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Note on the Cover
Our cover this year is by Jeff Fleming. Chicken Raising Made
Easy, or oI'll give you $20 to kill that damn rooster� won first
place mixed media and first runner-up ~Best-In-Show� in the
Fourth Annual Rebel! Art Show. Jeff holds a B.F.A. in Painting
and Art History from ECU. His work is affiliated with and has
been part of two group shows at Ghent Galleries, in Norfolk,
Virginia. The cover piece draws from a rooster that visited
Jeff's house and a neighborTs subsequent complaint.
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The Rebel is published annuall
Board of East Carolina Univers Jit
located in the Publications Center on |
_ campus. The Rebel welcomes mar
inquiries; however, unsolicited nl
unaccompanied by a stamped, self
envelope will not be returned. Addr
correspondence to The febel, Mende
Student Center, East Carolina U ve
Greenville, NC 27834. This i issue is opy
ed (c) 1979 by The Rebel. All rig
publication to the individua
authors, from whom. per
obtained to reproduce ay
contained in this issue. |
Quotations appear in oo iss
following: Excerpts on pp. 50-51 d
by Ellie Wiesel, copyright 1958 by Les Edi
de Minuit, translated by Stella Rodway; lL:
On p. 51 from The Divine Comedy by Di
Alighieri, copyright 1932 by the Mee
Library, translated by Carlyle, Okey, W W
steed; lyric from oPara Lennon and McC t-
ney,T copyright 1970 by Borges, Borges, and
Brost; lyric from oHelter Skelter� (BMI) by |
John Lennon and Paul McCartney, copyright |
1968 by MacLen Music; lyric from oOh Carol� "
by Al Stewart, oe 1977 eas pik oe
Music.
Editor
Luke Whisnant
Associate Editors
Karen Brock
Reneé Dixon
Robert Jones
Business Assistant
Wendy Dixon
Proofreading
Susy Cheston
Gallery Layout
Robert Jones
Gallery Photography
Debbie Strayer
Kip Sloan
Anheuser-Busch Poetry Award
Sue Aydelette
oScreens�
Jeffreys Beer and Wine Prose Award
Greg Schroder
oWasps� and oBirdladies�
Third Annual Attic Award
Marylu Warwick
oSelf-Portrait�
Art Show Judges
George Brett
Richard Craven
Tom Haines
Special Thanks
Tom oSkinner� Haines
Mickey Corcoran
Dan Pardue
The Art Exhibition Committee
Patricia Knight
Catherine Mercer
Tommy Joe Payne
The Media Board
Gerry Wallace
ART
Writers Ascension Zame Leake ....
illusiraiion ...... Bill Brockman...
Illustration «3... Bil Brockman J...
Photographs . Susan ideriaee = 2
lustration ...... Zeame Leake (ce. ..:
Photographs ....~ Chap Gurley «|
Gallery 12... .. Zane Leake. 3...
Plate Disguised as
Drawing ..... Maggie Noss .....
The Blue is Still
Standing ©... : Kay Pagks .2..75:
Bound to Create . Robert 7. Dick
Distant Landscape jamel Ruse ©)... .-
pource To
The Perfect Flying
Machime .....
Photo. ..4:4....
Obsequious
Nott 2.065
GoatTs Head Soup
Tere jo.
Self-Portraie =.
Robin Singleton .
janet Ennis...) 2
Kipssieam 7.2 8s
fedt Flemime, ....:;
Jaime Bernstein ...
Robert Daniel
Roxanne Reep .
Larry Curtain
Roxanne Reep ....
Debbie Strayer ...
Kip Sipam 00 . 3
jum: Bamees: 2125.5
Marylu Warwick
Purely By Accident Betsy Kurzinger ..
Photo 2...
For God is No
Respecter of
Pereoae .....;
Photographs ....
lllusigaiion ......
Hollyweod ....
illustration...
lllustration
[ustration ,....
Debbie Sirayer. o.-
loam Wilorris ......
Peter E. Podeszwa
Zane Leake 22505:
Pa Wimieett 2... 55,
David Norris ...:.
David Norris 2...
Davia Nomis «2...
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_ Five Poems.
_ Night Mov
_ Two Poems
| Love on. Leave a
Pain ............
_ Diagn
| two Beane
| Two Poems .
a peas
: Four Poems |
| Two Poems .. sees
| Still Running cee
_ Two Poems "
Notes on Hee Potty
_ 1S | S. aie ans a -
_ bee Schroder . 6.
- "Randy § Stalls |
. Ricky W. ee ee
. Sue Aydelette. 6.
. Kim oe 22
Tone re
.. Karen nee
.. Denise anges
Hellclded ; ~Sim
_ Trained ees
the Sixties�
Trucksté op.
_ Forty Seconds .
_ Crabtree See
| The Hobbit .
_ Three Doe�
Dee Poems " i
te er ae
ngee Dudasik "
_ David Tene.
Karen Blansfield .
aes nie _
. RayHarrell ...... 70
. Nancy Moore .. c _ 7E _
- | Monty Bahai
- Michael FL Pacer
+ Jo Ellen Rivenbark _
Reneé Dixon . . 78
Two Poems from Vietnam
Silent Night of Random Dreams
We gather within the compound
To war at volleyball.
Our opponents are Tigersharks,
Evil men with evil names like
Lawnmower and Butcher.
These men love their work
To death.
We slick drivers are less
Adamant. We carry food and
Ammunition, scared young
Warriors and budding John Waynes.
Occasionally, we spend hours
Hauling human hamburger in neat
Green bags.
My callsign is Weasel.
After two hours of vicious
Battle our sweat has muddied
The square.
At six o'clock we dine.
Afterwards, we clean our huts
And write comforting letters
Home, or listen to music and
Dream of dead friends.
Tomorrow we will not fly.
Our ships have worn down
And show their weariness
More punctually than meat
And bone.
At eight oTclock the sun sinks
To a dusty sleep.
We gather at the evil hooch
To drink the blindness of
Good whiskey.
Someone suggests a contest
To separate idiots from fools.
We grab cold bottles of
Crown Royal or Jack Daniels
And begin without fanfare.
By nine-thirty I am wet puke
Or drying vomit from the waist
Down.
Someone is slapping me on the
Back and laughing.
I grin through a film of tears
At this cackling spectre.
Now I pound his back with the
Same detached laughter.
I am foolish enough to believe
In my youth and ability to
Survive anything.
That night we are mortared.
I sleep peacefully where I
Drop.
The next morning I wake and
Find myself face-down in
Maroon sand.
My back-slapping friend is
Curled beside me.
His throat gapes in a thin
Black-blood smile.
I realize only slowly
That he is quite dead.
To confirm this a fly lands
On his face and walks unconcerned
Over his eyelids.
The morning winds rustle his
Soit hair,
I cannot move for the longest
Time.
A maintenance sergeant hears
My wracked coughing and bawls
For a medic.
I am given the next day off also,
In order to forget.
Vw
7th Field Hospital
] am im bed.
White sheets glare primly
From parallel beds.
The walls are flat green.
I am the prone supplicant
They deftly leer upon.
My leg hurts.
It hangs in straps like
An angel in a childTs play.
Five pale toes stick out from
A tube of swath and do not move.
A cast so brilliant white it fades
Into the sheet points a single digit
At my thigh.
I disown it completely but the cast
Laughs and laughs.
Red blossoms like a single poppy
At the knee.
A nurse chides me for exertion.
The laughing leg slams silent
At the approach of benevolent
Authority.
The nurse smiles like a patriot
And explains why my knee flares
So brightly.
She explains how the doctors
Cut with such cool precision.
Her hands are cold as they
Lift my buttocks.
The leg wobbles in sympathy
And weeps moist scarlet at
The movement.
s. phillip miles
The nurse who leans over me
Is beautiful.
Her eyes are round and
Green as the walls.
Her soft breasts block
All of my vision:
I ask for water in
A croaking voice.
She walks away with sturdy legs
Moving in perfect coordination.
I erect immediately, crawling
From my mind into the heat of
Her junctioned thighs.
My knee laughs at this foolishness.
The laughter ends abruptly with
A callous grunt.
The knee runs out of sympathy and
Settles to a catpurring throb.
The nurse returns a different color.
As I marvel this metamorphosis she
Spills water down my chin and places
A tight fist upon my chest to hold
The spasm.
The knee spurts more red laughter
Onto the white plane of mattress.
Blood wanders down the finger cast
And pools beneath my crotch where
It cakes into mud and itches.
The morphine retreats in inches
From the insistent pain.
I grow more uncomfortable.
I wake with a river of moss
Coursing my mouth and throat.
A strange woman in a white sheath
Of uniform gropes for my pulse
And stares into my open eyes.
She explains my sleepy laughter
With studied concern.
The leg wobbles in its intricate webbing,
The walls leer at my discomfort
With flat content.
The knee spews out a thick
Red condolence.
Two Stories
By Greg Schroder
WASPS
oJulius! SupperTs ready,� my older brother
Jacob called me from the back door. oWeTre
waiting for you. Julius?�
I came out from behind the toolshed at the
far end of the backyard and shouted,~oITm not
hungry.� He shrugged his shoulders and went
back inside. I returned to the dirt city I was
erecting in a weed-cleared patch, around
which the weeds lay scattered, their pale stems
so recently rooted in the earth shining cleanly
next to my grubby nails.
I filled the paper cup with dirt, inverted it,
pulled it away, and"PRESTO"another guard
tower.
I knew suppertime had come. I wished it
hadn't. That day had been like summer again, a
shirtless, breezy day. I didnTt want to go inside
early. The day before I was wearing two
sweaters. lf summer was coming again |
wanted to make the most of it: I wanted to play
outside until only the tops of the trees were lit
by the last minute of November sunlight.
oJulius! Mom said to come inside right now
or go to bed,� Jacob shouted at me. He stood on
the porch steps in the sunlight lighting up the
back wall of the house, with his hands on his
hips. His hair looked darker than normal
against the white wall, I thought as I trudged
towards him, wiping my grimy hands on my
jeans.
oWhy did it get warm again Jay?� I asked,
standing at the bottom of the steps looking up
at him.
oBecause they decided to skip winter this
year. And Christmas, too,� he said over his
shoulder before the screen door slammed.
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oAre they really going to skip winter this
year?� I asked my mother as IJ sat at the round
dinner table. Across from me my older sisters,
Adela and Beth, giggled at each other, flipping
their dark braids behind their shoulders
simultaneously, while my mother and father
exchanged smirks over the roast beef.
oNo, theyTre not skipping winter this
year, though I think itTs a very good idea. I
wish this Indian summer would last all year,
too,T Mother said in a fainter voice, her eyes
trailing out the window. She paused, then
brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and
looked at me.
oYou go wash your hands, they look like
pig's feet. Do you want the neighbors saying
ITm raising pigs?�
oWhat a moron he is,� Jacob said.
oHe gets the silliest ideas,� Adela chimed
in.
oYou children hush,� I heard Father say as
I walked down the hall towards the bathroom,
oAll you had sillier ideas when you were his
age.�
oWe did not!�
The cold had been increasing through the
last of October. Seeing the frosted grass in the
mornings, I shivered with premonitions of
January. My mother gradually mummified me,
adding sweaters, scarves and mittens daily.
Undressing was sometimes like opening,
opening, opening a Chinese puzzle box.
I forgot that pavement had ever been too
hot to walk on barefooted. In the backyard,
long rows of dormant chrysanthemums
stretched from the house to the alley fence,
pregnant with buds that I thought would now
die from the frost. The wasps which had
swarmed about our eaves all summer became
lethargic, then began dying.
I found them curled up in the dew on the
back steps those frosty mornings, and later in
the day I would find a few crawling through
ioe cold midday shadows beneath the
somnolent chrysanthemums, unable to fly.
These that didnt fall to the ground,
stabbed by the keen newly risen winter stars,
crawled arthritically across the honey-combed
surface of their nest under the back eaves. I,
brave in the face of their new impotence, pelted
the nest with pebbles. They tumbled to the
ground, landing on their backs and waving
their yellow-banded legs in the chill air. Those
that righted themselves tried to climb up the
side of the house, vibrating their wings
uselessly, like black handfans flicking open
and shut. Soon the nest was disintegrated, the
wasps were scattered, and I found other
diversions.
Then near the end of Autumn a spell of
Indian summer displaced the cold. My father
said, oIt wandered away from its home in the
Soul, When. askeo him. | ran about shirtless
and shoeless, playing cowboys and Indians,
constructing earthy Romes and Babylons in
the dirt behind the shed, and hoping every
evening that suppertime would be delayed.
The air brushed against my skin like warm fur.
At night I kicked blankets into a heap at the
end of my bed. I threw my coats, gloves and
scarves, briefly resurrected from camphorous
trunks, into a:corner and forgot them until
Mother made me fold them atop the trunk,
where they waited like a stack of firewood to
keep me warm when cold returned.
The high, ascetic ice clouds vanished from
the sky, replaced by clouds that had lost their
way to August and wandered into November.
The ranks of chrysanthemums warmed over-
night, spreading their brassy-colored flowers
in wide invitation to the sun and insects. Tall
weeds at the alley fence seeded, and low vines
twining among the stalks speckled the tall
grass with tiny yellow flowers. The grass
greened. The wasps revived.
They swarmed about our back door,
rasping against the screen, becoming proprie-
tary in the backyard. They congregated among
the flowers. They spiced my games with
confrontations until I abandoned that area for
the leaf-strewn street. When one came near me,
I heard again their August voices: quavering,
sibilant, sing-song voices, like radio static
humming from their antennaed metallic heads.
I never told that to anyone, especially Jacob,
because I knew he would laugh.
My mother would stand inside the screen
door, staring at the blue and gold days, staring
at her flowers jostling each other in the breeze.
She would step outside the door for a wavering
moment before ducking back inside, fanning
the air over her with a folded newspaper to
ward off the circling wasps. She repeatedly
warned me about the dangers of being stung,
but she sent me to pick her flowers anyway.
Then, through an unknown chink, the
wasps began infiltrating our house. First there
was only one buzzing against the screen inside
the kitchen while we ate breakfast. My mother
put away the sugar and we ate our oatmeal
unsweetened.
oTf Jay was here, ITd let him kill it,� she said
while sipping coffee, her eyes on the wasp. But
Jacob and my sisters had already left for
school.
By mid-afternoon, several more wasps
hag snuck in. One was in every room
downstairs. They buzzed in the hallways, even
in the bathroom. In the silence of some of those
rooms they made the only sounds.
We walked warily through the house,
avoiding the corners where a wasp flitted
against the ceiling and the windows where one
rasped against the screen. Their positions
changed from corner to corner and they
blundered from room to room. We altered our
paths accordingly. We walked now against the
wall, now through the center of a room, now
against the wall again on our way to get some-
thing from our rooms. When we exited the path
was changed. Our maneuvers reminded me of
ships navigating through shifting channels,
like my father had read to me about in
Huckleberry Finn.
I decided to be a riverboat, putting on my
captain's cap.
oMark four, mark three, mark twain-
mudbank ahead capTn"TOOT! TOOT!�
This went on until my mother told me to go
outside.
oYou're not being funny Julius, and you
make enough noise to try any saint.�
She didnTt look at me as she spoke; she was
looking at the wasp crawling on the ceiling.
By evening my mother had stopped fixing
supper because of three wasps in the kitchen.
She fled to the living room where she dragged
the red leather armchair out to the middle of
the floor, refusing our help even when a leg
hung on the rugTs edge. She moved a mason jar
of chrysanthemums from a side table toa shelf
in the far corner.
oT donTt need your help in here. I want you
to go and kill those wasps. Take some
newspaper and go kill them,� she repeated to
us. oKeep your cap on Julius. The rest of you
put paper bags over your heads and roll down
your sleeves. Go kill them.�
Hunched down in that huge chair, Father's
chair, she looked as small as I. With a folded
newspaper poised in her hand, and the room
around her already growing dim in the dusk,
her eyes darted here and there after the noises
of the insects, and she strained to see if the dot
on the window screen was a wasp or merely
dust.
oCome on, soldiers,T Jacob called to my
sisters and me, oeveryone in battle dress.�
He dashed down the hall and into our
room, then popped back out. oYaaaaahhhhhh!�
he screamed from behind his Dracula mask.
Beth, Adela, and I scattered to find our
leftover Halloween masks. Mine had been
thrown away so! was stuck with my cap; Beth
found a brown paper bag; Adela was wearing
her yellow-haired princess mask. We re-
grouped in the hall.
I joined them last as Beth was tearing
holes in her bag and saying, oI donTt know why
the wasps want to come inside anyway and
bother us.�
oThey vant to lay eggs in us vhile vee
sleep,T Jacob said in his best imitation of
impassive princess face.
oThey vant to lay eggs in us vhile wee
sleep,T Jacob said in his best imitation of
Television Transylvanian.
I didnTt tell them my suspicion that the
wasps wanted revenge on me, that they
wanted to avenge their battered nest and their
injuries from my stones.
En masse we attacked single wasps, which
caroomed into the air infuriated by swacks
from our papers, sending us retreating in
disarray and panic, ducking our heads even
though they were covered.
After each sortie, we regrouped in the little
foyer at the end of the hall into which all the
rooms opened, chattering, giggling, breathing
heavily, and watching Jacob demonstrate ona
door jamb the most effective swing for killinga
wasp.
Then we would advance into another
room, hunching over, Jacob first, then Beth and
Adela, then me. Together we'd rotate like a
figure group on a music box, surveying the
walls and ceiling.
oAdela, you and Beth get on that side and
I'll get here,� Jacob commanded when an
enemy had been sighted. oAnd you hit ~emif he
flies down low, Julius.�
Jacob was the tallest, so he would reach
up, tapping his paper on the wall to excite the
wasp into flying where we could hit it. Then,
like a new type of rubber ball bouncing
horizontally off walls, the wasp usually
descended within our range"or rather theirs,
not mine"and all would strike together when
Jacob yelled oNow!� Then came our precipitous
retreat, me usually hanging onto one of them,
because they ran so much faster than I.
When we did finally kill a wasp it spiralled
down onto us and we all jerked out of the way
reflexively, fanning the air with our papers. It
lay crumpled on the floor and our swacks
sounded a staccato beat on the floor as we
mutilated it, avenging that moment of quick
fear.
oEeeeee!� squealed my sisters.
oYaaaayyyy!� shouted Jacob and I.
We all jumped around the dead wasp,
Jacob with both fists clasped over his head;
Beth, Adela, and I stamping our feet and
whooping.
The ribbon of one of AdelaTs pigtails was
unraveling. Beth had lost one of her sandals
but she still wore the bag over her head. Jacob's
shirt had come unbuttoned and his mask was
askew. My cap was somewhere down the hall.
Fired by the kill, we raced from room to
room tracking the wasps, never killing
another, always retreating, squealing and
laughing, absorbed in the game. Outside, the
sun went down, and we turned on the light in
every room we entered until that end of the
house blazed and its interior reverberated with
our calls and shouts. We were a motley group
of masqueraders searching for a carnival,
running from one lit room to another.
We eventually remembered our mother,
and the living room was black when we
returned to it. She sat obscure in the darkness,
the folded newspaper still in her hand, a pale
beacon we navigated to. Jacob, Adela, and Beth
removed their masks, which rustled to the
floor like dead leaves froma harlequin tree. We
told Mother hesitantly about our failure to kill
all the wasps. She said nothing. Taking her
silence for lack of anger, we gradually began
babbling about our hunt, our voices climbing
as we relived episodes, until the fever almost
mastered us again.
Jacob noticed MotherTs silence through all
this.
Tairn om the lieht, he said.
Adela moved towards the door, groping
for the light switch. Isaw her silhouetted in the
weak light of the doorway, her head crazily
asymmetrical with one pigtail up, the other
unraveled.
Suddenly light painted the room its
familiar cream color and pulled us out of
darkness with one sweep. The carnival faded.
We were ourselves again.
We all stared at our mother. Strands of
hair draggled about her face, swaying as her
head twitched from side to side, as her frenetic
eyes pursued countless wasps. We all looked at
the ceiling and walls, looking for the wasps she
saw. But there were none in the room.
Jacob touched her hand. She swatted him
and yelped with fright. We stared at each
other, moving away from her.
Beth started sniveling. So did I. Adela put
her arms around us. oDonTt worry, Father will
be home soon,� she kept repeating.
We followed Jacob into the hall where we
stood, bedraggled, smelly, hungry, not
knowing what to do. So we stood there. Over in
the far corner the yellow chrysanthemums
glowed fresh and serene above the mirthless
princess mask that lay among the scattered
papers.
Father came home. When he asked what
10
had happened, Jacob couldnTt answer, and the
rest of us started crying, even Adela, since she
didnTt have to be the mother any more with
Father home. He led Mother away and put her
to bed, folding adamp cloth over her eyes. Next
he did something amazingly practical: taking
the pump sprayer full of insecticide from the
Hiihity closet in the kitchen, he began
exterminating the wasps.
They all died, quivering and spastic,
curled up on the windowsills and floor,
glistening with the poison.
Replacements were inside next day, only
to die like the first ones. New groups succeeded
each other. And each day new clouds of poison
hung in the rooms like cigarette smoke before
dispersing, but the smell remained. After two
or three days we no longer noticed that. The
dead wasps became a nuisance to sweep up,
instead of fascinating specimens that I
examined beneath a pocket magnifying glass.
Mother stayed in bed, although she
recovered from that first night, as we saw
when Father let us take in breakfast to her the
next morning. She sequestered herself because
she said she could hear the wasps in the other
rooms. We became adept at quickly opening
and siutting her door. fhe first week of
December a cold front blustered in, chasing
away that lost bit of summer.
oMaybe they'll skip winter next year,
Julius,� Jacob said, laughing.
I layered my bed with blankets again. The
ground froze. The chrysanthemums withered.
The last wasps died.
Birdladies
The Birdladies came one fall just as people
began wearing sweaters. They walked among
the cardigans and crewnecks wearing their
long, pastel colored coats that flapped about
their knees with a sound of beating wings. On
spindly legs they tottered along the sidewalks,
some plump and staring at the ground like
quail others carrying their heads high,
striding like egrets.
Their appearance was singular, but not
outlandish. Certainly nothing to warrant their
effect on me: namely, a Birdlady had only to
walk unsteadily down the street and in her
wake, the naked trees momentarily bloomed
into a verdant jungle. I glimpsed Birds-of-
Paradise flashing in the leaves like pieces of
rainbows; a jaguar skulked behind a tree
trunk; I heard monkeys chattering like a pack
of children. I sniffed rotting wood, mossy
earth, and cloying orchids. Then the Birdlady
would turn the corner, leaving bare branches
lacing the sky and a cold wind prying at my
collar again.
I first saw ~myT Birdlady, who passed our
house almost every afternoon, one day while
we were raking leaves.
oHey, look at thal woman, my older
brother Jacob whispered to me, while stuffing
a double handful of leaves into the bag I held
open. She looks like her headTs goinT to fall off.
Maybe itTs not screwed on tight enough.� He
whispered again so our Father wouldn't hear.
Glancing up, I saw a small, old lady,
dressed all in white, walking towards us along
the sidewalk.
oAdela"look,� I whispered to my oldest
sister.
Adela was bent over raking, walking
backwards, and about to bump into me. She
looked towards where we were motioning with
our heads.
oSo what?� she shrugged.
oBut her head jerks like a pigeonTs when it
walks,T Jacob whispered back. oI bet shes
retarded.�
oOh Jay you're the oneTs retarded. You're
so mean all the time. Father doesnTt like us to
gossip about people.�
All this passed in hissing whispers since
Father was also in the front yard helping us
with the leaves.
I agreed with Jacob; the woman was
strange. I appealed to Beth, our other sister.
oBeth! Beth!� 1 hissed at lier.
oShhhbhhhh,� Jacob shushed me,� but
Father had already heard.
oYou children stop arguing and get back to
work.�
oBut Jacob was making fun of that lady. He
started it,� Adela said.
oStop pointing Adela. And donTt talk back!
Jay I've told you before about that. If you have
nothing good to say then donTt say anything at
all.�
oThanks Adela,� I said under my breath.
oYou too, Julius,� Jacob said to me. oYou're
the dummy with the big mouth.�
But our father couldn't really blame us. As
the woman walked, her hands fluttered about
like a pair of fidgety sparrows, touching now
her scarf, now her harlequin sunglasses, now
adjusting the belt of her coat, holding her white
purse now in one hand, now in the other. She
wore flamingo-pink high heels, that tapped on
the walk like a jay cracking a nut withits bill. I
was only in third grade that fall, but my head
almost reached her shoulder.
She passed our father, poking her beaky
nose into the air and craning her scrawny neck
as she looked up at him. Her ohello� was two
soft syllables, like the cooing of pigeons
roosting on the telephone wires in the
evenings. That did it. She was the first
Birdlady.
Within a few days, I sighted several more
in other neighborhoods while riding my
bicycle. They were always alone. Except once I
saw two fidgeting along like a pair of
chickadees. I began keeping a notebook in
which I wrote facts I gathered from observa-
tion. Some didnTt wear hats or scarves, some
did. Some didnTt wear sunglasses, some did.
But they all wore those long coats.
The BirdladiesT sudden appearance caught
me during the droll days of Autumn, and they
became my obsession. I asked myself
questions about them, and wrote the questions
in the notebook: oWhy didnTt they flock
together like other birds?� oWere they
migrating somewhere?� oAre they the descen-
dants of a race long thought extinct?� I wrote
no answers after the questions.
That fall, my parents required me to begin
reading the Bible. I wasnTt long in adorning
some of the stories of Genesis with apocryphal
details. To the creation of beasts and man I
addended dwarfs, trolls, and fairies. I
populated the four rivers of Eden with
mermaids. I decided the Birdladies originated
with Adam and EveTs expulsion from the
garden. These creatures left Eden out of
sympathy for the humans. An angry God
subsequently cursed them with earthly
immortality. And so they remained. ThatTs
why they were so old, and thatTs why they
trailed visions behind them.
Days followed after each other into the
consuming fire of the sunsets, but I learned
little more about her. And new questions
consumed my mind, because I had no answers
as I wrote them in my notebook: oDid they have
a special call?� oCould they be birds changing
into women?� oWomen changing into birds?�
oDid they have wings?�
I knew her wardrobe was a disguise. Why
else would anyone wear sunglasses in
November? Her true person revealed itself in
stray dashes of color: those flamingo-pink
shoes, carnelian lipstick, blotches of rouge,
and once I caught a glimpse of a turquoise
dress hem beneath her coat. I was sure her
scarf hid a crest of bright feathers, and I began
looking for shimmerings of pigeony irides-
cence on her neck.
One Sunday afternoon"it was Sunday
because my Father didnTt work at the gas
station on Sundays"he and I were gathering
pecans in the backyard. We had filled a small
ft
bag and nuts were still scattered across the
erass.. Clusters still clung to most of the
branches overhead. As we looked at the tree, a
flight of blackbirds swarmed across the grey
sky.
oSee the birds flying south? Pretty soon all
birds around here will be gone, too. They donTt
like the winter so they go south where itTs
warmer.�
I was chilled by a sudden thought. |
wanted to ask him if the Birdladies would be
leaving, too. I looked up at him as he squinted
at the sky, but IcouldnTt get the words to sound
right, so | didni say amythine about the
Birdladies.
I planned contraptions to capture her, but
they never really evolved beyond a giant box
leaning ona stick that I would pullaway witha
string when she walked underneath, causing
the box to trap her. I had helped Jay capture
starlings this way.
Once I stole rags from Mother's horde
under the kitchen sink and shredded them into
strips. Together with long dry weeds plucked
from along our back fence, I scattered them
along our sidewalk, hoping the Birdlady would
pick them up for her nest, if she was building
one. All that happened, however, was that I got
sent to bed early for littering the front yard.
Another time I placed at intervals"like
the golden apples that caught Atalanta"some
grapes, then an earth worm, then a half-eaten
apple, and finally a piece of bread. I wanted to
find out what she ate.
Reconnoitering the scene from behind an
azalea at the corner of our house, I saw her
approaching on her spindly legs. She stopped
dead, staring at the assortment for a moment,
before stepping carefully around it and
continuing on her way. I watched her fidgeting
with her scarf, with her lapels, with her
glasses, hoping she would twist her head
around to preen her shoulder feathers under
her coat. I felt cheated: she had neither
revealed herself nor taken any of the bait.
Finally I decided I had to talk to her. I
loitered on the sidewalk, playing with a toy
truck, waiting for her to come along. When she
came near, | stood up and stared at a crack in
the cement. I was going to tell her a joke so she
would pause, giving me a chance to see inside
her coat for wings. But her coat was buttoned
as usual. I went ahead with my plan anyway.
oWhy did they fire the lady at the orange
juice factory?�
Her dark glasses hid her eyes, but I saw
her brows wrinkling in puzzlement.
it sea joke, | saic,
On, | see, she replied with a smile: 1
2
donTt know, why did they fire the lady at the
orange juice factory?�
Because sie COlldmt concenizate! " |
shouted. I ran, but not before pausing for a
moment to hear her laughter: high pitched,
through her nose, from deep down inside her.
Like throaty chortlings of a mockingbird.
None of my schemes revealed anything. I
found out a great deal through the unwitting
help of my mother.
At dusk one day she and I! were returning
from the supermarket two blocks away.
Although the days were getting colder, we had
walked as usual. As we turned the corner onto
our street, each of us with a bag and I trying to
eat my M&MTs at the same time, my mother
fale, isnt thal Mrs. Brown: Sie s our new
neighbor around the corner.�
I looked up and saw the Birdlady walking
towards us. I never called her Mrs. Brown,
knowing full well that was an alias.
oSay hello and be polite, you hear? Shake
hands with her when I introduce you.�
My mother was tenacious in observing
certain points of etiquette. She told me several
times no proper gentleman was complete
without a handkerchief, and she still stuffed
Ome Gary into the peckets of Father's
workshirts he wore to the gas station.
I watched the Birdlady approaching. She
stared at the ground as she tottered along, as
though at any moment she would stoop over to
peck at a tidbit.
oStop scuffing your feet,� Mother whis-
pered loudly in my ear. oYou behave yourself.�
I had been kicking up leaves to see if I
Coulee imehten her into flyimg, or at least
clucking and flashing her wings in alarm.
oGood evening, Mrs. Brown,T said my
mother.
oGood evening to you Mrs. Halzman. I see
youre coming back from the very place ITm
headed.�
oTf [had known, I would have driven you.�
oNo, thatTs too much bother. I need the
exercise. I like to get out and walk"that is
when my arthritis lets me. ITve been real well
this week but cold weather always brings it
on.
oIT know it must be awful. My husbandTs
mother is the same way. And on some rainy
days she canTt even walk.�
oMy hands were right bad this morning.
That medicine the doctor gives me doesn't doa
thing.�
My interest in the Birdlady paled quickly.
Is this what mysterious beings talked about?
She was just the same as any other old lady.
The low sun stretched our shadows across a
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lawn. The wind was cold. I wanted to go home
and eat.
oTt doesnTt matter anyway, she went on,
obecause soon ITm going to Florida for a visit. I
have relations in St. Pete I stay with every
year.�
oOh that sounds nice. Think of us up here
shivering and enjoy the sun even more.T
oHave you ever been there? No? Well, itTs a
must. And your children will love it.�
oOh"have you met my youngest son?
This 1s |alinis:
She shoved me from behind while saying
this. I held out my hand to shake.
"Yes, | hawe met your som, You Mave a
humorous boy here,� she said as she shook my
proffered hand. Her fingers felt like knotted
twigs wrapped in leather. No human lady had
hands like that!
"In fact, | have been looking tor iigm for
several days,T she continued, obecause I
wanted to speak with him. He told me a joke
the other day, she said to my mother, and
now I| have one to tell you, Julius. Can you tell
me why the birds fly south for the winter?�
Of course I knew the answer, everyone in
the third grade knew that one. It was in the
joke book in the school library.
o"Tdont know,
oOh, canTt you guess? They fly because itTs
too far to walk.
They both laughed and I tried, too, but I
was thinking about her hands and about the
joke. Maybe she was a Birdlady after all. She
meant the joke to be a clue.
We walked on. I had forgotten to look for
pin feathers on her neck and scales on her legs.
I glanced back several times to see if she had
leapt into the air but she stayed on the ground,
a small white. fleure dimnimishing im te
darkness.
oPoor dear,� my mother said, oher hands
are almost ruined by arthritis. And her feet,
too, she can barely walk. ItTs wonderful she has
so much vitality and still has her sense of
humor,
Il smiled. | had tered ou: what the
Birdlady had told me. I had an answer for one
of the questions in my book: the Birdladies
were migratory. And if they went south in the
winter, then they would be back in the Spring.
And then I would make all sorts of new
discoveries about the Birdladies. Winter's
duration shrank suddenly to a mere interval
between warm times, and the falling leaves
around me were only a prelude to the budding-
out of the trees. =
13
14
Babal BradyTs Hobgood
Even now
years after pot and Playboy
have reached the backroom of Babal BradyTs General Store and Pool Hall
just across the rusty tracks
of the Great Atlantic Seaboard Coastline Railroad
and in front of the PeopleTs trailer-bank
the fourteen- through forty-year-old adolescents cling
like mold to the ragged, felt tops of the quarter-a-rack pool tables
in the carcass heart of Hobgood
in the clay and sand bottom
of the Carolina Coastal Plains
Pork Ambler sits in the dim, dusty corner
on top of the drink crates
and turns his tongue into a funnel
pouring in RichardTs Wild Irish Rose then saying:
oKiss my GrammamaTs pussy, that fine red wineTs so good to me,T
but no one laughs anymore
b)
When I was fourteen I giggled
and pissed along with the older boys
in the grease pit out back
of Babal BradyTs and puffed
Bull Durhams " the toughest smokes
at the time and cussed as best I could
Pork Ambler was my idol then
he was almost thirty, drove a ofixed up�
566 Chevy, drank wine and beer and
ogot some� all the time
Once he grabbed a piece of cue chalk
and ran me down somewhere just back of the
depot and held me, blowing his alcohol
breath in my face and with an empty, vacant laugh
chalked the tip end of my nose and said:
oBoy, donTt ever try to run away from Ole Porkie.�
Ole Porkie chalked all the boysT noses in those days
he said it was our initiation
And even now
years after ITve escaped that
reeking circle to nowhere in Babal BradyTs Hobgood
and the backroom death of the ragged, felt-topped pool tables
I wondered how I was lucky enough
just to be passing through
Randy Stalls
[voung girl, black girl]
young girl, black girl
with pen and dreams
livin in hell with a lockless key
cleanin kitchen floors that belong to somebody else
bein hungry and sayin silly things like
ono thankyou miz stella, i done ate fore i left the house this mornin�
cause momma told you to
(always doing like mama tells you to)
and all the while havin things"
silent verses, sweet quiet songs
wonderful things inside
that cannot get out of you
cause you keep dried shit from accumulating
under somebody elseTs toilet seat
such a lovely black girl
it bothered you
when the red plastic flowers you bought for the livin room
gathered dust
then died
and jesus watched carelessly from the opposite wall
such a knowin child
so much to tell
did your blood make you puke
was it like you thought it would be
dyin in a closet
your head between your knees
Ricky W. Lowe
15
Screens
Storm windows lean,
stacked six glasses thick,
in a basement corner.
{t is Hillis
who plays there.
She is eleven,
one head taller
than the frames.
Her dress-up clothes become
watery grey pastels
as she watches
her dance pass
through the first
transparency into
a tripling curve
of dim translucence, knowing
She is
who she
really is
somewhere before the last glass,
opaque against the basement wall.
Upstairs,
on a ladder,
Her father puts up screens.
Five Poems
The Next Room
In a room
lit only by the next roomTs light
she lifts her hand,
palm inward
so the nails reflect like five new moons.
From her back she conducts
the music
of a radio down the hall.
Turning, stopping,
her hand-shadows
hit the grey wall silently.
For thirty years she has gone to bed at dusk.
The calls of children
chasing each other
in the last light
delay her sleep.
For nine years she has slept alone.
For the last
three nights
she has dipped the moons of her hands
into the dark crevices
between her fingers and prayed.
Sue Aydelette
Sentiments
Sitting on walls
of scratched footlockers.
Chests full of
dark unprojected slides.
Tiny sisters
caught in bathing suits.
Neat compartmented boxes
heavy with the plaster fossils
of crooked teeth.
Folded white envelopes,
names and dates
written on the texture
of old curls,
Blue and yellow drawings,
simple poems,
crayoned birthday cards sent
and found here as if returned.
I refuse them,
excuse myself,
watch myself,
wait to be well.
Sources
I squint for your shape
among the whorls and crosses
of my loverTs hand.
You are never there.
You are seeping rust
in my
stomach.
You hang in
frozen gushes
from a rotted
wooden water tower.
You sprawl across
red rows of brick
above pooled tar
on warehouse streets.
Or you pin yourself
on the closed
sleeve of a
freckled one-armed man.
Someday I may lock you
in a bottom drawer, stay
sober, serene, have
children.
Points of Departure
For the last few nights I have listened
to my drawings sliding off the walls.
Each morning I see them slanted,
white backs folded outward,
below the faint white spaces they leave.
And I dream of living in this house again.
Recovering its dull wood floor with my
Red-print rugs, plain white shades
in place on the long windows.
With black ink on all the white walls,
I trace shadows:
the morning tangle of branches and clothesline;
my neighborTs roof, swallowing the sun
on this front room mantle.
Susan Harbage
18
Photographs
19
20
i sss
a1
Night Moves
by Kim Shipley
He walked into her dormitory lobby
Monday night at 8:30. Walking through the big
room with the vinyl coated chairs and broken
TV, he debated whether or not he should call
her name over the intercom box on the eastern
wall. He stood in front of the 8� x 11� box with
the buttons across the bottom and waited. Why
was he visiting her again? What if she was
asleep? Maybe she had some guy up in her
room on the sixth floor.
A couple walked into the lobby. He quickly
pressed the button marked six and spoke into
the box.
oCarolyn Kirsch,� he said clearly.
He stepped back and looked at the box"
the small rectangle that all young men had to
call through before they could obtain permis-
sion to enter the private halls of women. The
small grey box that barred post-adolescent
males from savagely fulfilling their fantasies.
He thought of his fraternity house staging a
massive rape and pillage of Lucille Winston
Dorm. If that happened, he would go straight to
her room. Number 621.
Her voice broke through the box and his
thoughts. She sounded like the Apollo space
capsule reporting to mission control.
oWho is it?� she said.
oWayne, he answered into the box. He felt
like one of those fools on Candid Camera,
standing there talking to a box.
olll be right down,� she said.
Wayne waited for her arrival. He had been
waiting for two-and-one-half years. During
that time, they had developed a relationship
mouoe commenly refer to as a ~close
friendship.� They went to each other for fun,
consultation and companionship. Everything
except what he wanted.
He had met her two years earlier in high
school. During the next summer she lived with
an ex-girlfriend of his on CousinTs Isle. Wayne
spent two weeks visiting them, watching
CarolynTs ass on the beach and in the Sunfish
where she worked asa waitress. That fall, back
in school, he watched her every Friday night
from the football field while she went through
her cheerleading routines. Wayne scored the
only touchdown of his free safety career in the
closing seconds of the conference champion-
ship game. The play was called back on
interference and they lost, but it didnTt bother
him too much. His touchdown had caused
Carolyn to jump and shake, and, as always, he
had wished he could call her his.
The big double doors swung open and
Carolyn popped into the room. Her face shone
with a slight smile. Her blond hair was a
tangled mess. The brown corduroys and work
shirt were wrinkled. Her green sock was
matched by a holey pink one. She was
beautiful.
oHey, cheerleader ... ya wanna?� Wayne
said.
oKiss off, stupid jock,�
He looked at her and thought of Monroe
Junus Humphry, the dark skinned, blond
island boy with the 18 acre body she had met
two years ago during that summer and been
stuck to ever since. The boyTs nickname was
oHumpT"a name Wayne hoped he didnTt live
lip 10.
oWhatTcha doinT?� Wayne asked.
oWatchinT Kojak,� she replied.
oCome on, letTs go to CagneyTs. I'll buy you
a beer.�
oTd rather have some Nectarosé,� Carolyn
said.
She was teasing him.
20) eae
oWait here, Ill get my coat. Sie wan
through the doors and they swung shut behind
her.
Carolyn had been to the coast over the
weekend. He would have to listen to her tales of
sand and Hump. He wished he could plow
through Hump with a bulldozer. Scatter him
around and pave over him. Hump would make
a good parking lot, his head was just the right
size tor if.
oAccept the breaks,� Wayne thought. oBut
why the hell should I?�
Carolyn flew back into the room in her
green Army jacket with the oPHUCK EWE�
button on it. What kind of cheerleader wore a
button like that?
Cagney's was a place where friends went
to get buzzed. College town bars have their
own quality. Call it cheap, call it juvenile.
Wayne liked it. Against the back wall was a
huge oak bar. On the North wall was a huge
blowup of James Cagney sneering at the room.
Wayne and Carolyn sat directly beneath the
picture. Someone had scrawled oCagney was a
faggotT in red felt-tip pen across his lapel.
Wayne looked up at Cagney sneering down at
them. It looked like the old movie star wanted
to blow snot all over their table. There were a
lot of people in the bar and everyone was in a
party mood. The juke box blared Bob SegerTs
oNight Moves.�
oCan I help you?� asked the waitress.
oYeah. A scotch and soda and a bottle of
Nectarosé.�
~I cant drink a whole bottle!� Carolyn
screamed.
oTl help you,� he said. She knew he didnTt
drink wine.
After a while Carolyn saw someone she
knew and and ran across the room to say hello.
Wayne watched her ass when it moved. It was
a little large and waddled like a duckTs when
she operated it. He loved it. He wanted it to be
his.
He could see the whole evening already"
he knew it all too well. Carolyn would
eventually finish her wine and he his scotches.
Then they would start singing Christmas
carols. It was April.
They talked about school, music and other
people. When oNight Moves� came around the
third time the wine bottle was three-quarters
empty. There were only a few couples left in
the bar. Wayne decided it was as goodatimeas
any to ask.
oHow was the coast this weekend?� he
asked.
ote, Canolyan ve lial
oWhat ~cha mean?�
oT guess I wonTt be going back fora while,�
she said.
Why, moe
oT dumped Hump.�
oYou whatT Wayne felt an instant
tightness in his jeans.
It was about fucking time! She sat there
waiting for his reply. He took a long sip off his
drink and tried to steady his hand while he
reached for a cigarette. i
Wayne looked up at Cagney and laughed
silently at the picture. Suddenly it dawned on
him. He knew the girl. He was the best friend
she had. He knew the damn girl like the
national anthem. Someone put the StoneTs
oYou CanTt Always Get What You Want� on the
juke box. WayneTs eyes drifted to the dirty
ashtray. They wouldnTt be able to get througha
first date without giggling the whole night.
They could never have sex. He tried to imagine
himself screwing her and saw her laughing and
running away. And she would be right.
She was smiling at him when he looked up,
23
and he could tell she had been for quite a while.
The lights blinked. CagneyTs was closing. He
looked at her eyes, trying to think of a way he
could get inside her head"or jeans"and plant
seeds.
Wayne looked around. People were
leaving. He started to speak when he felt her
leg press hard against the inside of his thigh.
He looked back at her. She was still looking at
him with that smile. She began peeling the
label off the empty wine bottle, and he
remembered the old adage that if youcan peela
label off in one piece then youre a virgin. The
label tore in half in her hand. She looked at him
and started singing softly.
oChestnuts roasting on an open fire,
Jack Frost nipping at your toes.�
A moist dew hung on the tree branches in
the woods south of campus. The dew dripped
off the branches and onto the ground until the
soft April grass was covered in moisture. A
squirrel sat in the nook of a huge oak tree in the
center of aclearing, the starlight shining silver
on his fur. Through the trees came a loud off-
key voice.
oEveryone knows some turkey
and some mistletoe
Will help to make the season bright.�
The squirrel scampered into the branches.
The clock at the bank they had passed said 2:14
in neon bulbs.
They came stumbling under the oak and
stopped. Wayne had his arm around her waist
and she leaned on him to keep from falling. She
rested her body against the tree and stretched.
He could see her nipple through her shirt.
oKind of nippy tonight,� Wayne said. He
could hardly talk.
oNot really,� Carolyn replied.
She looked at him and raised her right
eyebrow. He wiped his sweaty palm on his
jeans and listened for his mother to call him. He
shut his eyes and had visions of Carolyn
laughing and running away. When he opened
his eyes, she was kissing him. He was as rigid
as the oak they were standing under. She slid
her hand from his shoulder down to the seat of
his pants.
They drew apart and he looked up at the
oak. He half expected to see CagneyTs nostril
aimed at his face.
oWhat's the matter, Staubach?� Carolyn
asked.
oNothing ... itTs just that ITm not much of a
Casanova.�
~hope not, Hes dead,� she said.
24
She sat down on the ground and he
followed her. They lay back and held each
other. He felt like a three-year-old about to
receive a vaccination.
Whats wroner Carolyn asked a little
impatiently.
Wayne looked up at her and said in baby
talk, oI green.�
oYou mean?�
oUh-huh.�
oYou're kidding!�
oNope.� Wayne said resignedly.
Carolyn sat up. oHow old are you?�
oYou know"I'm 18.�
oYou've never done this before?� she
asked.
oNot with another person,T Wayne said.
They looked at each other for a second,
then at the ground. Then they looked back at
each other and broke into hysterics. She
howled wildly at the moon, leaning back on her
haunches. He felt the tension leaving his arms
and neck.
oThere are a few of us left, y know. Me,
Debbie Boone, Marie Osmond, Prince Charles
She lay back on the ground, and after a
second he reached over to her top shirt button.
oI take it this means you want to join the
club?� Carolyn asked.
Ti ivy any ihme once
He unbuttoned her shirt and slid his hand
inside. Her breast was firm and silky. She
wriggled her shoulders and her shirt fell off. He
Fooked at her maked breasts coated in
moonlight. Far away a bird sang and a lone
cricket chirped. Wayne ran his hand gently
over her breasts. He kissed her.
oWait a minute while I check my
instruction sheet,� he said softly. He sat up and
took off his shirt and kicked off his shoes. The
wet ground tickled his feet. He undid his belt
and lay down next to her again.
oLast of the Red Hot Lovers, eh?� she said.
He reached down to her zipper.
oYou're learning well,� she said.
oWe try.
They sat in the University coffee shop and
watched the sun come up. He sipped his coffee
and stared at her eyes. She had pieces of grass
and twigs in her hair and some dirt on her face.
oCarolyn: -
UL
oDid you really dump Hump?�
She smiled and looked out the window.
oT have now,� she said. @
Chicken Raising Made Easy
eat the eggs, jeff, i wonTt bake bread.
carefully, lift both of them from the box,
then throw the box away.
weigh them in your aie Two Poems
and compare shells.
crack them (as you must) as they wish,
and plop them into the cold teflon frypan.
heat the coils orange-brite
hear them bang and whimper.
prick the yolks with a fork or knife;
never use your finger.
they ooze cautiously, but goldenly glad.
sheet them with a mozzarella slice
(if you haven't eaten that by now).
now,
sniff their atomized air.
(ah, better dive and deep-breathe).
let your mouth anticipate mellowness
grasp the pan firmly Just Balances and Weights
fork directly.
© Father.
You woke me
pulling my other left leg. Right?
oGet dressed and look
bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for breakfast,�
you said, and marched down the hall.
(Left. Left. Left, right, left.)
Now Father,
I sport your plaid shirts,
but never your narrow ties.
I gulp gallons of spice tea;
no longer do I grind those blessed Wheaties.
You leit
Robert Jones i...
- as sudden as an acorn-drop.
your son
PS: to munch every kernel of memory.
25
Love On Leave
Homecooked meal
setting for two
crystal wine glasses
Long
thin white curtains
blow separate ways
Music
conversation and laughter
flickering candlelight
Wrinkled silk slip slides
whispers and sighs
The clock ticks
Zippers zip
buttons button
Trailways bus station
Fort Hunt destination
A good-kiss, bye-kiss
a Mascara tear
The door closes
the bus turns
slowly
into misty lights
Toni P. Harris
26
Pain
is hard like
shiny red candy
that is slow to melt and
impossibly
sweet. you always
wish you had never
had it and
wonder when
it will melt and be
gone. it seems you
could remember
the last time
you had any
and would be
wary. but even though
you know what itTs
like somehow you
forget and
try it again.
Karen Brock
Breaking
I break now
like the thin sweet smile
on her face. She knows
me"how I walk swinging
my hips like a lantern
and how my fingers
have painted your
skin in bare colors
and she says
nothing
You feel like an
only grandchild
tugged and passed from
arm to arm
secretly you are
pleased
but your mouth will
swallow my name before
she hears it and
your skin will stop
bending toward mine like
wild flowers hungry for
sunrise and I break now
in your hands
like stale bread
Denise Andrews
MotherTs Day 1962
Against the sprays of sunlight
you stood twelve stories high
waving to granny and me
below on the grey pavement.
We met in
the antiseptic room
arranged with leather couches
and modern lamps, and
he came to us " the
gauze and bandages
encircled his shaven head
like a white turban.
I stood in front of
his wheelchair
wanting to be lifted
onto his lap and
surrounded by his arms "
I was met instead by his glassy gaze
that peered past me
focusing on nothing.
And you took my hand
and led me out
into the sunlight
titat Gast Our
broken shadows
against the pavement.
Diane Nelms
Two poems
Retreat
Startled
into wakefulness
as icy rains
beat down gutter pipes
thumping loudly
into deep puddles
that form in the sand.
Corroded oFor Sale� sign
flaps against
the paint-chipped porch railing
in iambic rhythms.
Cat fights sound
from underneath the deserted structure
as chilling snarls and hisses
cut the
quavering coastal winds
But
the wooden piling supports
of my week-end retreat
sway
as a hammock in the wind
inviting sleep.
27
iy,
Py,
WR OA s6wgace
Chap Gurley
joe)
N
saceonceean
Photographs
Two
IsaacTs First Funeral
Icicles form around dead healthy genes
At the end of winter
Snowflakes fall fresh on the walk
Like white platelets
Dead from the air
Dead like the air
I killed the fascist bigot
The automobile salesman from Detroit
Not with blank military stares
Or even clean salutes
Not with the three blanks
That wring the air now
But with real bullets
Poems
Bloody Sunday
The poetTs mouth coughed roses
Blood red
And for the last time
So that a young mortician
Complained about the smell
Of alcohol and mucus
Before he died the poet mumbled
oBloody Sunday
I am your spirit (made from flesh)
Bt rest
And that is all that you bastards think of
I see heaven now
You own it
It is blacker than your rusty prison bars
and deeper than your gutters�
Sam Silva
30
The Solipsist
by Luke Whisnant
The first time the Solipsist hit the Student
Center he set fire to the Crafts Room bulletin
board. Thick black smoke poured from the
hallway into the lobby. The Student Center
Director frantically P.A.ed everyone out of the
building and phoned the fire department, but
by the time the trucks arrived, a janitor named
Andy had put out the Blaze with an
extinguisher. Taped to the wall next to the
smouldering board was a note typed on
Department of Philosophy stationery. The
Director read it out loud to Anely aie dive
firemen.
o*The only order in the world is that order
we as individuals impose. Everything else is
chaos. Among the many paths of order open to
us, I have chosen that of the solipsist. I know,
and have known for years, that the only real
things in this world are those things I alone
perceive.T The Director stopped for breath.
Andy was scratching his airo. Whats tis
note about?� he asked.
oThere's more,� the Director said, olisten to
this: ~However, I have grown tired of the world
my mind has created and this Student Center is
now declared to be under a state of siege as an
example of the solipsistic method. The next
attack may be only moments away. The
Solipsist. ~
oWhat in hellTs a sop-sist?� Andy asked the
Director.
oA solipsist. Someone who believes
everythingTs in his head; that nothing is real
outside his own mind.�
oThat mother on hard drugs,� Andy said
oYou wanna press charges? Arson?� the
firechief asked.
oYou better believe it,� the Director said.
The firechief got out his fingerprint kit.
*
Two days later, the Solipsist tripped an
emergency fire alarm on the Student Center
eround floor and the buildime head to tbe
evacuated again. The lime-green firetrucks
had just pulled into the parking lot when Mrs.
Sansole, who had managed the Student Center
cafeteria for almost twenty years, found the
note taped to the brick wall beside the fire
alarm. The note was titled THE SOLIPSIST
MANIFES PO and Wis, Sanusele couldn!
understand a word of it: oThe destruction of
the surrogate worlds corresponds directly to
the success of the solipsistic method and the
solipsistTs desired end result: self-suicide
through denial. I deny that you are there and
therefore to prove it I will destroy you.� The
note was signed, in red ink, oThe Solipsist.�
Andy was disappointed that there wasnTt
a lire ior him to put out this time, but the
Director paled as he read the manifesto. oJust
what does this guy want?� His hair was
beginning to gray on the sides and as he thrust
his fingers through it a few tiny white flakes
snowed to his shoulder. oHeTs not even a good
philosopher. He doesnTt even believe what heTs
saying. If he were a true solipsist, he could will
the Student Center out of existence"he
wouldn't have to burn it down.�
oYou're dealing with a real nut here,� the
firechief said.
oFell me about it, ihe Mirectur said
disdainfully. oWhy would anyone want to
burn down my Student Center?�
it's certainly mot a very Christian
attitude,� Mrs. Sansole said.
*
Neither of the notes provided any clues.
The Solipsist must have been very careful,
because in the six weeks of the siege of the
Student Center, the firechief never found a
single fingerprint. The Director began glaring
at anyone who wore gloves inside the Center,
and once he followed a tall, greasy-haired male
student in ragged jeans and striped gardening
gloves around the first floor for almost an hour.
While the Director watched the student begin
his seventh game of pinball, the Solipsist was
upstairs setting fire to another bulletin board.
Within the first two weeks the Solipsist burned
four bulletin boards and five trash cans, turned
in four false fire alarms, built a campfire in the
middle of the $6000 carpet that covered the
third floor of the Center, and lit a forty-foot
trail of lighter fluid that led to a huge puddle of
kerosene in front of the DirectorTs office door.
And at the scene of every attack he left a note.
The Philosophy Department stationery
was a dead end, too. All I know,� the firechief
told the Director, ois that there are seventy-
something majors, a hundred and sixty-odd
minors, and twenty-two faculty members, not
to mention the four departmental secretaries
and the part-time student office help. The
stationery is accessible to anyone. Just
anybody could walk in right off the streets and
grab a handful"itTs lying right out in the open
at
on the secretaryTs desk.� The Director swore.
oAnyway, I did check on solipsism,T the
firechief continued. oThereTs no such course
taught, and the department chairman thinks
it's such a stupid philosophy that he nearly
laughed me out of his office.�
oGreat,� the Director said. oHe laughed
you out of the office. I think that makes him a
prime suspect.T He began chewing on a
fingernail. oHe laughed you out of the office
and here I am with a guy so dead serious about
the subject that at any minute he may burn the
whole darn building down around us.�
The Director hired two off-duty cops to
patrol the Center full-time. He circulated no
less than seventeen memos on building
security, cautioning all employees to report
suspicious-looking persons immediately. He
offered a $100 reward for information leading
to the SolipsistTs arrest. The attacks continued.
The Director began to suspect people on his
own staff.
*
At the end of the fourth week the Solipsist
had struck a total of 21 times"often twice a
day, then skipping two days, alternating
between tipping trashcans overinthe womenTs
restrooms and setting off cherrybombs on the
central staircase. Each cherrybomb had a
cigarette impaled on the fuse as a time delay
device to allow the Solipsist time to get away
before the explosion. The Director gave up on
catching the Solipsist. He consulted with the
chairman of the Psychology Department and
they composed a letter especially tailored to
the SolipsistTs psyche. The letter ran on page
one of The Advocate, the student newspaper:
oTo the Solipsist: YouTve done very well. You
have eluded us and shown your superiority.
We salute you. However, you have problems.
We want to help. Turn yourself in. We
guarantee you will not be harmed....� The next
day The Advocate printed four letters of reply,
each from persons claiming to be the Solipsist.
The editorial of that issue praised the Solipsist
as an oindependent spirit, a doer, a man of
action in these mellow, laid-back, apathetic
times.� That afternoon the Solipsist set fire toa
whole stack of Advocates in the lobby by the
Student Center main entrance.
*
At the infirmary the Director was ushered
into the examining room ahead of a whole line
of students. oItTs some kind of skin rash,� he
told the doctor, unbuttoning his shirt, oand it
itches like wildfire. ITve never had anything
like this before.�
The doctor looked at the rash. oShingles.�
32
oWhat's that?�
oA nervous condition that leads to skin
infections. The medical name is herpes zoster.�
The Director felt the blood drain from his
face. oHerpes? Like you get from, uh, sexual
comtact!�
oSame family, but this one comes from
tenisidnh, Presstire, nerves. | Gah Give you
something for the pain and the itching, but
thereTs no cure for the disease"itTs a virus.
You'll just have to wait for it to go away.�
The Director nodded.
oYou need some rest,T the doctor said, oyou
look like warmed-over hell. How long have you
had that nervous tic?�
The Director pressed his hand to his cheek.
His skin was jumping. oAbout three weeks.�
oYou need a vacation.�
cant. Not with this madman on the
loose.�
oAh, yes"the Solipsist,� the doctor said.
~Vread it in the paper. He scribbled out a
prescription, handed it to the Director. oYou
going to catch that guy?�
A iope so.
oWant my diagnosis?�
The Director waited.
oLatent homosexual. Manic-depressive-
suicidal.�
ohems a lot, the Director said.
*
The Director took out a piece of paper and
wrcte at the top, The Solipsist!!! Then he made
a list:
holes in carpet"3
false fire alarms"approx. 20
roman candle in the auditorium"twice
roman candle in the stairwell"three times
cherrybombs & firecrackers"2
lighter fluid"once
bulletin boards"six
trash can burnings"approx. 15?
Under this he wrote How much longer??? He
scratched his herpes absently.
*
The DirectorTs tic got worse. On Thursday
of the fifth week he found a note taped to the
back of a vinyl couch that read simply, Cogito
ergo estis. The couch had been slashed to
ribbons and the Director looked as if he were
ready to hit someome. His arms were
tremble olwats a $200 couch, he said to
Andy and the Programming Chairperson. |
oWhatTs the note say?� Andy asked.
oIt's Descartes. It means, ~I think, therefore
lami
The Programming Chairperson had had
more Latin. oI donTt think thatTs quite right,� he
told the Director. oIie last word isnt (am "
itTs youT. I think, therefore you areT.�
Andy's eyes lit up. oLike he created us or
something. Like we're here Tcause heTs thinking
Git ws.
oGodTs the only one can say things like
that,� Mrs. Sansole said.
The next note was a long quote from Being
and Nothingness and none of them spoke
French well enough to transiaie if Wie
Director's secretary was finally able to
struggle through it with the aid of her French-
English dictionary: oThere is the Self and there
is the Other. The Other is accessible to us only
by the knowledge we have of it and if this
knowledge is only conjecture, then the
existence of the Other is only conjecture, and it
is the role of the Self to determine the exact
degree of probability.� The secretary looked at
the Director. oHey, this guy is a real psycho,
huh?�
oAbsolutely crazy. Hes bonkers, tlie
Director said.
oHas his references down, anyway. What
did he get this time?�
oThe curtain on the assembly-room stage.�
oThe velvet"�
oYes, the Director said. His face twitched
uncontrollably. oSame as last time"he
slashed it with a knife.�
The secretary sighed in disbelief. oDe
lTaudace, encore de IlTaudace, et toujours de
lT'audace.�
*
To translate the Nietzsche mote tie
Director had to call tie Boreign Eaneuace
Department. He spelled the words over the
phone to a German professor, aad the
protessor translated: Im ihe emd) one
experiences only oneTs self.T� Under the quote,
the Solipsist had typed, oThe destruction of the
world is contingent on the destruction of the
self. When I cease to exist, so will you.� The
next day the Solipsist lett a note on Wirs:
SansoleTs third floor office door which called
her cafeteria a oculinary cul-de-sac� and
suggested that the hamburgers were 90%
horsemeat. An hour later, he threw a piece of
fist-sized concrete through the Director's
second-story office window. Wrapped around
the rock was a mote tat weacd, Happs
Birthday.�
"If lever catch that SB. ime Direetor
cried, oI'll kill him with my own bare hands.�
*
In the sixth week the Solipsist stopped
leaving notes. The attacks continued, how-
ever; the last three days of the week were
punctuated by rapidfire explosions of fire-
crackers at almost hourly intervals. The
Director locked himself in the bathroom and
threw up repeatedly.
*
On Monday of the seventh week, Andy
noticed a short, balding, middle-aged man
leaning against the carpeted wall beside the
third floor eastwing firedoor. The door was
standing wide open. Andy slammed it and
turried to the man. oKeep this door close.� The
man smiled.
Two minutes later the man was trying to
set fire to the wall with a butane lighter, and
Andy, who'd been watching from around the
corner, and who had played a very mediocre
defensive right guard for Berkeley High,
charged across the room and flung the man to
the floor with a very passable shoe-string
tackle.
oYou the Sopsist, Andy cried, you the
Sopsist and I caught you!�
The Solipsist sneered. oI let youcatch me.�
oT got him, I got him,� Andy yelled.
Mrs. Sansole came running up. oI know
him! I know you. You're an English teacher,
aren't you?�
oT think heTs a Communist,� Andy said.
oDo you know what the most reflexive
verb in the French language is?� the Solipsist
said sardonically.
oShut up, Andy said. You aint Frenem.
You crazy.�
oSe suicider. It means, ~I commit suicide to
myselfT.�
oAre you a Free Will Baptist?� Mrs.
Sansole asked.
The Solipsist spit at her. oGet away from
me, you old dried-up, loose-lipped pudendum.�
oWe gonna bury you under the damn jail,�
Andy said. He jerked the Solipsist to his feet,
keeping a tight hold on his arm. oLetTs go.�
Halfway down the stairs, the Solipsist
kicked Andy hard in the shin and pushed him
into Mrs. Sansole. Andy grabbed for him and
missed by inches. The Solipsist dove over the
banister to the floor below, screaming oJe me
suicide!� He hit the floor on his hands and
knees, scrambled to his feet, and crashed into
the two policemen at the Information Desk.
oStop him, thatTs the Sopsist,� Andy shouted,
and both policemen tried to grab him. The
Solipsist punched one cop in the face, dodged
the other, and broke for the door. The other cop
drew his gun. oStop or I'll shoot!�
Upstairs in his office, the Director heard
the gunfire and mistook it for another round of
firecrackers. He lay his head down on his desk
and started crying. m
33
Just Jazz
34
Right now pickinTs is slim,
l mean, it takes time to learn haw to live.
I ask myself where I am
in my life
and I answer
at 8:40 tonight you made
a long-distance telephone call.
What do I like?
Music
that touches and pulls.
I like friends and lovers
who do the same.
I also like work
which is both the tail and the kite.
I sin so much
that the concept ceases
to have meaning.
C esi ta vie en rose
jazz jazz jazz
blues
The moment is the rush
we gradually learn that, while
the stars etc bother
our sense of finite death.
The eternal spreads out so much
on either side of us:
Chest ka vie.
Trite, but
significant. Old French songs
well up through
the star-drunken night.
And jazz. Always that knowledge
of our fallen selves.
As well as our deaths, loves,
and the infinity which one is
to one's self.
Jazz dizzyingly
matches the infinite with
death
to become
well, human:
paradox
made into a music.
Jeff Rollins
a sae a
we
Ae SOLES
nn Bee
OEP 6 ey
Be eee Mee eee
Gallery Title Page
Zane Leake
The Blue Is Still Standing But ItTs Not So Dominant Anymore
Plate Disguised as a Drawing
Maggie Noss
Kay Parks
=
Robert T. Dick
Homage to Stephen
Bound to Create
37
Sees IC
Janet Rose
Robin Singleton
The Perfect Flying Machine Janet Ennis
a
Kip Sloan
39
Obs
40
equious
ne
Jeff Fleming
41
Jaime Bernstein
Mom
62a o"_aggp
'
t
Ey
:
é
:
&
~
Goat's Head Soup Jar
Robert Daniel
4
i|
\
it
Roxanne Reep
42
"" hi aut e
Neither Here Nor There 3 Roxanne Reep
43
44
r
nie
Pi
Sloan
Jim Barnes
Marylu Warwick
Self-Portrait
45
46
Betsy Kurzinger
Debbie Strayer
ris
47
John Mor
Ri ae
i
ersons
For God Is No Respecter Of P
Storm
A man stands naked in
the rain. His skin
beads water like a good
raincoar. | could
pretend he is not there.
I could stand near-
by and wait for the
police. The last thing he
would want, I tell myself,
is me pulling off
my sweater, stepping out of jeans.
People stare. It rains
harder. Suddenly I am scared
of my fear of water. Scared.
Four Poems
November
Ambulances tlock in this dusk
to the stationhouse by the black river
and sometimes the sirens at night
sound like cries of a strange, wounded bird
unable to fly any farther.
In the kitchen you cut things for soup
turning the red-stained knives.
Scarlet leaves blot the yard
and blow down the street in slow motion
and the woman you live with keeps bleeding
day after day without stopping.
These make it hard to remember:
the winter is never so grim
as this foreshadowing; the dogwood
blossoms return, brown stains
crusted deeply into the edges;
you always seem to forget
that each spring, trees in your backyard
will fill with the nests of wild birds.
Luke Whisnant
Terminal
At frst, he tried to live
hilt-deep, to make the time die hard.
A string of whores, a woman
that he raped, alcohol
and the drug of sheer frenzy
scorched creases im lis fame:
The grave he planned
was cluttered with aluminum cans
and newspaper. One morning sun
found him face down, burnt-out,
literally lying in a gutter
because he never had.
Like that, he would have lived a2 month at most.
But then a calm descended. He went home.
Mirrors
Stepping out of a car
and turning to close the door
you find your face reflected
in the curved window
which contains only
everything that is there:
a foreign glint in the eye
you thought was totally yours.
The strange mirrors
of water, steel, backless glass,
hubcaps, tiled walls
are always holding you
and in the living room
cowboys try to catch the breath
of a man dying, holding
a foggy glass to his face;
then your hand drawing away
from the TV switch
floats on the dull screen.
There is always the fear
of turning into a frame
that you may
or may not hate;
Rergoig aca brouebi soa goth ot meace. there is always the bathroom mirror
friends said
that he transcended death
or maybe just forgot to count the heartbeats.
Everything"his will, the bank account"
was put in order. He bought
a funeral: roses, poetry, no religion.
Around the house he sang
oDonate your cancer-racked body to science,T
then signed away his eyes.
that strikes you straight in the face
because you cannot get around it;
no way to approach
from another angle.
He told his wife
oLove comes more than once
a lifetime. Be strong.�
And then: oI love you more than words.�
And so the months burned by and she was fine
until the night he woke her crying in her arms.
What follows is an excerpt from Mysterious
Ways, a novel that tells the story of a found
journal.
Tristeza Nao Tem Fin,
Felicidade Sim
Sadness has no end, happiness does
by Terry Davis
The Night That Death Brings
Thursday, 2:40 aia, March 21, 1968
I finished reading Elie WieselTs Night
around 2 a.m. ItTs only 115 pages long and only
took me two hours to read, but it got to me like I
lived it. Tread the last line, then turned back to
the front and read the dedication " oIn memory
of my parents and of my little sister, Tzipora�
" then I put my head down on the desk and
cried. The stuff that happens in that book is sad
beyond any dreams of sadness most of us are
capable of; but I was crying for myself mostly, I
know, not for the Wiesel family.
They get off the train at Auschwitz, and
Wiesel loses his mother. Forever.
oMen to the left! Women to the right!�
Eight words spoken quietly, indifferently,
without emotion. Eight short, simple words.
Yet that was the moment when I parted from
my mother. I had not had time to think, but
already I felt the pressure of my fatherTs hand:
We were alone, For a pert of a second 1
glimpsed my mother and my sisters moving
away to {he right. Tzipora held Mothers
hand. I saw them disappear into the distance;
my mother was stroking my sisterTs fair hair,
as though to protect her, while I walked on
with my father and the other men.
Nobody knows, until itTs happened in
their lives, the darkness of the night that death
brings down.
ItTs very interesting that I should use the
word onight� that way. I was just trying to get
my thoughts down, and there it came without
any conscious link to the title of the book. I
wonder if thatTs maybe what Wiesel wants
50
people to think of. For me is just the only
metaphor I can come up with that half
describes how I felt when Mom and Dad and
Jesse vanished from this life. I mean I could
physically feel the blackness, or the emptiness,
or the black emptiness seep into my bones like
dry rot ina timber. And I knew my house was
weaker, or that my song had grown fainter, as
the Indians say.
Anyway, what started me crying was the
empathy I felt for Wiesel when he said, oI saw
them disappear into the distance.�
I'd marked all the important passages, and
I just went on from there, like a glutton for
heartache, from that one to the ones about his
father.
Wiesel and his dad and the other male Jews
from the train are being marched towards a
ditch where something is burning. A German
truck comes up and dumps a load of babies into
the flames, so Wiesel knows theyTre walking
towards their death. Amc he says. ~~In- the
depths of my heart, I bade farewell to my
father, to the whole universe.� Even though the
Germans turned them away from the ditch and
marched them into barracks, | cried harder.
But that still wasnTt enough for me, and in
the full-nelson of some really fucked masoch-
ism I flipped back to the end, tears running
down my face, to where his dad actually does
die.
Mr. Wiesel is sick and crying for Elie to
bring him water, and the German officer yells
at him to be quiet. Mr. Wiesel keeps calling
Elie, and the German officer comes up and
bashes him on the head with his billy club. And
Elie says, oI did not move. I was afraid. My
body was afraid of also receiving a blow.
oThen my father made a rattling noise and
it was my name: Elizer.
oHis last word was my name,� Elie says.
oA summons, to which I did not respond.�
I cried because his father died, and so, so
awfully and at the hands of such scummy
cocksuckers, and I cried because my own
parents died just for someoneTs thoughtless-
ness, and I cried because people can be scared
and beaten to the point where, even when death
is right there staring us in the face and we
know thereTs no way out, weTre still so afraid of
going to meet it that we'll let it scare us out of
even getting a drink of water for our earthly
fathers.
And it was just then, when I was crying so
completely it actually felt good, not loud
especially, but steady, that Jonathan Grigsby
poked his head in the door.
I tried to quit im the mext breati, war on
course I couldn't.
Jonathan closed the door and came over to
the desk, put his hand on my shoulder and said,
oGod, Karl, what's wrong?�
I was too weak, too drained of feelings to
get my dislike of him worked to the surface, so I
only said, while still crying, oI just finished
reading a sad book. It makes me miss my folks
Is all.
Jonathan gave my shoulder a squeeze anda
pat and said, completely without the smirk on
his face or the condescending, pretentious tone
his voice usually has, oI think maybe I know
how you feel. ITve never had anything happen
to me as bad as what happened to you, but
about three times a year somethingTI] set me off
" a book or a movie, or even a song " and ['1l
ery like a baby, just for all the bad shit thats
built up, even for things thatTve happened to
other people.� Then he walked over to the
window and pushed it up all the way. He stuck
his head outside and breathed deeply. Then he
pulled his head back in and said, Night,
Brother. Sleep good.� And he walked out and
closed the door, leaving the room fresh with the
night breeze.
JonathanTs always going around calling all
theT @uys in the iratermity Brother,~ ana 1
made me sick until tonight. He said it with a
special tone, one he hadnTt used before, or
maybe I just hadnTt been tuned to it.
Its 4715; not ieht yet, but-the birds have
started to sing. I'll sleep good tonight. I donTt
think thereTs enough left inside my head to
make a dream.
A Lover of the Classics
Friday, 11:00 p.m. Maren 227 1968
Finished all my Spanish, read thirty pages
of Western Civilization, and got about fifty
pages into oThe Inferno� tonight. I like the pas-
sage where Dante meets Virgil. Dante's in a
great desert and there appears before his eyes
oone who seemed hoarse from a long silence.�
oHave pity on me,� Dante cries, oWhatTer
thou be, whether shade or veritable man!�
And Virgil answers, oNot a man, a man |
once was; and my parents were Lombards, and
both of Mantua by country.
oIT was born sub Julio, though it was late;
and lived at Rome under the good Augustus, in
the time of the false and lying Gods.
oA poet I was; and sang of that just son of
Anchises, who came from Troy after proud
Ilium was burnt.�
Then he asks Dante why he didnTt go up the
mountain, and Dante recognizes him.
oArt: thow them dhal oime, and that
fountain which pours abroad so rich a stream
of speech?
oO glory, and light of other poets! May the
long zeal avail me, and the great love, that
made me search thy volume.�
Then Dante tells him about the she-wolf
that scared him off the mountain. ~See the
beast from which I turned back; help me from
her, thou famous sage; for she makes my veins
and pulses tremble.�
oThow must teke another toad... Viner!
answers, ~if thou desirest to escape from this
wild place.�
God, I love that stuff. The language makes
it seem like youre really on an adventure
instead of just reading about one. I remember
this exact feeling when I was a little kid and
Mom read me oThe Iliad� and oThe Odyssey.� I
tried reading oThe Aneneid� aloud to myself
nights during my senior year of high school,
but it wasnTt the same without MomTs voice. I
think ITm back into it now though.
51
Monday, 7:05 p.m., March 25, 1968
Bolao woke me yesterday afternoon at
three, saying the sorority girls were coming at
four, and that as a professional hamburger chef
I was in charge of the grill. My head ached so
bad I couldnTt stand up straight. I walked
Howneldirs all bent. aver .in pain, and
Hildebrand sand to Fimch; ~Look, its the
hunchback of the second floor.�
I canTt figure out why I wasnTt sick to my
stomach. I know the term ohangover� means
that the effects of the drinking ohang overT into
the next day; but in my case it might as well
mean that the victimTs body will ohang over� in
excruciating, hair-to-toenail pain. God, God,
God! I swear I'l] never drink that much cheap
wine that fast again. I took a shower, and in
fifteen minutes or so I could open my eyes all
the way.
Joe-Ben had the charcoal already burning
in the fireplace in the back corner of the yard,
and I helped him press the burgers and set out
the chips and beans and paper plates and stuff
on the dining room table Mac and Jonathan
carried out to the yard. Jonathan donated one
of his Peter Max bed sheets as a tablecloth and
it didnTt look bad. Jonathan himself, however,
did look bad. He and Mac came out again this
time with my stereo, and Jonathan was wear-
ing an ascot. An ascot! I mean David Niven
and Roddy McDowall wear ascots! I thought
Jon was all right, but there are things I refuse to
forgive, and ascots are one.
The oils cars pulled wp im tromt of the
house and Leo walked out and opened the door
of their presidentTs car and took her arm and
the arm of their house mother and walked them
up to the porch and introduced them to Mrs.
Conners who was sitting in the porch swing.I
could imagine Leo saying to himself: oNice
gesture, huh guys! Suave city " right!� Then
our pledge class had to meet their pledge class.
We lined up like football teams at a bowl game
and shook hands as the two pledge masters
read off our names to the group. They seemed
like nice girls. All freshmen.
Evervibinge went okay, and 1 eot no
complaints on the burgers.
After about everybody had finished
eating, Leo asked Bolao to sing some songs. I
packed up the stereo and took it upstairs before
the air got too damp. I listened to Bolao from
the window for a minute and was impressed
again with how good he is. He would tell about
a song, translate a bit of it into English, then
sing it through in Portuguese. He gets a lot of
mileage out of just playing a kind of music that
52
A Song For the Cowboy
nobody around here plays, but heTs also very,
very good. I listened to him play the song from
oBlack Orpheus,� then I went back out.
He got into his rap about how there are
these kindred spirits all over the world, and
how they think the same things even if they
donTt speak the same languages. Then he said:
oHere's a song about this idea that I'd like to
dedicate tomy roommate, Karl " The Cowboy
" Russell.� I was embarrassed because he
pointed me out and everybody turned to look at
me in the back of the crowd sitting resting my
back om the trent bumper of Andys 37. | still
had the spatulain my hand, so! brought it up to
Ene crown of my chefs hat in a little salute.
Suave city, right Leo! I thought to myself.
The song he sang was beautiful. He typed
it up for me later that night, and here it is for the
record. He had to help me a little with the
translation, but I know almost every word
from Spanish.
Para Lennon and McCartney
By Lo Borges, Marcio Borges, e Fernando Brant
Porque vocés ndo sabem do lixo ocidental
Nao precisam mais temer
Nao precisem da soliddo
Todo dia @ dia de viver
Porque vocé nao vera meu lado ocidental
Nao precisa médo nado
Nao precisa da timidez
Todo dia é dia de viver
Eu sou do America do Sul
Sei vocés nao vdo saber
Mas agora sou cowboy
Sou lauro
Eu sou vocés
Sou o mondo
Sou Minas Gerais
Because you don't know this Western trash
You don't have to be afraid anymore
You don't have to feel alone
Every dayTs the day to live
Because you don't see my side of the West
There's no need to be afraid
ThereTs no need to be shy
Every dayTs the day to live
Iam South America
And I know that you're not going to know
But now ITm a cowboy
ITm blond
Im. you
ITm the world
ITm Minas Gerais (the state in Brasil the
songwriters are from)
As soon as he finished oPara Lennon and
McCartney� he broke right into the guitar
introduction to oHelter Skelter,� and every
face lit into a smile. He sane it file, bul it
was funny to hear the words with a Brasilian
accent. Actually, Bolao knows the words
better than | do. 1 mever really wader:
stood the words when the Beatles sang
them, so I looked them up on the song sheet
from the album.
When I get to the bottom I go back to the
top of the slide
Where I stop and I turn and I go for a ride
Till I get to the bottom and I see you again
Do you, donTt you want me to love you
I'm coming down fast but ITm miles above
you
Tell me tell me tell me come on tell me the
answer
You may be a lover but you ainTt no dancer
Helter skelter, helter skelter
Helter skelter
When he finished, and before anybody
could clap or anything, he held up his hands
and yelled, oITve got blisters on my fingers!�
like I think itTs John Lennon does at the end of
the song on the album. Then everybody really
laughed.
It was getting dark and a little cool and
things broke up then. A few minutes later
Bolao and a beautiful girl with long blond hair
came up to me where I was wiping catsup and
mayo off JonathanTs Peter Max sheet, and
Bolao asked if I wanted to go up to the language
lab and see oOrfeo Negro� with him and Laurie
and LaurieTs friend Rhonda. They turned back
toward the street where I saw a hand waving
from the driverTs seat of anew yellow Camaro.
oYou bet your boots! (replied.
I was so blown away by the movie I didnt
pay much attention to Rhonda, who smoked
anyway and who wasn't real captivated by me
either, | dont think, Belao put om the mim,
turned the sound way up, then he and Laurie
disappeared into the room where the tapes are
stored. | sat on the floor michi im front or ine
screen with my elbows on my knees and my
chin in my hands like a kid, and Rhonda sat at
the control table and smoked. I donTt think she
knew the movie was going to be in a foreign
language. I only recognized about three words
myself, but I think I got the whole story.
I thought oOrfeo Negro� was a Brasilian
film, but it was really made by a French guy
and spoken in Portuguese. ItTs a simple love
story, or actually, I guess, more of an allegory
about how nobody, not even great and devoted
lovers, beats death, taken from the Greek myth
about Orpheus and Eurydice, which I'm aware
of not because | fad a goed bieh schoo!
education, but because I had a mother who
loved mythology and read to me from Edith
Hamilton when I was little and then when |
grew up just kept on telling me the stories. |
had the feeling that the French director took
liberties with the original story, but I wasn't
really sure, so I checked up on him when I was
in the library this afternoon.
In the myth Orpheus has just returned
from his voyage with Jason and the other
Argonauts, and he and Eurydice have just
gotten married, when, at the wedding feast, a
guy named Aristaeus gets Eurydice alone and
puts some moves on her. Eurydice is having
none of this guy, and she runs away along a
stream where she gets bitten by a snake.
In oOrfeo Negro� everybody is black and
poor, and Eurydice is a girl from the small town
of Nitarei who takes the terry across
Guanabara bay to Rio for Carnival and meets
Orfeo who is a streetcar driver, a Sood bit
amateur samba singer and guitar player, and
the best male samba dancer in the favela. His
girlfriend is the best female samba dancer.
In the myth Eurydice goes down into
Hades with the other dead, and Orpheus sits
along the stream, playing his lyre and singing
to her memory. His love is so strong and he
sings his grief for Eurydice so beautifully that
the goddess Persephone is moved to make him
a deal: Orpheus can go down into Hades and
bring Eurydice back to the world of the living,
but she must follow him and he can't look back
at her until theyTre both in the sunlight again.
I grabbed the first myth book on the shelf
in the library this afternoon, and it turned out
to be in verse, which IJ think I like even better
than Edith HamiltonTs prose. Maybe I like it so
much because itTs VirgilTs writing and I feel
close to him right now while ITm reading oThe
Inferno.� Anyway, the part where Orpheus
breaks into the light, and in his joy forgets
PersephoneTs stipulation and turns to look at
Eurydice while sheTs still in darkness just
fractures me. Orpheus has just turned around,
and Virgil says:
That instant all his labor went to waste
His pact with the cruel tyrant fell apart
And three times thunder rocked AvernaTs
swamps.
She cried out, ~What wild fury ruins us,
My pitiable self, and you, my Orpheus?
See, once again the cruel fates call me back
And once more sleep seals closed my
swimming eyes.
Farewell: prodigious darkness bears me off
Still reaching out to you these helpless
hands
That you may never claim!T
In the movie Orfeo and Eurydice fall in
love at first sight. He takes her home, tell his
girlfriend he has to practice his guitar and get
some rest for the big Carnival parade the next
night, and he and Eurydice wind up in the sack.
53
In the second most beautiful scene in the
film Orfeo sings a song at dawn. HeTs gotten up
before Eurydice, and heTs standing at the edge
of the mountain top where the favela is located.
Orfeo is playing his guitar and singing, and as
the sun burns away the mist and you see the
city and the bay and then the south Atlantic all
spread out below, you think maybe itTs not so
bad to be poor in Rio if you can live in OrfeoTs
neighborhood. Just as he finishes his song two
little boys and a little girl walk up to him. ItTs
the first day of Carnival and they were too
excited to stay in bed. TheyTve never been up
this early before, and they ask Orfeo if his song
is what wakes up the sun. Orfeo tells them it
sure is, then he hands his guitar to one of the
boys who starts right in working on OrfeoTs
song.
In the third most beautiful scene Eurydice
is lying in bed, her long, wavy, black hair
spread across the white pillow case. You can
tell sheTs naked, but all you see is her face and
her beautiful hair and one beautiful milk-
chocolate-colored breast with a darker areola
and a black nipple. SheTs fifteen or sixteen
years old. It just takes your breath away. Then
Orfeo comes in and she pulls up the sheet
modestly.
In the myth, after Orpheus loses Eurydice
the second and final time, he mourns for seven
months, ounfolding his tragic song to the frozen
stars, enchanting tigers, moving oaks with his
theme. ... He wandered lonely through the icy
_ ~waitinet pop, hoe in a ae
of epileptics only / survivin
| ithe knowing volcano. erupts t t )
_. choking] tight / its 1et ¢
i | cannot ees up- " Beep. is at hore is.
_ to sleep / its wave hunts only shore & -
_ from the crest all i see is one drying ae
_ of sand. the rhythm buries. it cannot be
slowed or turned / there is just one leap "
to find & take at the wrongest of times.
_ will Bie nothing A but is ~there to do rightly.
as and wil with he ek i ace.
~ will call strangeness a sea but know
that true rhythm is also strange "&isno
passage / even tho there is ~movement the
_ movement is seizure & is now:
_jump i
is ee i alas ae grinning / Ae
_ dance of cripples is how i know. &
will become a wa i know no other / can a no other. -
tee | _Colltre tion
North, past the snow-encrusted Don, through
the mountain tields of unadulterated. frost,
conveyed the grief at HellTs ironic offerings
.. until finally he ends up in Thrace and runs
into a gang of Bacchanals who are outraged at
his fidelity to a love dead so long, and they tear
him to pieces. Literally.
..they tore the youth apart,
And scattered his limbs around the
spacious fields.
But even then his voice, within the head
Torn from its marble neck, and spinning
down
The tide of his paternal River Hebrus,
The cold tongued voice itself, as life fled
away,
Called out, ~Oh, my forlorn Eurydice!
Eurydice!T and the shoreline answered back
Along the river's breadth, ~Eurydice!T
In the movie all the escolas da samba are
dancing down the street on the night of the big
parade, and a guy ina skeleton costume starts
following Eurydice. She spots him and feels a
supernatural fear, like the guy really is Death.
Orfeo is his samba schoolTs big gun, so he canTt
leave the parade. TheyTre dancing along to all
this incredible samba music, in flash after
flash of smiling, sweaty black faces, sweaty
black belly buttons, luscious black cleavage,
feathers, sequins and costumes that generally
make the pictures ITve seen of Mardi Gras in
New Orleans look like an Amish picnic, when
finally they come to the end of the street and
Orfeo takes off looking for Eurydice. He asks
_ When ihe ie come ot a t night
a screech owl scorches their
bare winter branches with: a ery
| which says there is no "
_ sClocked reality " :
____"=sexcept what is eae
_" ae ye oe tedious note.
around, and tracks her to an old warehouse. He
finds her, and he and Death have a knife fight
for her. Orfeo gets kicked in the head and
knocked out, but not knifed. When he wakes up
both Eurydice and Death are gone. He looks all
the rest of the night for her and finally finds her
in the lowest level of the basement of the city
morgue.
It's nearly dawn when Orfeo comes
walking up the steep path along the edge of the
clill to the tavela tariyiae the fody of
Eurydice. His girlfriend has been waiting for
him, and when she sees him carrying Eurydice,
she freaks out and starts screaming like a
harpy " ora Bacchanal, and she flings a rock at
him. OrfeoTs not even looking at her because his
eyes are locked on EurydiceTs beautiful dead
face, and the rock hits him in the forehead. He
staggers and slips and his body and the body of
Eurydice bump and scrape all the way down
the straight, black mountain side and wind up
cradled in the leaves of a huge plant at the
bottom.
The most beautiful scene in the movie
comes next. I nearly cried, and would haveif I'd
been alone. The three little kids are looking for
Orfeo. They've got his guitar and theyTre after
him to get him to wake up the sun with his
song. The little girl tells the kid with the guitar
that he'd better do the job himself if the sunTs
going to come up on time. The kid with the
guitar says he canTt play like Orfeo, and the
other kid and the little ee tell lan io a!
7 The e Sky 0 over the Lake, ' Win
| Geese ae across
the pink- -orange
last shadow >
of the sun,
struggling
~10 dance
Onasinkng =
_ shoulder of ae
otrailing apart
spit
- to neck
assuming a weave
oe themselves.
anyway. So the little guy starts playing and
singing, and the other two start dancing
samba. And there they are: these three little
black kids, one playing and two dancing to this
beautiful samba song as the sun breaks over
the horizon and brings into full light the green
hills around Rio, the rock mountains that jut up
everywhere, the gray buildings of the city
below, and the blue waters of the bay. And the
kid keeps playing and singing, and his two
friends keep dancing, and pretty soon the song
is louder and louder and seeming like itTs
coming from everywhere. And thatTs how the
movie ends.
Bolao and Laurie came out when the film
started flapping in the projector. Rhonda said
she had to get right back to the sorority to
study, and Laurie said sheTd stay and help
Bolao put the film away. I walked home alone,
singing words | pot only didnt Know but
couldn't pronounce, and trying to dance samba,
trying " as Bolao says white people must " to
keep my back concave and my ass high in the
air as though I were impaled on a stick of
sugarcane.
I stayed up listening to BoldoTs records
through the headphones until he got home. We
talked then for a couple hours about Rio and
Carnival and samba schools and favelas. He
finally went to bed, but I stayed at the desk and
listened to Brasilian music and hummed up the
sun. @
7 ee ly was ae
+ ~Whenl carefully caught
_ the roach "
you were about to fates
cradled him, ne enclosed
@ my palm, a
I to the window a
_. : | he ground _
_ ie 4 Would do i a _
. for oes .
_ ae ae oo Ane Mack -
| . Star, and! would. ay a _
this is that lca
| men speak oa
Peter E. Podeszwa
"
Fi:
LE © guste
oy Pe
Dean,
Bs
Photographs J
Ee
'
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:
The Observer
A child, spent in watching through the blinds:
snow goose clouds hurtled, careening above:
That chase of the aniseed fox,
a foreboding wind;
the kind that tears and squints the eyes.
Eyes often hidden, unwaking;
or yet such a tear-well, those eyes,
and still a desert of sight.
Blister on the observer's face
smothered in textured vision:
the peeling and envisioned eyelids.
Crouching behind blinds,
hunting a life,
stalking the sage and aniseed fox;
carving the hunterTs call
into foreboding, chortled wind.
Froth-like snow goose on the waves;
a fool sparkling in the marsh blades
with the sign of the futile hunt,
the search,
the false chase,
the sign of the spent child behind the blinds
carved in his eyes.
Joe Dudasik
58
Two Poems
Goliath
With my leather sling,
I commanded the pebbles of the quarry.
Thirty terty, fiity
adolescent paces separated my bravery
from the fierceness of a wooden box
that I fancied Goliath:
fearless wood, temple of splinters.
(Ah, splendid, splintered glory!)
My deft arm flung the sling,
fingers moist, brow moist. :
The stone arched, crested, landing
with the force of youthful exaggeration
The box,
my foe,
crashed against the ground
(wooden villain, hateful crate)
smashing into Biblical smithereens.
And without ime smile of victory,
my bronzed, skinny countenance
eraced the quarry
of stony, silent applause.
I was sitting alone in the living room of my
trailer and thinking about Linda being
pregnant when Mark came over. He had driven
out in his white ~69 Firebird wearing a royal
blue White Stag sweatsuit and Tiger Montreal
I] shoes to see if I wanted torun. He knew! did.
I changed into some ragged nylon shorts that
were once bright green and an old gray hooded
sweatshirt. I didnTt wear socks. I almost never
wear socks when I run. They give me blisters.
Mark always wears them though.
We performed a sort of pre-run ritual in
the living room, First I put an Al Stewart
album on the stereo and then we each did
twenty push-ups and took a bong hit. You
went up and down twenty times and took in
~ smoke. If you didnTt cough, the blood vessels in
your lungs would be really dilated and you'd
get a tremendous rush. Mark and I would do
this to loosen up as well as to raise our
thresholds of pain. That day we did two
~Still
Running
by David Trevino
59
hundred push-ups and ten bong hits apiece. By
the time we had done eighty and four Al was
lifting me up and down from the speakers:
On Carol, | tank 11S time
for running for cover,
Believe me, you re everyone
and nobody's lover,
You've got a one way ticket
for all your yesterdays.
When we had become thoroughly
stoned, Mark and I left the trailer and walked
the hundred or so yards to the 10th Street
Prenton ancl started io jog. Tsay jog
because we weren't running at all. We were
moving a little faster than a brisk walk. I like to
shake out my hips for a while before I start to
really move, but Mark likes to start striding
right away. I donTt have any cartilage in my left
knee anymore so I! have to slow him down
while I do an extended warm-up. We kept this
pace for over a half mile, past the intersection
by Hastings Ford until 5th runs into 10th near
the Western SizzlinT Steak House. Once we
crossed the five lanes of traffic on 10th we
picked up the pace a bit.
We trotted down 5th, past the Highway
Paro! biiding. Dumms Auio Shop, the
Kentucky Fried Chicken and a trailer park.
When I say otrot� I mean to move about as fast
as those fad runners on their hot days. I guess I
shouldnTt look down on them. ItTs just that ITve
been a runner for a long, long time andit hasn't
always been as popular as it now seems to be.
At one time you didnTt see very many people
running by the side of the road, but now
everywhere you go thereTs some dumpy guy in
Bermuda shorts waddling byin his black socks
an@ tisha Puppies. 1m sorry. | guess iis like
having been a Mets fan before they ever won
anything. I canTt believe all those awkward
people pounding their joints on the pavement
Can experience the same joy I do. For me
running is one of the few, uncompromising
realities of life. So of course I hated to be seen
out in public trotting along like some cloddish
jogger, but I had to warm up or my knee would
give me trouble. I screwed it up trying to bea
junior Joe Namath in high school football.
So with my gimp knee to unwind we
continued our relaxed pace past the white
people's cemetary and Green Springs park to
the Catholic Church on Beech Street where we
turned right and continued on until we hit 3rd
and turned left. We kept on trotting to where
3rd ends ina peanut field and all the cars have
to turn left if they want to stay on pavement.
60
Mark and I turned right onto a rough dirt road
that skirted the field and meandered on for a
mile until it reached a trail into the woods by
the Tar River which went on for a couple of
miles until it finally petered out into nothing.
Once we got off the pavement I picked up
the pace again. The footing wasn't that good.
The road was a pair of tire ruts littered with
corn stalks and shucks. Between the ruts wasa
tangle of dark, dried grass and pine saplings
that would never grow much taller. It wasn't
exactly a fast track, but by the time Mark and I
got to the field on Hickory Street we had been
out for over a mile anda half and I felt pretty
loosened up. I was ready to start stretching the
muscles in my hips, my thighs and my calves. I
wanted to shake them out a little. It felt good.
ItTs a lot easier on my body when I get to warm
up and set the pace for a while. ITm sure itTs
easier on Mark, too. When you rerunning right
behind somebody itTs like an intangible suction
carries you. If he can go that fast, so can you.
We let our legs stretch out and pull us
easily. We concentrated on perfecting long,
reaching strides, but continued to run at less
than three quarter speed. When youre in
relatively good shape, striding around like that
can be exhilarating. You're not tired, just loose
and you're not really pushing yourself hard,
but the motion still thrills every nerve in your
body. We went to the end of the peanut field
and turned left with the road, away fromacorn
field to run down the length of the peanut one.
The peanuts had been harvested weeks
before. Some enormous machine had come
along and torneverything up. Then some other
machine came and baled all the stuff left over.
A couple of days after that some black men
loaded these bales into trucks. They got most
of them, but there were still a few left out in the
field that afternoon. When the black men had
finished their loading, families of locals and
groups of college students went over the field
ame milked! wo most of the peanuts the
machines had missed, Almost all of the
peanuts were gone and parts of the field were
covered with bright, green winter grass. The
Soil that showed was am ugly gray color
because the guy who owned it had grown
tobacco for too many years before he decided
to try something different. This year it was
peanuts. Last year it had been soy beans. The
other seven fields around it have always been
corn. At least they have since I have been here
in Greenville. Not much changes around this
part of North Carolina.
Stands of pine and oak grew between the
fields. I guess they were there to protect the
fields against wind. I donTt know. We were in
the middle of October already and all the trees
were still green. I thought that was pretty
strange.
Along the edge of the peanut field stood
three tobacco barns. Although dm varying
states of disrepair all were of the same basic
architecture, wooden structures covered with
black and green tar paper on brick foundations
and crowned by dull tin roofs. You could see
buck shot patterns in the tar paper where the
dove and guail hiumters had iired tee
shotguns. The spread pattern was for distance
and the tighter one for close range.
About half a mile from Hickory Street and
the dirt road turned right toward the Tar River
and away from the peanut field. It was still a
mile to the path in the woods. The ground in the
corn fields was different from the gray stuff in
the peanut field. It was more tawny, the color
of a lionTs hide. Maybe it was because the
broken stalks were still out in the fields with
the dark broadleaf weeds. There were white
corn shucks everywhere.
As Mark and I glided through the fields I
tried not to think. The more! thought about my
situation, the more tragically trapped I felt. I
just wanted to forget it all and just feel, just
laugh. I wanted to run warmly through that
crisp autumn air. I wanted to forget about
Linda crying with me in her the night before.
So instead I thought about how dry my mouth
was and how my jock rubbed against my right
thigh.
When we got to the path by the Tar River,
Mark shot out in the lead. I watched him run
fora while. Mark isnTt built like arunner atall.
I'm five-eight and one-forty. Mark is two
inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier.
He's not at all fat. He just lids 4 stocky body
that makes him still look like the high school
wrestler he once was. Actually, itTs his face
that makes Mark look like heTs still im high
school. ItTs gotten a little less round recently
and that does make him look older, but itTs still
a boyish face dominated by a pug nose and
topped by short black hair. I think Mark will
always look young, no matter what he does.
He picked up the pace and we did the next
half in less than two anda half minutes. Mark
likes to run in front. He likes to lead the pack
and control the pace. I don't. I'd rather hang on
the front runnerTs shoulder and blow him off
down the straightaway.
It was even harder to run through the
woods than it had been on the dirt road. The
trail was not as heavily used. Geveral roots
grew across it as well as ruts worn by the rain.
Branches and vines hung down on you. On the
left you could hear the river and once ina while
the trees would break openand you could see it
mirroring the foliage. It was a beautiful place
to run. I saw motorcyle tracks on the trail and
silently cursed the idiot who had brought a
machine into these woods. His knobby tires
had torn up the trail and made the footing even
worse.
After Mark had led for a half mile I felt my
adrenalin begin to pump as he began to fade. |
passed him as we crunched across a stretch of
ereen wandering Jew. My feet were reaching
far out in front of me and my heels threw up
drops of mud onto the back of my shorts. I had
reached a pain barrier and run. through it.
Running now became more of a mental
exercise and less of a physical one. I had run
away from the hurt, the awkward, unnatural
strain that plagued the fad joggers. Now [ ran.
My body worked as effortlessly and as
naturally as if it were making love.
Tearing along at a 5:20 mile pace I reached
the point where the trail ended, turned and
kicked back another mile and a half until I
slowed down to let Mark catch up. My head
throbbed and my chest felt as though it had
caved in, but Linda was a million miles away.
Mark quickly caught up and took the lead
again, slower this time. We trotted along fora
quarter of a mile or so, just catching our breath,
until he braked in front of me, yelling, oWhoa!�
Frozen less than a yard in front of him was a
stretched-out green snake. It was no thicker
than a magic marker and less than a foot anda
61
half long. We stood and looked at it amazedly
until Mark finally said, oIf itTd been a cotton
mouth I'd have gotten bitten for sure.�
I looked at the terrified, little snake and
laughed.
Mark knelt over it and held out a twig to
see if it would strike, but it didn't. It remained
perfectly still until Mark grabbed it with his
left hand. Then it become a writhing, clutching
muscle. It was a scaly, green tentacle. Its tail
wrapped and unwrapped around MarkTs arm
as it tried to escape.
He handled it for a while, letting it crawl
all over his arms. Then he passed it to me and I
did the same. We stood around in the middle of
the wood with the smooth, cool snake for no
more than a few minutes. We toyed with the
idea of taking it to some girlTs house asa sign of
our wildness, but the sight of the helpless
snake in my hands made the notion seem
ridiculous. I put it back on the ground and it
quickly wriggled away into the brush on the
side of the trail. We watched it disappear
beneath the way we had come. We pushed
pretty hard the rest of the way with Mark
leading until we came to the corn fields where
we quit.
We walked out into the fields and started
rummaging among the stalks, the shucks and
tne cous, lhis iteld had been harvested, too,
bi | hadnt rum by to see it. This corm was for
livestock, nothing you'd eat yourself. It was
nice enough looking corn for animals though,
bright orange kernels on dark red cobs.
The sun was going down as we walked
over the corn field. The trees on the western
skyline were black silhouettes under the fiery,
pink clouds. A pair of Air Force jets streaked
fome te seymour johmsom, leaving brilliant
red and white trails in the sky.
I found a pair of ears that still had all the
kernels on them. I peeled back the shucks to
use as handles and began to beat the ears
together as I chanted some gutteral gibberish
that sounded like the Indians on televison.
Mark laughed and began to look for a pair of
ears for himself. I started dancing through the
rows of dead corn stalks, chanting louder and
louder and hitting the ears together harder and
harder until the kernels began to fly. Mark
found some ears and we both banged corncobs
and howled like savages as the moon rose over
the trees in the east.
lt Was a yellow moon, Almost full. The
moon only stays yellow for the time itis lowin
the sky. When it gets higher it becomes a
silvery white. The light it reflects changes,
too. When it first came over the trees it gave off
a golden glow. It gilded the tips of the trees
62
beneath it. Directly across the field and trees
under the sunset were sharp, black outlines. It
was beautiful.
We left the corn field and our ritual. We ran
down the dirt road to the peanut field and sat
on some bales of straw. I stared silently at the
sky above Mme uml: Mark finally asked,
MWittats with you: You seem out of it, joey.�
I looked at the moon and studied the dark
spots that are supposed to be seas or craters or
sunken plains. I can only vaguely remember
the details of my astronomy class. I looked
back at the sky and then told him about Linda.
She had missed her last four periods and not
told me until that morning. She was beginning
to put om werent and that worried her. |
couldn't believe it.
What could we do? What would we tell our
parents? What would four months on the pill
do to a fetus? On the label of LindaTs birth
control pills it said that taking them during
pregnancy could lead to mental retardation
and other birth defects.
Abortion was out. I knew no doctor would
do ome alter iour momths. | was relieved. |
didnTt want to have to make that choice.
Mark almost had to make that choice five
years earlier when he was seventeen and a
jouer im high sehool. His girlfriend, Cathy
Goodwin, told him she was pregnant and in the
same sentence that she had had an abortion. So
Mark never had to choose. He said that it still
bothered him sometimes anyway.
I told Mark that I didnTt love Linda enough
to marry her and that I thought it would be
stupid of me to tie up my life trying to live up to
someone else's expectations. But I couldn't
leave Linda with that baby. It was my baby
and I would take responsibility for it. ITd get
custody of it and raise it myself.
ItTs strange when your life starts taking
place in the present tense.
oAll the rest of the women you fuck in your
life will probably think thatTs really noble,�
Mark said.
That made me feel bad. We talked a little
longer and decided to start home. We ran the
way back to the trailer slowly. When we got
there Mark got in his car and drove away. |
took a shower and spent the rest of the night
smoking pot and reading Anne Sexton.
Two weeks later Linda had a miscarriage.
Three days after that we broke up. Within the
week I moved into a house a block from
campus with Andrea Moscrip, a dancer in the
drama department with long, bleached, blonde
hair. Sometimes Mark gives me a hard time
about it. It makes me feel bad, but | still donTt
stop.
My Father After Ninety
for Imogen Cunningham
You seem prepared for winter.
The stack of newly split logs
laid out behind you
promises warmth in the coming cold.
Bright burning fires that blaze
into ashes.
Black branches
casting spindly shadows
against the old shed
bespeak the approaching cold.
But you do not fear it.
You have prepared yourself well,
and now you sit
on the dead tree stump,
calmly clasping"
not gripping"
the bent walking stick,
squinting boldly into
the late afternoon sun.
Karen
Blansfield
Two
Poems
River Dream
oWelcome to God's country,T you said
as we rounded the bend into
the circle of still waters
guarded by centuries of looming trees.
We sat in the still waters,
the lapping of the waves against the boat
dimmed by the din of locusts,
the mournful baying of the hounds
from deep within the woods.
We watched the sonar bleeps
to see how deep the water was.
But the depths kept changing.
I watched two whirlpools
eddying in opposite directions
swirl swiftly towards one another,
touch momentarily,
then spin off again
like two whirling jacks.
And the eye of heaven watched me,
a huge red dripping ball
that peered from a slit
in the smoky sky,
turned the world red for a moment,
the water into blood,
then slipped back beneath its lid.
Then it was dusk.
We slipped back through
the sweep of grey sky and water,
back to the rushing world
that would spin our two lives apart.
63
Notes on Being Potty Trained
by Kim Shipley
oResentful� is putting it mildly. oEnraged�
is a tad bit strong. oDisgusted� probably best
sums up my feelings toward the sixties.
Kim Marlowe Shipley. Born April 15,
1959. In 1963 I was four and not aware who
John Kennedy was or where he got off getting
all this publicity for being shot. In 1968 I was
nine and my mother would not allow me to go
to the Democratic National Convention, and
when I screamed oUp against the Wall
Motherfucker!� at the neighborTs gardener I
was spanked and sent to my room.
The real bummer happened in August of
that year when everyone else was off to Max
YasgurTs farm in Woodstock to listen to the
bands and I had to stay home because my
grandparents were coming to visit. A million
and a half people at Woodstock listening to the
Who, and I was at home watching oThe Ghost
amd Mas; Munir.�
I didnTt blossom until the early seventies,
when the wildest thing the decade could offer
was Alice Cooper. By the time I first smoked
dope in ~73 Joan Didion had already left
Haight-Ashbury and was part of the establish-
ment again. Face it, I missed out. I got left out of
the revolutionary sixties; Iam a product of the
mundane seventies.
When you were born in 1959 you kind of
wonder what you're expected to feel. They tell
you that we've just come out of a war and that
there was a big one a few years ago. But now
everything's cool and we live in the best
country in the world. So you go ahead with
teething and potty training as if nothing is the
matter, fully believing everything they told
you a few years ago about how stable we are.
You can't read the papers and TV news is over
your head, so you rely entirely upon them (the
ones who bother to talk to you) for all your
info. The most upsetting thing that happens in
the house for about five or six years that you
are aware of is Elvis on Ed Sullivan one night
and Lucky the cocker spaniel getting worms.
So things go along pretty smoothly. You start
kindergarten and they have a big Easter
pageant that isnTt half bad for an elementary
school production even if Miss Rietter is about
20 pounds too heavy to play Peter Rabbit. Then
you're in third or fourth grade (some of us
caught on earlier thanks to older brothers and
sisters) and suddenly it hits you.WHAM! Jesus
FuckinT Christ"thereTs a revolution going on
out there! Free love and LSD. The only draw-
back is that you're not quite old enough to get it
up yet so the free love part is out and you don't
know any stores that carry LSD.
Actually I should have caught on earlier.
Along about ~68 my older sister Jan, who
NEVER questioned our mother, flatly refused
to wear bobby socks any longer; I should have
seen it coming. And when my brotherTs room
constantly shook to the sounds of oIn a Gadda
Da Vida� I really should have seen it coming.
But children tend to believe what they are told.
I remember being humiliated in front of
my fourth grade class in 1968. There was an
election coming up and we all had to be candi-
dates for a day. Guess who! got to be? I realize
Richard Nixon didnTt become a criminal until
Watergate but my older brother Ric took me
aside one day and told me that Nixon was part
of the capitalist establishment and he was
going to do everything possible to see the piggy
didn't get elected. Anyway, Mrs. Brown had
little sympathy when I politely informed her
the next day that I didnTt care to be part of her
propagandistic campaign to brainwash the
children of Room 14. When I said I was going
to call my brotherTs friends Abbie Hoffman
and Jerry Ruebin and have them hold a rally at
Beechwood Elementary I was told to take my
seat. When I yelled oMake Love Not War� I
found myself in the principal's office. He was
not overly helpful either and I had a rather
flushed face when I returned to the class; and
they STILL made me play Nixon. But I must
have been pretty damn influential over those
kids since I won the election three to one. And
it was Kim they were voting for. I knew the
takeover and subsequent turnover of the main
office were only a matter of time.
The real thrill happened inT69. A year after
Jim Betts and I had been apprehended in our
plan to go to Chicago and destroy the systemat
the convention, the record album to Woodstock
came out and weall learned the fish cheer. I can
64
During the Sixties
still remember the exciting feeling, the tingling
of my nerves and adrenalin rushing through
my veins"standing on top of the monkey bars
screaming oGIVE ME AN F!� and the whole
playground stops and screams oF!� One time I
got all the way to the second oFUCK� before
they yanked me down off the bars. What were
they gonna do? Make me stay after school and
write oI will not scream ~fuckT from atop the
monkey bars any more.T? I wasnTt afraid of
them.
And then there was the biggie. Vietnam.
oGet the fuck out of Nam.� oBomb Washington,
not Hanoi.� oMake Love Not War.� None of it
seemed to do much good. All I understood
about it was they were talking about sending
my favorite brother over there and a couple of
his buddies were already dead from it.
Vietnam was not something I joked about or
fought against. Watching TV and having
Walter Cronkite tell me that 57 Americans and
328 Vietnamese had been killed there today
terrified me. I didnTt understand it. There was
so much fighting going on here about it and
nobody agreed and everyone hated each other
because of it: I simply did not understand. It
scared me to think thatina few years I could go
there too. It still does scare me.
And then the fighting hit closer to home. In
1969 they started burning down Detroit and
marching with guns and torches towards the
suburbs where | lived. People were shot on the
street by National Guardsmen and snipers
were all over the place. Anyone on the streets
past ten oTclock was locked up, and if he ran,
orders were to shoot to kill. I remember driving
down the street with my mother and for miles
seeing nothing but black frames where there
used to be buildings. I remember sitting out in
the back yard with my family, watching the
sky grow redder to the east of us. It was scary
then and it would be now. The only time I have
ever seen my mother scared is when she and
my sister and I were in ScottTs Nursery and the
lights went out and a voice came over the loud-
speaker. oWe have been informed,� it said,
othat there is a mob of about 650 blacks
marching this way with torches and it is
estimated they will be here in ten minutes. We
are closing immediately.� I didnTt know why
they wanted to hurt us. All I could figure out
was that it had something to do with the black
man who was shot in Memphis whose last
words were Sing it pretty for me.� But I hadnTt
shot him and neither had my family.
My last brush with the sixties came in 69.
My mother grew up in Kent, Ohio, and my
father attended college there. My family
planned to visit my grandparents one weekend
in April. The day before we left home, National
Guard troops opened fire on a group of protest-
ing students from Kent State University,
killing five of them and wounding twelve
more. When we got to Kent it had been boarded
up like a plague town and there were broken
windows everywhere and naked porches with
signs on them that read oFree Laos.� It wasnTt
the same town that I played in as a boy. It had
none of the warmth and friendliness. It was
openly hostile "savage. Kent has not yet re-
turned to a livable state. There is still hostility
and unfounded hatred. And there are the few
oldtimers who try to go along like nothing ever
happened, and they are even more pathetic
than the town itself.
Say what you like about the sixties. You
can praise the enlightenment and personal
freedom or condemn it. But as a child, I saw
two cities and many personal lives affected to
the point of ruin by that era, and as far as ITm
concerned, you can have those ten years. Inow
wear my hair short because itTs easier to keep
clean. I smoke dope because I like it. In the last
election I campaigned for Ford and I would do
it again. I am constantly amazed when I walk
into a restaurant and find refugees from Wood-
stock staring at me blankly. TheyTre out there
en masse" wearing Lenin tee-shirts, macrame,
and electrified hair down to their beltloops. I
feel like screamime at them, Gass llnot ts
dead!� or oRowan and Martin are off the air!� or
oAngela Davis sold out"she wrote a book!� ItTs
been almost nine years and these people still
haven't recovered from the sixties. The seven-
ties are not boring. ItTs just that fifty percent of
the population is still too bummed out from
Janis JoplinTs death in 1970 to enjoy 1979. For
all those people"open your eyes, take a look
around. Catch what you can of the seventies
before theyTre gone. Dig it, man: you can come
back out now. The Movement is dead. There is
no Revolution. The war is over.
65
A SERIES OF FIVE INTAGLIOS BY
ED MIDGETT
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E woe BEGRESR REY e
3:
2:
by Ray Harrell
The bucking tractor broke my sleep as Al
bumped the clutch to pull the Peterbuilt
abreast of the pumps. I stretched and yawned
and the locking brakes hissed like a giant
reptile. Al looked at his watch and made the log
entry while I rubbed sleep from my eyes and
pulled on my boots and slid out of the sleeper.
We swung down out of the cab and met the
pump attendant.
oWhaddya say, Clawhammer?� the pump-
er asked. oClawhammer� was Al's handle on
his infernal C.B. radio.
oAll right, Sarge, how about you?�
I stared harder over Al's shoulder at the
pumperTs worn jungle boots, greasy khakis,
and frayed field jacket with the Screaming
-Eagle on the shoulder.
oAs usual, Clawhammer. How much ee
need tonight?�
SargeTs beard, hair, and moustache were
all the same length, and a Cat hat with rolled
bill pulled low over his eyes kept all but his
mouth out of sight as he spoke.
70
oClose to eighty gallons, Sarge, both tanks
are about dry. How about checking my oil and
cleaning the windshield?� Al reinforced his
request with a five stuck into SargeTs breast
pocket.
oSure thing, Clawhammer. I'll lock it up
and leave the key at the register for you.
Al nodded. oGood enough, Sarge. Come on
Mike, letTs get some coffee and chow.�
oHow's the food in this place, Al?�
oThe best. The best around at one-thirty in
the morning in nowhere South Carolina.�
oT was afraid of that.� ;
We strode off toward the diner with the ra-
ra-ra-rump of the big idling diesel fading into
the misty night behind us.
The truck stop was small. A small shop, a
small store, a small pay shower and four small
rooms above the small diner.
oWho would want to rent a room ina place
no bigger idotsvemnaeyt-sam
oAnybody who needed a room for an
hour,� said Al with a wide grin.
at @) oe LS
oIt might be small, but it sure has
2
= oi
a ee a dor ae CT
peg
a ee
ee
everything,� he added with a Groucho Marx
twirl of the eyebrows.
As we pushed through the diner door a
away from a police scanner by the register.
Al led the way to a window booth halfway
down the side, and a waitress brought water °
and menus. She was about our age, 27, average
looking and with the complexion of someone
who has spent too much time working, long
night hours. |
oBe back in a minute, Al.� of
oTake your time, Edna,� Al answered and
gulped down his ice water. ".*"
I looked through the window at AlTs rig
swinging around into the parkitig line.
oSay, Al, I meant to ask: ~about that fellow
out there.� e
As I spoke, we sdw v Sarge hop out of the
cab and land with the light spring of a jumper.
oHe doesnTt look like a very well-adjusted vet.�
oYou're right, he ainTt.� Al took a deep
breath. oThey say he was with the One-O-One
in ~Nam...
oYeah, | recoenized the patch.
group of locals, shaking their heads, turned
oWell, story is him and about eight or ten
others went in some place to set up an ambush,
but the surprise was on them. Sarge was in
charge, and just him and one more got out, shot
all to hell. HeTs been in another world ever
since. VA can't help anybody that donTt want
their help, 1 reckon,
Whatil you boys have?�
We hadn't noticed Edna had come back to
our table.
oOh, two eggs, grits, and sausage, Babe.�
oWake a i.0, | added,
oIf you two can eat slow, I get a break in
about twenty minutes and I'd like your
company.�
Al snapped his head up. oWell, hell, just
hold ours till you can come out. Probably take
that long to cook it any way.�
Two brown and tan uniformed deputies
stepped in, and the dozen or so people cut off
conversation in mid-sentence. All eyes fol-
lowed the pair to a table at the end of the coun-
ter. The voices gradually picked back up till
everyone was ignoring them. But something
about them kept my attention, though.
I had noticed their uniforms were spotted
with dirt and wrinkled when they came in. The
breast pocket was torn off the taller oneTs shirt,
amc botn of them had wide rines of dry
perspiration in the armpits. Both were broad
shouldered, and the tall guy wore a .357 lowon
his hip with a thigh strap in the bottom of the
holster. He should have been wearing Tony
Elamas instead of the brown. oxtords, |
thought. His left eye had begun to swell and
darken, and his nose had been bleeding. He
lifted the water glass with his right hand, and
the knuckles were scraped and bloody.
The shorter deputy was muscular but
beginning to showa paunch. He was especially
quiet and sat staring out of the window with
worried eyes. He lifted his water glass, but his
Mane began to shake and he set if down
without drinking. He wore a standard service
holster and revolver with six cartridge loops
on the belt. Three of the .38 slugs were missing.
The tall one snorted. oMaybe some of these
wild-asses around here will calm down now.�
His voice was loud and sounded boastful.
oYeah.� The shorter deputy didnTt seem
anxious to talk.
oThat bastard really laid one on me, but
he'll be eating through a straw for two or three
weeks.�
oYeah.� The short deputy lifted his glass
and again set it down without drinking.
The tall deputy leaned over the table on his
elbows and stared hard at his partner.
~look, lerny, shake if ofl, its part of the
TZ
job. Besides, you didn't have any choice. You
waited longer than I would have.�
oYeah, | reckon so.
oYou're damned right, weTve got to show
these 2.
oDrop it, Luke!� The tone of his voice and
the look in his eyes kept his partner quiet for
several minutes.
Edna came back with coffee and slid into
the booth beside Al. Your eggs are almost
ready, BabsTll bring Tem.�
Al sipped his coffee and turned to Edna. oI
didnTt think you waited on tables after eleven
oO Glock.T
oT donTt, but Bill is letting me do this until
the doctor says itTs okay for me to go back to
work upstairs.�
Al rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge
of his nose between his thumb and forefinger,
and I tried hard not to cough with my mouth
full of coffee.
oT hope I can go back next week.�
Wathout looking at her, Al said in a
lowered tone, oYou'll never quit it, will you?�
Leok, Al, tow can | make this much
money doing anything else?�
oWe "I get along fine ona hell of a lot less
than you make!�
oWell, maybe I donTt just want to get
along!�
I tried to break the following strained
silence by saying something dumb about how
rough it must be working at night all the time
and Edna said something to the effect that you
get used to it.
Babs appeared with our breakfast and we
changed the subject. She sat the plates down
and I watched the two sunnyside eggs drift
around the rim of the oblong platter, skid into
the sausage and come to rest against the
gelatin glob of grits.
oMore coffee please, and a pack of Tums.�
Babs turned her eyes to the ceiling. oI knew
it, anybody riding with Clawhammer has to be
a smart-ass.�
Al dug into his, while I sipped coffee and
tried to convince myself I was hungry.
There was another commotion at the door
and one of the deputies said, oOh, hell.� Two
loud couples made their way to the table
between us and the deputies. Two greasers and
two women with bleached Tammy Wynette
hairdos. One of the fellows stood out; in fact,
he would have stood out in any crowd. His
shirt had a wide collar and large table cloth
checks with sleeves rolled halfway to the
elbow, slacks that resembled one of grannyTs
quilt linings and a white belt. All of this topped
off by a waterproof pompadour. He also had
the loudest mouth in the group.
oWell, well, if it ain't Andy and Barney!
Look whos batk, y¥ all.�
oYeah, we see,� said Luke, the tall deputy.
oThe judge who gave you probation must keep
wolves for pets.�
~| dont know about tial, but] tear the
sheriff uses jackasses for deputies!�
This brought whoops and howls from the
other three, and they slapped the table hard
enough to jar their flatware to the floor. The
area around them began to reek of beer.
oCome on, Jerry, let's get out of here.� The
tall deputy started to leave his seat but his
partner stopped him.
oWe've got a few more minutes,T he said,
glancing at his watch. Be patient! ior @
change.�
The rowdies kept up a stream of small
jokes and seemed to have terminal giggles.
Those two ridiculous bleached hairdos bobbed
like channel markers in a gale.
Al and Edna had resumed their small talk.
I was watching the crowd and trying to corner
my slippery eggs. Edna patted AlTs hand and
went back to work.
Al looked at me, grinning. oWhat would
your buddies at the bank think of you having
breakfast with a whore?�
oJust about the same Sandra thinks of me
spending my vacation on the road with you
instead of with her and the kids at my in-lawsT
for a week.�
oHumph,� Al snorted, oyou're getting to be
a regular low-life, ainTt you?�
He stared at LoudmouthTs table for a few
seconds. oReal sociable crowd, ain't they?�
oYeah,� I said. oI believe the big deputy
would enjoy kicking their butts.�
I saw the short deputy glance at his watch
again, then back at the greaser, and a faint
smirk lit up his face.
A young black couple came in and took a
table away from the crowd. A. few minutes
later Sarge came in and handed the guy a set of
Mercedes keys.
oT parked it off to the side, under the light,�
Sarge told him. oChecked all the fluid and the
tires, figured you had a long way to go.� The
fellow offered Sarge a big green tip, but Sarge
waved him otf, No tromble,� he said, ging
strode away. As he passed between us,
Loudmouth grabbed his arm.
oHainTt you got nothing better to do than
wait on them, you dumb-ass?�T
SargeTs hand slipped into his field jacket
pocket and the short deputy popped out of his
seat, laying his hand on SargeTs shoulder and
pulling him away from the table. He whispered
into SargeTs ear and the little man nodded his
head. Jerry sat back down and Sarge stuck his
head through the kitchen door and called,
oMore coffee for the Good Guys, on me!� He
reached the diner door, looked back and smiled
at Loudmouth"the only expression I'd seen
him use"and strode back out to the pumps.
The deputy looked at his watch again.
Edna made her way toward the black
coupleTs table with menus and water, and
Loudmouth put his arm out to stop her.
Wait a minute, oGood Lovking, ie
slurred. oYou hainTt got to wait on them jungle-
bunnies.�
Al started to rise from his seat, Loudmouth
saw him and let go of EdnaTs arm. She took the
order and went back to the kitchen.
The black man came over to the rowdiesT
table and leaned over with both large, hard
looking fists on the table.
oMister, you owe my wife and I an
apology.�
oYoure full of shit!T More cigcles.
The short deputy finally spoke. Odom,
you heard the man, apologize.�
oYoure crazy as ell i you thmik tim
apologizing to a damn ni"�
oSHUT UP, Odom!� The deputy roared.
oYou're under arrest!�
oLike hell!T Odom shouted, jumping from
his chair and reaching toward his hip pocket. oI
alla cone melmume!
oDisorderly conduct.�
oShi-i-i-t!�
oOkay " � the tall deputy said, obreaking
probelion, vour curio, ts a0. ane ic 230
now.�
Odom reached for his hip pocket and the
Sears driver behind us shouted, oAutomatic!�
Gustomers scrambled under tables.
knocking over chairs and breaking glasses.
The tall deputy shoved one of the metal chairs
with his toot ameT cracked it agaimst Odom s
shin. His partner grabbed Odom's iree arm,
slung him around across the back of a chair,
erabbed a handful of hair and pushed his face
into the plate of grits, then pulled the other
hand from OdomTs hip pocket and clamped the
cuffs on so tight he howled. OdomTs buddy dug
a Dlackjack from Is poeke! benmed ie
deputyTs back, but the black guy rapped his
right fist against the back of the jerkTs head and
he was still out when Odom was subdued and
his face cleaned off.
"Well see what volr ipiemds ai tne
courthouse can do for you this time, you son of
a bitch!� The deputy was snarling mad. oLuke,
bring that other punk to the car!�
Luke told the two women to take OdomTs
73
car home and dragged his groggy prisoner
outside. The deputies shoved the men in the
back seat, then climbed in the front and the
cruiser disappeared down the road under the
blue strobe.
Sarge came in and helped Edna and Babs
clean up the mess and when he was finished
sat down next to Al.
oT might not be here next time you come
through, Clawhammer.�
What?
oMy folks are coming to take me home
Thursday. Haven't seen ~em since I got back
...� Sarge stared hard at the table top. Al called
Babs and told her to bring Sarge a cup of coffee.
oThey claim they know a doctor who can
help me forget, or at least learn not to think
about it. Damned sure worth a try for that.�
Al put his arm around Sanges shoulder,
You can make m1, buddy. die reached into his
shirt pocket and took out a business card.o You
call me or write me here anytime.�
oGreat, hereTs my folkTs address. You can
reach me through them, Clawhammer,� he said,
scribbling an address ona napkin and stuffing
Monte Als pocket. The blast of an airhorn
caught our ears and Sarge got up. oThanks,
man,T Sarge said, and trotted out to the pumps.
We sat quietly for a few minutes. I thought
of AlTs Purple Heart, his cousin last seenin that
Sledmime. COlling jungle, the walls of
concertina wire from which the only freedom
was Jack DanielTs No. 7 and Vietnamese Red,
and how too many of us clung to that freedom
until it imprisoned us and the crowded
wards at Walter Reed. AlTs eyes showed that he
shared my thoughts.
oDamn, Mike, itTs ten till three, we ve got to
eel�:
We got a cup of coffee for the road, paid the
tab and picked up the keys. Edna caught us at
the door.
oWhenTs your next trip this way?�
oNext Tuesday,T Al replied. oYou be here
then?�
ess
I headed on out to the truck and left them
alone in the shadow of the door. After a minute
Al trotted up behind me.
obets check the tires and lets,
This done, we climbed in. Al revved the
Detroit to build up the air. He set the styrofoam
coffee cup on the console and slipped the truck
in gear. It grunted twice, the brakes hissed
again, and Al fanned through the gears as we
approached the highway. He ripped a short
blast on the horn to Sarge who finally took off
his hat to wave, and we headed down the
entrance ramp back onto the fourlane.
The Peterbuilt neared road speed and Al
turned on the radio. Jimmy Page screamed into
our ears and Led Zeppelin beat hell out of the
imisice of the cab. Al tummed if down.
~ou can tell Saree has been im liere, he
laughed. oGet L.J. the Dejay will you?�
I dialed in the truckersT D.J. on WBT as he
was giving the weather report. oAll you
northbounders be careful around Richmond
and points north. Having their first cold storm
up there with some bridges icing up. Here in
Charlotte we've got fifty degrees and clear,
with clouds moving in by mid-day...�
oGlad we're heading east at Raleigh,� said
ak
oNo shit!�
L.J. caught our ears again. oSpecial request
from CandyTs Truck Stop for Clawhammer;
every truckersT favorite, Dave Dudley, with
bx Days On the Road
riomdammn! Al shouted. oLet's truck!�
We were already going sixty, but Al
double-clutched and dropped back a gear, and
I closed the vents to shut out the Detroit's
screams. The speedo wound onto the half of the
dial I couldn't see, and as the tar strips
thumped against the front tires in time with
the walking bass guitar I leaned my head back,
giving in to drowsiness once more. g
Forty seconds
Echoes of sirens
high-heeled shoes clicking wet concrete
a distant babyTs cry
White lights, dark cool sky
Water glistening on 42nd street
Subways rumble beneath me
Yellow taxi flashes by
tires spinning out rain and mud
firebolts splinter darkness
An old geezer sleeps
under the eaves of JoeTs Cafe
Broken bottles at his feet
Tall granite buildings
disappearing into the skyline
stand cold and deserted
Walking through round green lights
clutching my mud spattered trenchcoat
while rain christens the city.
Nancy Moore
Crabtree
Tumble swirl through blue
Barbed wire acrobat for night
Below some net awaits
A tireless tree burdened with
Grape, limbs and dreams
A matter beyond superman.
Falling ... callous hand
Grips shade makes a deal
Handshake bleeds another summer
Unforgettable autumn goes by.
Finish a glass, plan something
Of right texture of sun and shade
Thin elastic desire rules sees something
Then suddenly unable to rest in a room.
Monty Barham
The Hobbit
He came to use the phone
on a warm June afternoon
rolling pin joints from my stash
laughing through the same boring stories
as he moved onto the couch.
Eating ~ludes, swilling beer
bringing motorcycle gangs home for the night
illustrating eating pussy and kicking ass
getting a call every morning at five
and never answering
as he moved into BillTs room.
With a friendTs guitar and a bag of dope
he skipped town in mid-August
owing ninety dollars to the girl upstairs
leaving only seeds and a note
promising to keep in touch
and send us money
all before we realized
no one knew his name.
Michael F. Parker
75
76
Three
Eden Song
I hear
leaves settle
animal fur thicken
Our house is
wrapped in plastic
newspapered pipes
snuggle
Under hardyneoe tlaors:
Inside
we sleep
to the beating
of wings
the rumble
of animals burrowing.
Compensation
On oir Sageing porch,
a tiny grey wren
built her nest neatly
in the middle of my hanging coleus.
The bright purple and green leaves,
evicted from their home
by the pine-straw nest
wilted without water.
Then four blue eggs
no bigger than marbles
took their place.
Now dried, raisin-colored leaves
still cling to the empty nest.
Jo Ellen
Choosing Sides
a. Loe
Tiny ballerina has lost her
music box.
Alone, she springs silently
over polished floors
searching, searching
finally spinning helplessly
into
what your daughter wants to be
when she grows up:
a pink powder-puffed picture of
someone's dreams.
Hair tightly bunned in back
eyes slanting and
curvy
down to her
pink little toes that
come down slowly at
the floor.
I could be
pink and passionate
slow and slanting
but to be graceful?
om...
I never understood why they
laughed
when I cupped my hands in
rest position.
Rivenbark
2. Tage
jel
to beat my feet on the floor.
Hair loose, hands free
black shoes flashing.
That clickity-clack
clickity-clack
of toe tap to heel thud
puts sound to a rhythm
born from some intercourse
with song
and the heartbeat
leaves a dull
SCUllimankea 1loar as
proof of my existence.
ves
Two Poems
Dear Grandaddy,
She gave Tim the high-top fishing boots
and the .22, and she traded the rest of the net
wire in on a door for the small bedroom. I guess
she doesn't like that cardboard one anymore.
She got them to put a new light switch and
Formica wall panels in the bathroom. I guess
she got tired of pulling the string and peeling
the walls.
She doesnTt eat at the dining room table
anymore, except when I come from othe
College� on Sunday afternoons to eat fried
chicken and potato salad and pineapple cake.
She usually eats sitting on the white stool by
the kitchen cabinet"says the tableTs too big.
She got them to paint the back bedroom
white. Everywhere. With that white bedspread
and curtains, it looks like heaven. I guess it
makes her think of you.
She had a wreck about a week ago, and
Buster talked the new policeman out of making
her pay the fine seeing as sheTs on foodstamps
and she just lost you and everything. She only
bruised her hand and cut her elbow a little.
Folks say itTs a wonder she wasnTt hurt worse.
Course, she says someone was looking out for
her.
Bot you dont have tm worry about her
~cause that new policeman is going to live in
town, and he says heTs on duty 24 hours a day,
and she can call anytime.
I haven't been to the river in over a year
now. I sure miss breaking catfish heads.
Love,
Reneé
78
Roanoke River at Palmyra
the wooden steps built into
the muddy bank
snap and quiver like
grandaddyTs legs as he steps down
into the crusty blue boat
rank with the ferment of fish
skin, blood, ane tallem leaves
the river has dropped
two feet in the last two days and there are
soggy twines of river slugs
draped on the bank brush
it will not be long before
the mosquitos stop biting and
moccasins stop sunning on
floating logs
and the boat
will be sprayed with
cold water from the green
garden hose before the pipes freeze
and the fish and leaves
will fertilize the back yard
and the boat will be hung
in the garage
next to a bloody
hunk of venison
Renee
Dixon
79
WRITERS
DENISE ANDREWS is a junior
English major with a writing con-
centration and a journalism minor.
She is from Goldsboro, NC, and her
poetry has been published in The
Picture Window and Whispers of
the Unchained Heart.
SUe AY DELETTE is 4 junior
English major who is currently
working in Washington, DC. She is
a painter and poet, and she won her
second Rebel poetry award with
oScreens.�
MONTY BARHAM is a graduate
siudent in English and this is his
first appearance in The Rebel.
KAREN BLANSFIELD is a grad-
uate student in English. Her poetry
has been published in Tar River
Poets and The New East.
KAREN BROCK is a junior English
major with a writing concentration.
She is from Jacksonville, NC.
TERRY DAVIS is a writer from
Spokane, Washington who teaches
in the ECU Writing Program. He has
published short stories and articles
in Sports Illustrated and College
Hnelish, Vision Quest, his nevel
about a high school wrestler, will be
published in October by The Viking
Press.
RENEE DIXON is a senior English
major with a music minor. She is
from Alexandria, Virginia, and this
is her publication debut.
80
JOSEPH DUDASIK lives in Green-
valle ING. tle ds a jamter and
Cliitarist, ame a member ov the ECU
Poetry Forum.
RAY HARRELL is a senior English
major with a History minor. He is
from Wayne County, NC.
ROBERT JONES is a senior English
major with a writing concentration.
He is a member of the ECU Poetry
For ian,
RICKY LOWE is a junior Political
pelemce Major with an Enelish
minor. He is from Madison, NC, and
this is his publication debut.
S. PHILLIP MILES is a graduate of
ECU and has been published in
Sanskrit and Tar River Poets. He
lives in Fayetteville, NC, where he
writes and teaches English.
NANCY MOORE is a senior with a
double major in History and Eng-
lish. She is from Turkey and this is
her publication debut.
DIANE NELMS is a senior English
major with a Psychology minor. She
is from Rocky Mount, NC, and this
is her publication debut.
MICHAEL F. PARKER is a senior
English major with a writing con-
femiration, fle is from Elizabeth
Chi, WC.
JO ELLEN RIVENBARK is a senior
English major with a writing con-
centration and a Psychology minor.
She is from Wallace, NC.
JEEE ROLLINS is a graduate
student in English and a native of
inched, ING. Hits work fas ap-
Beare �"� ar River Poets and
Crucible. Jeff edited The Rebel in
1976, and he is a member of the ECU
Poetry Forum.
GREG SCHRODER is a senior
Emghish major. te is from Fort
Lauderdale, Florida and this is his
publication debut.
KIM SHIPLEY is a sophomore
Drama major and has appeared in
several ECU Playhouse Produc-
tions including A Midsummer
NightTs Dream, Pippin, and Nation-
al Health. He is from Charlotte, NC.
SAM SILVA lives in Greenville,
NG and is a member of the ECU
Poemy Forum. |his is his first pub-
lication in The Rebel.
RANDY STALLS is a graduate
student in the ECU Writing Pro-
gram and president of The ECU
Writers Guild. He is a native of
Williamston, NC.
DAVID TREVINO is a former ECU
student. He lives in Houston, Texas
and this is his first appearance in
The Rebel.
LUKE WHISNANT is a _ senior
English major and the recipient
of the First Annual Russell Christ-
man Scholarship. His poetry has
appeared in Sanskrit and Tar
River Poetry.
ARTISTS
JIM BARNES is a graduate student
in English and a photographer. His
fiction has also been published in
The Rebel.
BILL BROCKMAN is a senior BFA
Communications Art major with a
Printmaking minor.
JAIME BERNSTEIN is a junior BFA
Painting major and. this is les
first appearance in The Rebel.
LARRY CURTAIN is a graduate of
East Mecklenburg High School in
Charlotte. He is an avid amateur
photographer.
ROBERT DANIEL is a graduate
student in Painting. He has a BFA
from The California College of Arts
aad! ~ratts; and this te lie timer
appearance in The Rebel.
ROBERT T. DICK is a graduate
student in Painting. He has a BA
in Art from Southwestern at Mem-
puis, amc 1s 4 native of Alabama.
JANET ENNIS is a senior Com-
munications Art major and presi-
dent of Design Associates. She is
from Burlington, NC, and this is her
first appearance in The Rebel.
JEFF FLEMING won first place
mixed media in the Fourth Annual
Rebel Art Show. His biography is
found on the inside front cover.
CHAP GURLEY is a sophomore
Marketing major from Raleigh,
NC. He works for the EGU Phote
Lilo.
SUSAN HARBAGE is a saxophon-
ist im the HC) Seno! of Vise: Ble,
photography has appeared in sev-
eral shows across the state.
BETSY KURZINGER is a graduate
student in Communications Art.
ZANE LEAKE is a senior BFA
Comminitcations Sat major Ge is
currently employed as a graphic
designer for The Department of
Human Resources in Raleigh, NC.
ED MIDGETT is a graduate student
in Printmaking.
DAVID NORRIS is a senior BFA
Printmaking major with a Drawing
miner, fle 1s trem Charlotte, NC.
MAGGIE NOSS is a graduate
student im Geramies, and tis 1s her
first appearance in The Rebel.
KAY PARKS is a senior BFA Com-
munications Art mayer with a
Paittine miner amd an imierest
in photography, Sme was om Di.
rector for The Rebel in 1978.
PETER E. PODESZWA is a senior
Communications: Art major and
Head Photographer for the ECU
Photo Lab.
ROXANNE REEP holds a BFA in
sculpture and metal design and
teaches in the ECU Sehool of Art
Her work has been exhibited in
shows in New York and Washing-
ton, DG, and her mixed media
piece oSimultaneous HeartsT ap-
peared on the cover of the 1978
Rebel.
JANET ROSE is a junior Interior
Design major with a Printmaking
minor. She is from Goldsboro and
this is her first appearance ta
The Rebel.
ROBIN SINGLETON is a junior
BFA Painting major from Williams-
ton, NC Her piece, Seurce BF
won the Attic Purchase Award in
this yearTs Rebel Art Show.
KIP SLOAN is a bicycle racer, a
long distance runner, and a free-
lance photographer from Charlotte,
NG. He is a former ECU student,
and this is his first appearance in
The Rebel.
DEBBIE STRAYER is a freelance
photographer from Greensboro,
NG. She fas am MA in Clinical
Psychology, and this is her firai
appearance in The Rebel.
MARYLU WARWICK is a senior
BFA ~Communications Art major
with @ Drawing minor, | his is Mer
first appearance in The Rebel.
