiling, laughing, shaking your head.
You think | understand you.
| cover my face. You must not see
how completely love has left.
=
sound
bird fluttering in the distance
mistaking my lamp for an early sunrise
cigarette smoke burns images in the dark
7 my thought races towards tomorrow
ws mma
dear mother: i am fine
i know that you were wise
coming home soon...
a word upon a line
my ashes fall into yesterdayTs coffee
symbol of my independence
like the empty bottle of wine
yet i am going home
: bringing back all the ties
| wondering why i ever left
my cheek falls against the windowpane
eyes probing the vacant night
knowing it exists somewhere beyond my sight
the unicorn, the phoenix, the paper tiger
dream of no dimension
i turn out the light
tears threatening to overflow my eyes
quiet bird, the sunTs gone down
) | am going home
page 31
The hazzards of Modern Life (A Contemporary Nursery Rhyme)
with Apologies to Mother Goose
ten little cocklebirds swinging on a vine
one took a whif of smog then there were nine
nine little cocklebirds sitting on a gate
one ate some lead based paint then there were eight
eight little cocklebirds flying towards heaven
one got hit by a sonic jet then there were seven
seven little cocklebirds sitting on some sticks
one fell in the Potomac river then there were six
six little cocklebirds making a sky dive
one fell down a factory smokestack then there were five
five little cocklebirds decided they were poor
one tried to get a welfare check then there were four
four little cocklebirds watching color t.v.
one sat too close to it then there were three
three little cocklebirds wondering what to do
one got knifed in the New York subway then there were two
two little cocklebirds watching the setting sun
one got hit by a drunken driver then there was one
one little cocklebird , ~~all alone,T�T sighed,
~owhat kind of world have we birdbrains made,
that all my friends should die?�
page 32
TS Spe
" + A A
COFFEE POTS AND MIRRORS
Coffee pots |
and mirrors--
Can | avoid them?
can you?
Towel rack and images
await each day.
Everyman:
two aspects--
one creased, one whole,
Faces something
he calls Truth.
It is the bandage
he uses to repair
the nicks of time.
tn
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page 37
A POEM ON MYTH
| thought
casting you
meant laying
old myth aside.
But absence
and silence show:
You were not maker,
merely scribe.
Chris
| lost my eloquence
on the path to womanhood
lost with virginity
between white sheets
and common words,
the hairy shoulders
snoring next to me
| shudder
Talking four letters
one word goodbyes---
the hundredth time
my mouth burns with no-words
no questions,
looking for gushing
orgasmic phrases
page 38
page 39
| will remember the time
when | was young.
My parents and | spent summers
at the shore in a house called ~~the weed�.
And how, when running from the sea, | fell,
set my sailboat shaped scar upon my cheek.
and how | sat with my airplane bandage
and watched my parents pout amber-bitter juice
into their glasses and dance upon a wooden floor
beneath a bare bulb glowing.
oh my father was full of my mother
he kissed her neck, held her closer
and how | watched them dance
through the amber-bitter juice
and my barefoot mother became an amber lady
for now I'll remember the sea has ~~the weedT�T.
and how people in white stopped talking
and lowered their knowing eyes as | passed.
how my father held nothing
and | only knew my mother for her long hair
and how kind words hit the sterile walls
and hardened in my throat
and how my heart fought
the clinging hands that ripped it open
as | walked down the hall
beneath a bare bulb glowing.
PATHETIC HUMOR
How subtle,
the oppression, the force
in the expression
of such philosophy.
The vagueness of words,
deceitful
as the showers at Dachau.
Banners will fly;
children will play;
people living, straining
for desires to be met.
The contemporary savage
secluded by himself,
for himself,
to remain a slave
to himself only,
a pill for ulcers
flaming in his belly.
Sublime suggestions demanding response,
dusk comes only too soon for some,
but for us,
she hides her smile in my neck.
page 40
Eulogy to Tomorrow
The seas have floundered
a billion years hence,
and man has floundered
in nightTs glacial extinction;
DeathTs parade ever paces life:
r Man hurries to the seas
Ih to witness a greater folly than himself,
and perishes in the star-burnt moonfall.
| The seas linger, mesmerized,
i waiting for Man to arise at dawn
proclaimed self-made savior anew.
A night-ciad Demigod
| : born of insanity
| and New Year resolution.
God
or Ahura Mazda or Krishna
grin down from their skies,
, counting the eons and the seconds
| waiting, to silence the clocks of earth,
| to fragment a billion years into snow,
the rhetoric of History extinguished.
And the seas shall flounder
i a billion years hence--
: mesmerized
silent in what they know,
homesick and lonely
for the comradary of Man.
ee page 41
The sun
breaks open the horizon
while a god sleeps,
unconscious
to the blustery boots
of the unknown.
The sounds seek the old man
working in his basement,
protesting the doors
that shut him in.
He views the chimney draft
and hears the belching hells.
Meanwhile,
shaving the last whisker
from his face,
the god pauses
for the old man to dream
of screaming eggs
and the birth of a world.
page 42
Sex. This story is about sex. Sex in the South on a
warm, but not too sticky summer evening. The boy has
ridden mules, shucked corn; and driven tractors. The two |
men, although friends, are unalike. However, they do share
the South. Square rosewood grand pianos, plaster ceiling
grape clusters, and twisted banisters are as much a part of
the menTs lives as the cobwebs behind canning jars filled
page 43
with peaches or pickles, and women who, to this very day,
sweep their dooryards around while lilacs seldom bloom.
BubberTs house sits closer to town than it did eighty
years ago, for the town has grown closer to it. BubberTs
house probably never possessed a Chickering grand with
bulbous cabriole or octagonal legs, but in all likelihood
contained at one time an upright piano with a modicum or
ornamentation and a soundboard whose resonance,
although not perfect, lay beyond the realms of criticism
except by only a few people whose ear had been
wonderously trained in some conservatory or musical
institute up north.
In this house, from which that probable upright had
been removed in the 1940Ts after the war, the source of
entertainment is now a color television set, a large 25 inch
RCA portable. Beneath the brown cabinet on the wrought
~ron stand is a small highly glazed vase with orange, yellow,
and blue plastic flowers, an acquisition of BubberTs
motherTs impulse, or a gift from some church occasion. A
couch, two upholstered chairs,and other loved-out-of-ne
cessity, objects fill the room. Beige walls and beige
curtains cover the large counterbalanced windows.
Humanity, intelligence, and sensitivity are oblivious to
surroundings. Yet once these qualities are developed in a
person, and especially in a man, they are not qualities that
reach necessarily for the stars, but are qualities that content
4 man with starry nights and flights of feeling. Bubber is
one of those men, now in his late twenties who is resting his
large body in one of the overstuffed chairs, his legs propped
on the worn leatherette hassock. Bubber is a man of vision
for he sees the difference between what is and what could
be. Bubber is amused at the wonders of time-lapse
photography with its racing clouds and exploding blooms,
yet he prefers to watch his camellia buds open and exhaust
themselves in their own time, to watch the sky flow into
night, sunlight, or rain.
And it is with this view that Bubber knows the plastic
flower beneath the television will someday by replaced; the
beige walls become appropriately pastel; and, the drapes,
period swags and flounces. This is Bubber on this
evening. Earl, his friend, sitting across from him, is
older. Earl is contemplating the quality of another
potentially lackluster evening with his episcopal
austerity. Earl is of the cloth. He is thin and fashionable,
and inwardly feels that these two qualities will protect him
from any of the trials and tribulations reserved for ~~other
people.TT Bubber, for all his sensitivity, never detected that
underlying attitude in Earl, for Earl, much like the interiors of
a great many Roman Catholic churches,appeared pleasing, if
page 44
na
eee
ooo ee ee
not somewhat excessive to the eye, until one looks behind
the statues, organs, and altars and sees the debris of
unenthusiastic cleaning and the accumulation of disuse.
The thin Earl began prodding Bubber with ~~LetTs get
something going.�
Bubber twitched his buttock feeling more a part of the
chair than a part of EarlTs proposal. Bubber contemplated
nothing pretending to contemplate everything, looking
around him with a false determination. The stimulus
proved to be too positive, for Bubber knew from the
workings of his internal sensitivites that excitement is given
to humans with undetermined irregularity.
~What do you want to do?�T Bubber replied with only
the slightest hint of enthusiasm in his voice.
oGet some action going.�
Not being moved for less than an almost sure thing,
Bubber threw the weight of invention on Earl. ~~We
can. Where do you want to go?�
~~LetTs go on over to Langton,�T Earl suggested with little
Originality.
oYou know nothing has ever happened over there.T�T
~| donTt want to stay around here.�T Earl pronounced,
permitting his Sunday morning imperialism to creep into his
voice.
~Yeah, | guess youTre right,TT Bubber offered, scooting
his massivemess farther down into the cushion.
oWhy donTt we call Phil? Maybe heTd want to go riding
over there with us.�
At this point Bubber knew the two of them were going
out, regardless of what might happen. An_ indefinable
moment or two passed and Bubber replied, ~~Are you going
to call, or do you want me to call?�
Bubber knew what the answer was going to be, but had
asked the question anyway, merely to bring an eveness to
their responsibility for the eveningTs plans.
oWhy donTt you go ahead and call since it is your
house. Besides, they might recognize my voice,� Earl
proferred.
Phil's family had nothing to do with EarlTs church, but
Earl's excuses were Earl's excuses.
Bubber called Phil.
oUn-uh. Phil's not chere.�T
Covering the mouthpiece haphazardly, but uttering
nothing that would have dared offend anyone anyway,
Bubber whispered somewhat uninspiredly to Earl, ~~HeTs not
in.T Earl uglied his mouth. Bubber shrugged his
shoulders. Petite crisis. Bubber spoke into the phone,
oJust a second,TT and put the receiver against his well-
padded stomach.
page 45
Earl asked, ~~Who are you talking to?�T
oThe next younger brother-- the one that night the four
of us went off and....�T letting himself trail off.
With computerized quickness, Earl clicked out, ~Ask
him to go.�
Bubber spoke into the phone, ~Earl and | are thinking
about riding around some, and we was wondering if you
might like to go with us.�
Before the question had time to register in the boyTs
mind, Earl blurted out, oShit!TT BubberTs free hand hit the
mouthpiece. Earl continued, oWe canTt take a damned
fourteen year old out with Sd
Bubber shrugged, for the boy had just leisurely finished
saying, ~~Ah wouldn't mind goinT for a ride.�
oWe'll be by in a little while then. Bye,TT Bubber
concluded and hung up.
Earl pretended halfway disappointment. ~TShit. What
are we going to do with a fourteen year old kid? HeTs
homely as sin. Shit!�
oShit. Shit me,� Bubber smiled. ~It's got a dick and
you've done it. You did it that night his brother took him
along.T
o1 couldn't get you away from his brother,TT Earl retorted
lightly.
Bubber smiled.
oGet that shit eating grin off your face.�
Bubber quickly riposted, ~~We donTt have to do anything
with the kid, just drive around for awhile and take him back
home.�
Bubber knew his defense was a purely conventional
social statement, but he wanted to believe that there was
some truth in it. Bubber pulled the front door to, not
locking it, and followed Earl to the car. They got into the
four door sedan whose metallic blue, oxygen and sunshine
had eaten into chalk. The same oxygen and sunshine that
peels the paint off white houses: those large hollow houses
that sprout magnolias and wrecking crews. Deserted
American, lolling its evening activity between the TV, the
kitchen, and the bathroom, tired of the monotony of
recurring bills, recurring weekends, and work.
Bubber and Earl drove on in search for PhilTs younger
brother and their need for excitement, their search for a
trick. A ~otrick,TT at once the most promising of creatures
and the most unfullfilling. A ~~trick,T� the magic that may be
turned into something regular, and short of regular,
something that hopefully is interesting enough for
conversation when the only diversions are reminiscing,
polaroid photographs, and someone's oily paged,
overviewed collection of professional pornography.
page 46
al
eo 7 Eee
2 See
"_-
A trick fits precariously into the middle class system of
soulless order. The search for the trick and the acceptance
of the need for that kind of diversion are hastily
condemned by people who suffer other people to be
unhappy much in the way they are. On the long road from
material success to spiritual collapse, Bubber and Earl have
decided to take a detour, for they are hardly without
spirituality. EarlTs spirituality is incongrously conventional
in Comparison to BubberTs whose humanity flows from an
overflow of the heart.
Regardless of their own shortcomings, Bubber and Earl
see the conflicts in othersT lives. They see and have seen in
many young men the longing for a different life, the
unhappy tension between impulse and conformity. They
both have had long talks with young men who became
young married men who came to despise not their wives,
but the loss of freedom their wives eventually came to
represent.
However, Bubber and Earl donTt announce to society
what their proclivities are. That men invariably link their
names to those of their mothers and other young men
seems a Satisfactory resolution to their circumstances. In-
voviements with fourteen year olds do not enter the
imaginations for their straight friends, for digressions of that
magnitude are shared only with the initiated-- those who
have waited in tearooms compromising their aesthetic
standards for the thrill of a dick, or those who have risked
Criminal prosecution in public parks for their private acts.
Bubber and Earl had lived in big cities, but like those
birds who rely solely upon instinct, they returned to the less
hectic intersections of their childhood, having faith in the
possibilities of a small town. Bubber drove his car with the
abandon and territorial restrictions of a roulette ball, hoping
his automobile would find the most rewarding resting place
and multiply the investments of his time and efforts.
The car sluggishly stopped in front of a small white
dying house. Inside was a family whose sons, though not
specimens of natureTs greatest achievements, were
creatures who felt the pleasures of the body in an extremely
selfindulgent manner. The sons in early puberty had
developed an affinity for mutually experiencing the
sweetness the body offers. At night the brothers had
initiated each other into the secret mysteries of the flesh.
In the family, the older brothers had not forced the
younger brothers to satisfy their desires through
subjugation or humiliation. The older boys simply wanted
pleasure. So in their beds, the boys contented themselves
with reaching naturally between each other's legs and
fingering the hidden penises, bringing them to an exciting
page 47
under the covers erection and then to a sock filled orgasm,
for their mother would complain if the sheets were
noticeably spotted.
Bubber tooted the horn.
The front door opened and closed. Earl got out of the
car and the boy got in between them. They drove
off. Bubber and Earl exhanged empty comments as they
rode into the unpopulated country.
oDo you want to?� Earl directed toward Bubber with
everybit of insinuation his voice could manage.
Bubber paused for he still maintained a sense of
morality even in the sleeziest of circumstances. He could
not consent with his lips, and yet he could not reject EarlTs
and his own secret desires, so Bubber once again shrugged
his shoulders, which was to say, oI donTt think we should,
but on the other hand | canTt see any real harm in it if the
boyTs willing.�
Earl spoke next. He spoke flatly to the boy, ~Take your
clothes off.�
The boy looked at him, reached down and began
unlacing his large shoes. A not too great distance later with
the shoes in the footwell and the clothes in the back seat,
Earl ran his hands over the boyTs body. Bubber let his free
right hand join in the exploration of the childTs nudity. Earl
then ran his hand up on the boyTs neck and pulled the boyTs
head down onto the hard Earl offered him. The boy,
although not practiced in that oral activity, had some time
before mastered the rudiments that brought pleasure to the
recipient of his mouth.
Bubber had found a deserted road and had stopped the
car. Bubber undid his trousers and slid them down to his
ankles. Then Bubber took the boyTs head into his
lap. Bubber and Earl exchanged their young acquisition
with regularity until he was no longer needed.
After the tissues were extracted from the crumpled box
and thrown into the ditch at the edge of the adjoining field,
Earl stated, ~~You can put your clothes on.�T
Bubber started the car amid the twistings and turnings
of the young passenger. They began to drive back by a
direct route. No one spoke. When they came to a state
~lluminated intersection, Bubber cut his eyes to Earl. Earl
passively responded with another uglied expression.
Bubber felt awkward and unctously overflowed with o~Is
there anything you'd like to do?�
A quick silence.
The boy spoke. ~You could buy me a ice cream cone.�
Bubber drove straight to the Dairy Queen, purchased
the largest chocolate dipped concoction, and took Phil's
younger brother home.
page 48
"_"o
|
aS
Mh OT MCGEE
KOC
Oi
ae
pe | lee oo ee
A story, you want me to tell you a story
YES, YES, YES
WHISPER, WHISPER YES
A funny real story
freed of details and quickly shortened
The young boy not pretty
who pretended smiles were touches
and so he sowed laughter everywhere
casting forth his seeds on every soil
and his life grew strangely in other hearts
He was alone so many nights
but a laugh, always laughter
running into the morning sun -
He winked at everyone knowing
he knew, and only nineteen, too
Nor could | love him
in any way | thought was love
It's not getting funny for all the nights.
and days we rode in his Pervertable
shouting and his telling people | wrote
and would one day be
This is afterall a real story
Tired so soon, so you want another
YES, YES, OH, YES, ANOTHER
About the frog who defended the marijuana patch
against the armies of UlyssesT men
To save the five pronged plant
Using amazing ingenuity
Writing signs and carving stelae
placing them strategically
while the ship hung in a bay suspended
between Zeus and Poseidon
te ee
a nL ES
Ce ak le oe al
*
f
0
q
~
,
/
4
page 50
~Beware Invisible GodsT�T
oOnce touched, forever madTT
~~No heroes here, just dreams�
Ulysses could not keep them back
but they saw no one
just the signs from the fabulous frog
Another, so soon
WE DO NOT LIKE SERIOUS STORIES
AND YOU INSIST UPON TELLING US
SERIOUS STORIES
Should | defend, or should | do?
You hear what you want to hear
| see only people
| know, you want the one
about the girl with red Repunzel hair
who flowed with nervousness into her boyfriend
who lay back amid
his stacks of books and future plans
and disapproved of everything
except his pleasure
How she loved, she surely loved
small breasted (Many a girlTs envy,
but not her own)
But his body stiffened
and she loved that cold indifferent shaft
because she felt the world
and hugged everyone
She was forever getting over everything,
OR the one about the couple who
forever aS anyone can remember were friends
and one day (with more tact than |)
admitted in their forties
oWe are tired of living alone.�
And so shared the plans of future sharing
The house will have everything
to accompany the large Waterford
Scotch glasses
But the girl with her Titianesque hair
has given up, if freed from that
Lawrencian hero Lawrence would have loved
and scorned, never like poor sweet Genet
who worshipped natureTs profuse and littering gifts
lf we were to address a different group, ITd say
Approach/Avoidance
The serpent snakes of Lawrence would be lovely
and would harm no one
slithering into the holes of pleasure
and the couple, Chippendaled into
(oChrist what areTT) patterns (for?TT)
will live happily ever after
The sweet redhead will find someone new
Her dream from whom she demands
intelligence, indifference, equality and love.
| do not know if these things are compatible
Another story, you really want to hear another story
| will tell you about a beautiful man
a hero who was touched by Athens
more than Sparta
No hollow man but a grand eastern Greek
who is not Greek at all
but who like the sweet Narcissus
blooming between the pavement and the sidewalk
never sees himself
But mind you, he is Olympian
and like father Zeus arranges lives
and visits secretly
for a kiss, a smile, or a phone call
your heart
His sweet curse, blind Oedipus saw
and lived under twenty years,
oe he
Of re
arn oO tt Me
ew
page 53
is that no one saw his beauty
and those who did like those
who heard CassandraTs words
chose not to believe
But | have told you nothing of his life
the details
But the Greek, ancient, momentary 410 B.C.
Greek beauty
he could not see himself
And this is what they never understood is beauty:
Those marble and lapis eyes
staring into the marble soul"
The athlete never knows the beauty
others see in his race, his running-
The others come around, wanting to touch
but held back by some ribbon
Not all laurels fade
Rest my handsome friend upon your pillows
Call the gods and visions into words
Keep telling and telling when they ask
| cannot tell you another. story for
Stories are of Gold
WE, WE, WE WANT ANOTHER STORY
Is there ever one last story?
Well, | suppose one, anyway
Once on the shores of alien land
Armies fought in lenghtly wars
over things such as honor and blood
Yes, those abstractions
amid many more abstractions,
and death occured,
ever present death with its mysteries... .
On one night, alone with the armoured body
of his lover, Achilles, in torchlight,
In you, | have died
You lie still,...Do you remember
the night, that first night?
| awoke many hours before sweet Aurora
kissed her god adiue" when Artemis
still rules the stars" when silver
paled that flesh, not death.
Desire came to me, quiverring upon your lips,
Your sleeping lips
Boys, we were boys pretending,
like all youth, to know
we knew ourselves
Such foolishness we played to keep our hearts
protected
| boasted then, how brave!
But that morning you lay there
my fears dissolved in love
O my friend, my lover
stand before me in death as you stood
beside me in life
O sacred divinities, who call every mortal
to your shores, greet him with favor
and when you deem it just,
permit us in the realms of Morpheus
to meet.
My early death will join us quickly,
for against eternity, this grief is like
that desire of the first morning
Swiftly dispelled, when both we touched.
In you, | have died
and in you, | shall live
Sweet Petroclus, | await our union
in the Gods.
~
a
LEE ee
gr ee alle
October Beast
It would have done,
not the cry for more of you,
the teeth that tore a Hamlet's heart
to pieces of persuasion.
A legend glances from behind the fan,
an hourTs dark breath
argues softly y
its own endless theme.
OT i
Too soon you let her hear
the heartTs pathetic pace
in and out of light. \
She could not slash the mask,
you could not slave the face.
So repelled at the logicTs conclusion
you knew more languages E
than you had tongues. i
The towers babbled for you in twilight.
An applied remorse, :
a disciplined disaster
dangled from the eyeTs painted delirium. :
You could have dropped you coat \
in the foyer, '
returned to stub the ashing cigarette
and wave away the haze,
you could even have hesitated by the door
describing a garden of regrets.
It would have done.
It would have held you
{ from an exitTs completion,
Pe the resolveTs twisted walk.
From the golden hair in wet
and unhooked straps of fingers paused
j came the elastic acceptance,
the pliable heart's paradox.
Tucked inside the gowns
of what was gone,
an enigmaTs ice
burns to clip the year.
And it was there,
coiling in starkness
like the wireTs refusal;
struck,
you will reel to ruin
among the fangs and claws,
the unleashed laws of fall.
page 56
page 57
wishing well
the sonnets are growing stale
bowed are the silvered scalps
of hunchbacks posed like questions
before the sentence of life
once deathTs embossed expression
was a counterfeit conclusion
boxed in the cellar
when fools danced upon their graves
until the threat of purgatory
then the culprits yelped to the archangels in the attic
answered only by the auras of the Anitichrists
the brass-heads spoke of no wall
to damn the onrushing Armageddon
now pitted desires purchased with the pitched coin
past hope submerged in ridiculed regret
the Pardoner shakes his saffron seaweed
against the stench of rotting relics
the hunchbacks awaiting Elysium
heave and hold noses
lon es ween aoe
page 59
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page 62
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page 65
page 66
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TO ROBERTA
You came to me;
well-versed in the
knowledge of sunset,
knowing well the quiet
language of shadows.
We saw;
a wet spiderTs web, itching
with light in the shade,
and the moon once, white
as a brushed tooth.
Each standing weed
gave itself to melody,
softly,
in the wind-sculped silence.
We drank stinging liquor
and fought,
loud, harmless,
like two birds in dry leaves.
What pleasant company
your hair kept with the wind!
You left;
as quietly as a cloud,
as honestly as summer,
like the essence of music
not leaving at all.
© ahr he,
mobys
4
»
sco aye
: eke) irre
Terrified,
you pull out the pen,
rip out the sheet!
to begin, and ag@in
what is there herp to begin?
;
ayo
There is no wompn by the window,
only a chair,
ghgsts of flowers
I a yellowed curtai
: nailed to the facing:
Bué you will eo
A GIRL STANDING BY THE ROSES...
T you will not believe this is enough;
jit 8 never enough.
Outside,
thésdoor openingk-a dog scratching,
birds laughing over warm eggs,
voiges from roonjs
drawn in and ou
and the eye opers-only to close:
if this would dof
if Only arranging weuld"do.
You will nod,
you will bow your-féad in acknowledged prayer,
4 smoothing out y@ur_wrinkled words,
nodding and knowing:
only an arrangement,
it is an arrangement,
that is alll.
B You have writter].poems
gorged with butT6 of cigarettes,
withdrawn glances,
~ = hands poised in the dark
a ae: os as. $trangers talk finto mirrors,
dialogs of Ses conspired,
not quite sufficient for truth.
And all of these come~before you,
come walking naked and kneel before you,
portraits of a dogbted symphony.
.
= : vu order; f
yOu arrange;
. lines are. drawn,
ems struggle té-connect;
at.only for a moment;
that nrement ; "~
the stars Stati (
&) and you chances teathing.....
~
Yes, it is an arrangement.
At least you have the relief of design.
You have brought them together
and for just that one moment
at an angel's laugh leaps off the page;
ett yp your silence will ask,
. , oWhere are your wings?�
litte
piiii\)
WANA
FINMION
JOPMN ¢
LOUD AINA
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ah Als :
PC h MAMOK
JOM ODI
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Ort ~INK
CICIQ. SIGN
Oo) walare
IONS. WWUIIES
oWade an COIN
See 4%
is a nom de plume who has previously been published in THE REBEL but who, despite our
pleas, refuses to openly acknowledge his true identity.
was formerly the Editor of past REBELS as well as contributor who, regardless of warnings
to the contrary, repeatedly expresses himself through a literary genre he claims total
ignorance of. His poems have also appeared, surprisingly enough, in the NAT/ONAL
POETRY ANTHOLOGY. At present he is applying for a grant from THE NATIONAL
ENDOWMENT FOR THE ARTS AND HUMANITIES to work on a large volume of poetry
which he will attempt, unfortunately, to have published.
is a senior and an anthropology major which constitutes the bare bones of her biography.
has recently published articles in THE SOUTHEASTERN COMMUNITY LITERARY
MAGAZINE and AR/ES1 and is presently struggling with his first attempts at prose fiction.
iS a senior music major who started writing at age eleven. Coming from Charlotte, N.C. to
EAST CAROLINA UNIVERSITY, she now describes herself as a writer becoming more
serious in her intent
is from Alexandria, Virginia and currently a freshman here supposedly majoring in Special
Education but has other diverse interests such as dance, water sports, etc. She claims that
her poetry is not vague but fairly simple to understand.
is a graduate student in EAST CAROLINA UNIVERSITY'S History Department whose
poems have also appeared in S/GNET, a literary publication at QUEENTS COLLEGE,
Charlotte, N.C.
is from Crawfordsville, Indiana and veteran of the Marine Corps., who took a B.A. in Drama
at EAST CAROLINA UNIVERSITY and is presently enrolled in the universityTs graduate
program in English. He has had a campfire drama of his performed on the outer banks and
is presently working On a novel based on a series of experiences and impressions of war
entitled, HIND SIGHT: AN ANTHOLOGY OF MEMORABILIA.
is a freshman from Hickory, N.C. and consistent reviewer for the FOUNTAINHEAD and a
regular and contributing member to the POETRY FORUM, directed by Mr. Vernon Ward.
teaches creative writing at Wilson, N.C. at ATLANTIC CHRISTIAN COLLEGE. Her poetry
has appeared in B/TTERROOT, ARIZONA QUARTERLY, THE AMERICAN, THE REBEL,
and other magazines. ASCEND THE HILL is her current volume of verse.
is another mysterious fiction writer whose existence after much investigation, remains in
question.
is a senior at EAST CAROLINA from Kinston, N.C. whose poetry has previously appeared in
THE REBEL, TAR RIVER POETS,and THE BUCCANEER.
has been a past contributor to THE REBEL and has numerous reviews and stories published
in many journals and magazines. He is currently completing his thesis in English at EAST
CAROLINA
teaches at N.C. STATE UNIVERSITY and has published poetry, fiction, and criticism in 4
wide number of journals. He is an associate editor of SOUTHERN POETRY REVIEW and
has published two books; one, a volume of poetry about movies called SEEING /N THE
DARK, the other an anthology called THE SOUTHERN EXPERIENCE IN SHORT
FICTION. Currently he is working on a novel under the aegis of a grant from THE
NATIONAL ENDOWMENT FOR THE ARTS AND HUMANITIES.
iS a nursing major at EAST CAROLINA who has diverse interests such as plants, painting,
and reading
Fwumond (rou
Sah Cooy
Fa CIC
Ctald ONO
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CUonald Schauel
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Ciabld Sm
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2@e= P
graduated from ECU in 1972 with a B.S. in Art and entered graduate school at that same
university in the fall of 1974. He is presently working towards a M.F.A. degree in
printmaking with a minor in painting. His future plans are to continue creating intriguing
visual experiences for other people. Work found on page 64.
graduated from EAST CAROLINA UNIVERSITY Winter Quarter 75 BFA Communication
Arts. To end her college career on an impressive not, Jan was a winner in Mademoiselle
MagazineTs Nationwide College Board competition for a cosmetic design entitled ~TColor
Wheels.� Work found on page 58.
has his B.F.A. and M.F.A. from Maryland Institute College of Art and the University of
Michigan, respectively. He taught various classes in ECUTs School of Art and has had
numerous exhibitions at PennsylvaniaTs Academy of Fine Arts and in the New Hampshire
Art Association. He has had much experience in critiques for various publications,
including Harper and Row, and has served as a judge in many local art exhibits. Work
found on page 66.
is a printmaking major with his M.F.A. being taken in 1971. He has served as a teaching
assistant in several courses here and has had exhibitions in CharlotteTs Mint Museum of Art
and in RaleighTs North Carolina Artists Annual Exhibition, to name but a few. He has
permanent collections here in GreenvilleTs Art Center, UNC at Chapel Hill and at the
University of Toledo in Ohio. Work found on page 61.
now a third year graphic arts student at ECU, was born in Connecticutt and lives now in
Raleigh, N.C. She acknowledges past teachers as well as attending North Carolina's
Governor's School as strong influencing factors in her artistic development. Work found on
pages 49, 55.
is an associate art professor at ECU, having taken his degrees at University of Maryland. He
is currently Chairman of the Communication Arts Department and has exhibits and several
films to his credit. Work found on page 35.
born in New York, is Artist in Residence at ECU, having been a war artist-correspondent in
Africa and Italy. He has received the Guggenhiem Fellowship, served as Chairman of the
Painting Department at California Institute of Art, and author of ~The Content of
WatercolorT in 1969. His work has appeared in L/FE, FORTUNE, NEWSWEEK, and ART
FORUM Magazines. His collections and awards and special shows are too numerous to
mention. Work found on cover, page 59.
received her Masters Degree from East Carolina University and upon graduation joined the
faculty there as a member of the Painting and Drawing department. Recent Exhibitions
have seen her work at the North Carolina Artists Festival in 1974, at the Mushroom Gallery
in that same year, and at the Gallery II, Western Michigan University, in April of 1975. Work
found on page 62.
born in Erie, Pennsylvania, is currently a distinguished professor of Art at ECU. His teaching
experience, like his exhibits and other credits, are too varied and extensive to be fully
mentioned. He does have permanent collections in the Boston Public Library, the Ithaca
College Museum of Art and the New York Public Library just to mention a few.He initiated
the Small Hand Press in 1968 and has done several works in series based on the writings of
Nietzche, Melville, and Chaucer. His series of intaglio paints entitled Vietnam Fragment
were based on his personal observations during that war and served as the source from
which the pieces presented in here are taken. Work found on pages 5, 15, 19, 24.
is a 20 year old junior from Hopewell, Va. majoring in printmaking with a minor in
drawing. His work has appeared in group shows at the Greenville Art Center, the Kate
Lewis Gallery and the Rocky Mount Center. Work found on pages 25, 27, 68.
having attended Texas Christian University and lived in Thailand for over a year, is presently
working on his B.F.A. in painting and photography. His work has received awards in
KinstonTs Spring Arts Fesitval and has appeared in The Buccaneer '74. Work found on
pages 1, 71.
having graduated in 1973 with a B.F.A. in commercial art, is now doing his graduate work
here and plans to teach. He had past experience as an illustrator with Graphics Group, Inc.
in Atlanta, Ga. Work found on pages 65, 67.
is a sophomore art student from Fayetteville, N.C. who had several of his works premiered
in The Rebel '74 of last spring. Work found on page 69.
received her BFA degree from East Carolina University in 1971 and is currently working
towards an MFA degree in Painting. She is a member of Delta Phi Delta, National Honor
Fraternity for Art students and has had her work exhibited in the N.C. State Traveling Show
this year, at the Kate Lewis Gallery and at the Seaford Country Club in Seaford,
Delaware. Work found on page 60.
is a 21 year old senior from Richmond, Va. pursuing a B.F.A. in printmaking with a
jewelry-making minor. His work has appeared in the Pennsylvania State Arts Festival, at
the Rocky Mount Art Center, the Greenville Art Center and the Kate Lewis Gallery. Work
found on pages 33, 63.
Printed by National Printing Company
