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Note on the CoverOur cover this year is by Jeff Fleming. Chicken Raising MadeEasy, or oI'll give you $20 to kill that damn rooster? won firstplace mixed media and first runner-up ~Best-In-Show? in theFourth Annual Rebel! Art Show. Jeff holds a B.F.A. in Paintingand Art History from ECU. His work is affiliated with and hasbeen part of two group shows at Ghent Galleries, in Norfolk,Virginia. The cover piece draws from a rooster that visitedJeff's house and a neighborTs subsequent complaint.

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The Rebel is published annuallBoard of East Carolina Univers Jitlocated in the Publications Center on |_ campus. The Rebel welcomes marinquiries; however, unsolicited nlunaccompanied by a stamped, selfenvelope will not be returned. Addrcorrespondence to The febel, MendeStudent Center, East Carolina U veGreenville, NC 27834. This i issue is opyed (c) 1979 by The Rebel. All rigpublication to the individuaauthors, from whom. perobtained to reproduce aycontained in this issue. |Quotations appear in oo issfollowing: Excerpts on pp. 50-51 dby Ellie Wiesel, copyright 1958 by Les Edide Minuit, translated by Stella Rodway; lL:On p. 51 from The Divine Comedy by DiAlighieri, copyright 1932 by the MeeLibrary, translated by Carlyle, Okey, W Wsteed; lyric from oPara Lennon and McC t-ney,T copyright 1970 by Borges, Borges, andBrost; 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 oeMusic.EditorLuke WhisnantAssociate EditorsKaren BrockReneé DixonRobert JonesBusiness AssistantWendy DixonProofreadingSusy ChestonGallery LayoutRobert JonesGallery PhotographyDebbie StrayerKip SloanAnheuser-Busch Poetry AwardSue AydeletteoScreens?Jeffreys Beer and Wine Prose AwardGreg SchroderoWasps? and oBirdladies?Third Annual Attic AwardMarylu WarwickoSelf-Portrait?Art Show JudgesGeorge BrettRichard CravenTom HainesSpecial ThanksTom oSkinner? HainesMickey CorcoranDan PardueThe Art Exhibition CommitteePatricia KnightCatherine MercerTommy Joe PayneThe Media BoardGerry Wallace

ARTWriters Ascension Zame Leake ....illusiraiion ...... Bill Brockman...Illustration «3... Bil Brockman J...Photographs . Susan ideriaee = 2lustration ...... Zeame Leake (ce. ..:Photographs ....~ Chap Gurley «|Gallery 12... .. Zane Leake. 3...Plate Disguised asDrawing ..... Maggie Noss .....The Blue is StillStanding ©... : Kay Pagks .2..75:Bound to Create . Robert 7. DickDistant Landscape jamel Ruse ©)... .-pource ToThe Perfect FlyingMachime .....Photo. ..4:4....ObsequiousNott 2.065GoatTs Head SoupTere jo.Self-Portraie =.Robin Singleton .janet Ennis...) 2Kipssieam 7.2 8sfedt Flemime, ....:;Jaime Bernstein ...Robert DanielRoxanne Reep .Larry CurtainRoxanne Reep ....Debbie Strayer ...Kip Sipam 00 . 3jum: Bamees: 2125.5Marylu WarwickPurely By Accident Betsy Kurzinger ..Photo 2...For God is NoRespecter ofPereoae .....;Photographs ....lllusigaiion ......Hollyweod ....illustration...lllustration[ustration ,....Debbie Sirayer. o.-loam Wilorris ......Peter E. PodeszwaZane Leake 22505:Pa Wimieett 2... 55,David Norris ...:.David Norris 2...Davia Nomis «2...3636373838393940414242434344444445464647565966707480_ Five Poems._ Night Mov_ Two Poems| Love on. Leave aPain ............_ 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 22Tone re.. Karen nee.. Denise anges Hellclded ; ~Sim_ Trained eesthe Sixties?Trucksté op._ Forty Seconds ._ Crabtree See| The Hobbit ._ Three Doe?Dee Poems " ite er aengee 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 VietnamSilent Night of Random DreamsWe gather within the compoundTo war at volleyball.Our opponents are Tigersharks,Evil men with evil names likeLawnmower and Butcher.These men love their workTo death.We slick drivers are lessAdamant. We carry food andAmmunition, scared youngWarriors and budding John Waynes.Occasionally, we spend hoursHauling human hamburger in neatGreen bags.My callsign is Weasel.After two hours of viciousBattle our sweat has muddiedThe square.At six o'clock we dine.Afterwards, we clean our hutsAnd write comforting lettersHome, or listen to music andDream of dead friends.Tomorrow we will not fly.Our ships have worn downAnd show their wearinessMore punctually than meatAnd bone.At eight oTclock the sun sinksTo a dusty sleep.We gather at the evil hoochTo drink the blindness ofGood whiskey.Someone suggests a contestTo separate idiots from fools.We grab cold bottles ofCrown Royal or Jack DanielsAnd begin without fanfare.By nine-thirty I am wet pukeOr drying vomit from the waistDown.Someone is slapping me on theBack and laughing.I grin through a film of tearsAt this cackling spectre.Now I pound his back with theSame detached laughter.I am foolish enough to believeIn my youth and ability toSurvive anything.That night we are mortared.I sleep peacefully where IDrop.The next morning I wake andFind myself face-down inMaroon sand.My back-slapping friend isCurled beside me.His throat gapes in a thinBlack-blood smile.I realize only slowlyThat he is quite dead.To confirm this a fly landsOn his face and walks unconcernedOver his eyelids.The morning winds rustle hisSoit hair,I cannot move for the longestTime.A maintenance sergeant hearsMy wracked coughing and bawlsFor a medic.I am given the next day off also,In order to forget.

Vw7th Field Hospital] am im bed.White sheets glare primlyFrom parallel beds.The walls are flat green.I am the prone supplicantThey deftly leer upon.My leg hurts.It hangs in straps likeAn angel in a childTs play.Five pale toes stick out fromA tube of swath and do not move.A cast so brilliant white it fadesInto the sheet points a single digitAt my thigh.I disown it completely but the castLaughs and laughs.Red blossoms like a single poppyAt the knee.A nurse chides me for exertion.The laughing leg slams silentAt the approach of benevolentAuthority.The nurse smiles like a patriotAnd explains why my knee flaresSo brightly.She explains how the doctorsCut with such cool precision.Her hands are cold as theyLift my buttocks.The leg wobbles in sympathyAnd weeps moist scarlet atThe movement.s. phillip milesThe nurse who leans over meIs beautiful.Her eyes are round andGreen as the walls.Her soft breasts blockAll of my vision:I ask for water inA croaking voice.She walks away with sturdy legsMoving in perfect coordination.I erect immediately, crawlingFrom my mind into the heat ofHer junctioned thighs.My knee laughs at this foolishness.The laughter ends abruptly withA callous grunt.The knee runs out of sympathy andSettles to a catpurring throb.The nurse returns a different color.As I marvel this metamorphosis sheSpills water down my chin and placesA tight fist upon my chest to holdThe spasm.The knee spurts more red laughterOnto the white plane of mattress.Blood wanders down the finger castAnd pools beneath my crotch whereIt cakes into mud and itches.The morphine retreats in inchesFrom the insistent pain.I grow more uncomfortable.I wake with a river of mossCoursing my mouth and throat.A strange woman in a white sheathOf uniform gropes for my pulseAnd stares into my open eyes.She explains my sleepy laughterWith studied concern.The leg wobbles in its intricate webbing,The walls leer at my discomfortWith flat content.The knee spews out a thickRed condolence.

Two StoriesBy Greg SchroderWASPSoJulius! SupperTs ready,? my older brotherJacob called me from the back door. oWeTrewaiting for you. Julius??I came out from behind the toolshed at thefar end of the backyard and shouted,~oITm nothungry.? He shrugged his shoulders and wentback inside. I returned to the dirt city I waserecting in a weed-cleared patch, aroundwhich the weeds lay scattered, their pale stemsso recently rooted in the earth shining cleanlynext to my grubby nails.I filled the paper cup with dirt, inverted it,pulled it away, and"PRESTO"another guardtower.I knew suppertime had come. I wished ithadn't. That day had been like summer again, ashirtless, breezy day. I didnTt want to go insideearly. The day before I was wearing twosweaters. lf summer was coming again |wanted to make the most of it: I wanted to playoutside until only the tops of the trees were litby the last minute of November sunlight.oJulius! Mom said to come inside right nowor go to bed,? Jacob shouted at me. He stood onthe porch steps in the sunlight lighting up theback wall of the house, with his hands on hiships. His hair looked darker than normalagainst the white wall, I thought as I trudgedtowards him, wiping my grimy hands on myjeans.oWhy did it get warm again Jay?? I asked,standing at the bottom of the steps looking upat him.oBecause they decided to skip winter thisyear. And Christmas, too,? he said over hisshoulder before the screen door slammed.AeEreseea AN Wee5 MQ): Wek,5 osacaddatesanaleee= eet ett sueere aestho ao2 PS Sy EE GS, 8.set~,yk 25%.ssid eeshay~s

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oAre they really going to skip winter thisyear?? I asked my mother as IJ sat at the rounddinner table. Across from me my older sisters,Adela and Beth, giggled at each other, flippingtheir dark braids behind their shoulderssimultaneously, while my mother and fatherexchanged smirks over the roast beef.oNo, theyTre not skipping winter thisyear, though I think itTs a very good idea. Iwish this Indian summer would last all year,too,T Mother said in a fainter voice, her eyestrailing out the window. She paused, thenbrushed a strand of hair behind her ear andlooked at me.oYou go wash your hands, they look likepig's feet. Do you want the neighbors sayingITm raising pigs??oWhat a moron he is,? Jacob said.oHe gets the silliest ideas,? Adela chimedin.oYou children hush,? I heard Father say asI walked down the hall towards the bathroom,oAll you had sillier ideas when you were hisage.?oWe did not!?The cold had been increasing through thelast of October. Seeing the frosted grass in themornings, I shivered with premonitions ofJanuary. 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 toohot to walk on barefooted. In the backyard,long rows of dormant chrysanthemumsstretched from the house to the alley fence,pregnant with buds that I thought would nowdie from the frost. The wasps which hadswarmed about our eaves all summer becamelethargic, then began dying.I found them curled up in the dew on theback steps those frosty mornings, and later inthe day I would find a few crawling throughioe cold midday shadows beneath thesomnolent chrysanthemums, unable to fly.These that didnt fall to the ground,stabbed by the keen newly risen winter stars,crawled arthritically across the honey-combedsurface of their nest under the back eaves. I,brave in the face of their new impotence, peltedthe nest with pebbles. They tumbled to theground, landing on their backs and wavingtheir yellow-banded legs in the chill air. Thosethat righted themselves tried to climb up theside of the house, vibrating their wingsuselessly, like black handfans flicking openand shut. Soon the nest was disintegrated, thewasps were scattered, and I found otherdiversions.Then near the end of Autumn a spell ofIndian summer displaced the cold. My fathersaid, oIt wandered away from its home in theSoul, When. askeo him. | ran about shirtlessand shoeless, playing cowboys and Indians,constructing earthy Romes and Babylons inthe dirt behind the shed, and hoping everyevening that suppertime would be delayed.The air brushed against my skin like warm fur.At night I kicked blankets into a heap at theend of my bed. I threw my coats, gloves andscarves, briefly resurrected from camphoroustrunks, into a:corner and forgot them untilMother made me fold them atop the trunk,where they waited like a stack of firewood tokeep me warm when cold returned.The high, ascetic ice clouds vanished fromthe sky, replaced by clouds that had lost theirway to August and wandered into November.The ranks of chrysanthemums warmed over-night, spreading their brassy-colored flowersin wide invitation to the sun and insects. Tallweeds at the alley fence seeded, and low vinestwining among the stalks speckled the tallgrass with tiny yellow flowers. The grassgreened. The wasps revived.They swarmed about our back door,rasping against the screen, becoming proprie-tary in the backyard. They congregated amongthe flowers. They spiced my games withconfrontations until I abandoned that area forthe leaf-strewn street. When one came near me,I heard again their August voices: quavering,sibilant, sing-song voices, like radio statichumming 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 screendoor, staring at the blue and gold days, staringat her flowers jostling each other in the breeze.She would step outside the door for a waveringmoment before ducking back inside, fanningthe air over her with a folded newspaper toward off the circling wasps. She repeatedlywarned me about the dangers of being stung,but she sent me to pick her flowers anyway.Then, through an unknown chink, thewasps began infiltrating our house. First therewas only one buzzing against the screen insidethe kitchen while we ate breakfast. My motherput away the sugar and we ate our oatmealunsweetened.oTf Jay was here, ITd let him kill it,? she saidwhile sipping coffee, her eyes on the wasp. ButJacob and my sisters had already left forschool.By mid-afternoon, several more waspshag snuck in. One was in every room

downstairs. They buzzed in the hallways, evenin the bathroom. In the silence of some of thoserooms they made the only sounds.We walked warily through the house,avoiding the corners where a wasp flittedagainst the ceiling and the windows where onerasped against the screen. Their positionschanged from corner to corner and theyblundered from room to room. We altered ourpaths accordingly. We walked now against thewall, now through the center of a room, nowagainst the wall again on our way to get some-thing from our rooms. When we exited the pathwas changed. Our maneuvers reminded me ofships navigating through shifting channels,like my father had read to me about inHuckleberry Finn.I decided to be a riverboat, putting on mycaptain's cap.oMark four, mark three, mark twain-mudbank ahead capTn"TOOT! TOOT!?This went on until my mother told me to gooutside.oYou're not being funny Julius, and youmake enough noise to try any saint.?She didnTt look at me as she spoke; she waslooking at the wasp crawling on the ceiling.By evening my mother had stopped fixingsupper because of three wasps in the kitchen.She fled to the living room where she draggedthe red leather armchair out to the middle ofthe floor, refusing our help even when a leghung on the rugTs edge. She moved a mason jarof chrysanthemums from a side table toa shelfin the far corner.oT donTt need your help in here. I want youto go and kill those wasps. Take somenewspaper and go kill them,? she repeated tous. oKeep your cap on Julius. The rest of youput paper bags over your heads and roll downyour sleeves. Go kill them.?Hunched down in that huge chair, Father'schair, she looked as small as I. With a foldednewspaper poised in her hand, and the roomaround her already growing dim in the dusk,her eyes darted here and there after the noisesof the insects, and she strained to see if the doton the window screen was a wasp or merelydust.oCome on, soldiers,T Jacob called to mysisters and me, oeveryone in battle dress.?He dashed down the hall and into ourroom, then popped back out. oYaaaaahhhhhh!?he screamed from behind his Dracula mask.Beth, Adela, and I scattered to find ourleftover Halloween masks. Mine had beenthrown away so! was stuck with my cap; Bethfound a brown paper bag; Adela was wearingher yellow-haired princess mask. We re-grouped in the hall.I joined them last as Beth was tearingholes in her bag and saying, oI donTt know whythe wasps want to come inside anyway andbother us.?oThey vant to lay eggs in us vhile veesleep,T Jacob said in his best imitation ofimpassive princess face.oThey vant to lay eggs in us vhile weesleep,T Jacob said in his best imitation ofTelevision Transylvanian.I didnTt tell them my suspicion that thewasps wanted revenge on me, that theywanted to avenge their battered nest and theirinjuries from my stones.En masse we attacked single wasps, whichcaroomed into the air infuriated by swacksfrom our papers, sending us retreating indisarray and panic, ducking our heads eventhough they were covered.After each sortie, we regrouped in the littlefoyer at the end of the hall into which all therooms opened, chattering, giggling, breathingheavily, and watching Jacob demonstrate onadoor jamb the most effective swing for killingawasp.Then we would advance into anotherroom, hunching over, Jacob first, then Beth andAdela, then me. Together we'd rotate like afigure group on a music box, surveying thewalls and ceiling.oAdela, you and Beth get on that side andI'll get here,? Jacob commanded when anenemy had been sighted. oAnd you hit ~emif heflies down low, Julius.?Jacob was the tallest, so he would reachup, tapping his paper on the wall to excite thewasp into flying where we could hit it. Then,like a new type of rubber ball bouncinghorizontally off walls, the wasp usuallydescended within our range"or rather theirs,not mine"and all would strike together whenJacob yelled oNow!? Then came our precipitousretreat, me usually hanging onto one of them,because they ran so much faster than I.When we did finally kill a wasp it spiralleddown onto us and we all jerked out of the wayreflexively, fanning the air with our papers. Itlay crumpled on the floor and our swackssounded a staccato beat on the floor as wemutilated it, avenging that moment of quickfear.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 andwhooping.The ribbon of one of AdelaTs pigtails was

unraveling. Beth had lost one of her sandalsbut she still wore the bag over her head. Jacob'sshirt had come unbuttoned and his mask wasaskew. My cap was somewhere down the hall.Fired by the kill, we raced from room toroom tracking the wasps, never killinganother, always retreating, squealing andlaughing, absorbed in the game. Outside, thesun went down, and we turned on the light inevery room we entered until that end of thehouse blazed and its interior reverberated withour calls and shouts. We were a motley groupof masqueraders searching for a carnival,running from one lit room to another.We eventually remembered our mother,and the living room was black when wereturned to it. She sat obscure in the darkness,the folded newspaper still in her hand, a palebeacon we navigated to. Jacob, Adela, and Bethremoved their masks, which rustled to thefloor like dead leaves froma harlequin tree. Wetold Mother hesitantly about our failure to killall the wasps. She said nothing. Taking hersilence for lack of anger, we gradually beganbabbling about our hunt, our voices climbingas we relived episodes, until the fever almostmastered us again.Jacob noticed MotherTs silence through allthis.Tairn om the lieht, he said.Adela moved towards the door, gropingfor the light switch. Isaw her silhouetted in theweak light of the doorway, her head crazilyasymmetrical with one pigtail up, the otherunraveled.Suddenly light painted the room itsfamiliar cream color and pulled us out ofdarkness with one sweep. The carnival faded.We were ourselves again.We all stared at our mother. Strands ofhair draggled about her face, swaying as herhead twitched from side to side, as her freneticeyes pursued countless wasps. We all looked atthe ceiling and walls, looking for the wasps shesaw. But there were none in the room.Jacob touched her hand. She swatted himand yelped with fright. We stared at eachother, moving away from her.Beth started sniveling. So did I. Adela puther arms around us. oDonTt worry, Father willbe home soon,? she kept repeating.We followed Jacob into the hall where westood, bedraggled, smelly, hungry, notknowing what to do. So we stood there. Over inthe far corner the yellow chrysanthemumsglowed fresh and serene above the mirthlessprincess mask that lay among the scatteredpapers.Father came home. When he asked what10had happened, Jacob couldnTt answer, and therest of us started crying, even Adela, since shedidnTt have to be the mother any more withFather home. He led Mother away and put herto bed, folding adamp cloth over her eyes. Nexthe did something amazingly practical: takingthe pump sprayer full of insecticide from theHiihity closet in the kitchen, he beganexterminating the wasps.They all died, quivering and spastic,curled up on the windowsills and floor,glistening with the poison.Replacements were inside next day, onlyto die like the first ones. New groups succeededeach other. And each day new clouds of poisonhung in the rooms like cigarette smoke beforedispersing, but the smell remained. After twoor three days we no longer noticed that. Thedead wasps became a nuisance to sweep up,instead of fascinating specimens that Iexamined beneath a pocket magnifying glass.Mother stayed in bed, although sherecovered from that first night, as we sawwhen Father let us take in breakfast to her thenext morning. She sequestered herself becauseshe said she could hear the wasps in the otherrooms. We became adept at quickly openingand siutting her door. fhe first week ofDecember a cold front blustered in, chasingaway that lost bit of summer.oMaybe they'll skip winter next year,Julius,? Jacob said, laughing.I layered my bed with blankets again. Theground froze. The chrysanthemums withered.The last wasps died.BirdladiesThe Birdladies came one fall just as peoplebegan wearing sweaters. They walked amongthe cardigans and crewnecks wearing theirlong, pastel colored coats that flapped abouttheir knees with a sound of beating wings. Onspindly legs they tottered along the sidewalks,some plump and staring at the ground likequail others carrying their heads high,striding like egrets.Their appearance was singular, but notoutlandish. Certainly nothing to warrant theireffect on me: namely, a Birdlady had only towalk unsteadily down the street and in herwake, the naked trees momentarily bloomedinto a verdant jungle. I glimpsed Birds-of-Paradise flashing in the leaves like pieces ofrainbows; a jaguar skulked behind a treetrunk; I heard monkeys chattering like a packof children. I sniffed rotting wood, mossyearth, and cloying orchids. Then the Birdlady

would turn the corner, leaving bare brancheslacing the sky and a cold wind prying at mycollar again.I first saw ~myT Birdlady, who passed ourhouse almost every afternoon, one day whilewe were raking leaves.oHey, look at thal woman, my olderbrother Jacob whispered to me, while stuffinga double handful of leaves into the bag I heldopen. She looks like her headTs goinT to fall off.Maybe itTs not screwed on tight enough.? Hewhispered again so our Father wouldn't hear.Glancing up, I saw a small, old lady,dressed all in white, walking towards us alongthe sidewalk.oAdela"look,? I whispered to my oldestsister.Adela was bent over raking, walkingbackwards, and about to bump into me. Shelooked towards where we were motioning withour heads.oSo what?? she shrugged.oBut her head jerks like a pigeonTs when itwalks,T Jacob whispered back. oI bet shesretarded.?oOh Jay you're the oneTs retarded. You'reso mean all the time. Father doesnTt like us togossip about people.?All this passed in hissing whispers sinceFather was also in the front yard helping uswith the leaves.I agreed with Jacob; the woman wasstrange. I appealed to Beth, our other sister.oBeth! Beth!? 1 hissed at lier.oShhhbhhhh,? Jacob shushed me,? butFather had already heard.oYou children stop arguing and get back towork.?oBut Jacob was making fun of that lady. Hestarted it,? Adela said.oStop pointing Adela. And donTt talk back!Jay I've told you before about that. If you havenothing good to say then donTt say anything atall.?oThanks Adela,? I said under my breath.oYou too, Julius,? Jacob said to me. oYou'rethe dummy with the big mouth.?But our father couldn't really blame us. Asthe woman walked, her hands fluttered aboutlike a pair of fidgety sparrows, touching nowher scarf, now her harlequin sunglasses, nowadjusting the belt of her coat, holding her whitepurse now in one hand, now in the other. Shewore flamingo-pink high heels, that tapped onthe walk like a jay cracking a nut withits bill. Iwas only in third grade that fall, but my headalmost reached her shoulder.She passed our father, poking her beakynose into the air and craning her scrawny neckas she looked up at him. Her ohello? was twosoft syllables, like the cooing of pigeonsroosting on the telephone wires in theevenings. That did it. She was the firstBirdlady.Within a few days, I sighted several morein other neighborhoods while riding mybicycle. They were always alone. Except once Isaw two fidgeting along like a pair ofchickadees. I began keeping a notebook inwhich I wrote facts I gathered from observa-tion. Some didnTt wear hats or scarves, somedid. Some didnTt wear sunglasses, some did.But they all wore those long coats.The BirdladiesT sudden appearance caughtme during the droll days of Autumn, and theybecame my obsession. I asked myselfquestions about them, and wrote the questionsin the notebook: oWhy didnTt they flocktogether like other birds?? oWere theymigrating somewhere?? oAre they the descen-dants of a race long thought extinct?? I wroteno answers after the questions.That fall, my parents required me to beginreading the Bible. I wasnTt long in adorningsome of the stories of Genesis with apocryphaldetails. To the creation of beasts and man Iaddended dwarfs, trolls, and fairies. Ipopulated the four rivers of Eden withmermaids. I decided the Birdladies originatedwith Adam and EveTs expulsion from thegarden. These creatures left Eden out ofsympathy for the humans. An angry Godsubsequently cursed them with earthlyimmortality. And so they remained. ThatTswhy they were so old, and thatTs why theytrailed visions behind them.Days followed after each other into theconsuming fire of the sunsets, but I learnedlittle more about her. And new questionsconsumed my mind, because I had no answersas I wrote them in my notebook: oDid they havea special call?? oCould they be birds changinginto women?? oWomen changing into birds??oDid they have wings??I knew her wardrobe was a disguise. Whyelse would anyone wear sunglasses inNovember? Her true person revealed itself instray dashes of color: those flamingo-pinkshoes, carnelian lipstick, blotches of rouge,and once I caught a glimpse of a turquoisedress hem beneath her coat. I was sure herscarf hid a crest of bright feathers, and I beganlooking for shimmerings of pigeony irides-cence on her neck.One Sunday afternoon"it was Sundaybecause my Father didnTt work at the gasstation on Sundays"he and I were gatheringpecans in the backyard. We had filled a smallft

bag and nuts were still scattered across theerass.. Clusters still clung to most of thebranches overhead. As we looked at the tree, aflight of blackbirds swarmed across the greysky.oSee the birds flying south? Pretty soon allbirds around here will be gone, too. They donTtlike the winter so they go south where itTswarmer.?I was chilled by a sudden thought. |wanted to ask him if the Birdladies would beleaving, too. I looked up at him as he squintedat the sky, but IcouldnTt get the words to soundright, so | didni say amythine about theBirdladies.I planned contraptions to capture her, butthey never really evolved beyond a giant boxleaning ona stick that I would pullaway withastring when she walked underneath, causingthe box to trap her. I had helped Jay capturestarlings this way.Once I stole rags from Mother's hordeunder the kitchen sink and shredded them intostrips. Together with long dry weeds pluckedfrom along our back fence, I scattered themalong our sidewalk, hoping the Birdlady wouldpick them up for her nest, if she was buildingone. All that happened, however, was that I gotsent to bed early for littering the front yard.Another time I placed at intervals"likethe golden apples that caught Atalanta"somegrapes, then an earth worm, then a half-eatenapple, and finally a piece of bread. I wanted tofind out what she ate.Reconnoitering the scene from behind anazalea at the corner of our house, I saw herapproaching on her spindly legs. She stoppeddead, staring at the assortment for a moment,before stepping carefully around it andcontinuing on her way. I watched her fidgetingwith her scarf, with her lapels, with herglasses, hoping she would twist her headaround to preen her shoulder feathers underher coat. I felt cheated: she had neitherrevealed herself nor taken any of the bait.Finally I decided I had to talk to her. Iloitered on the sidewalk, playing with a toytruck, waiting for her to come along. When shecame near, | stood up and stared at a crack inthe cement. I was going to tell her a joke so shewould pause, giving me a chance to see insideher coat for wings. But her coat was buttonedas usual. I went ahead with my plan anyway.oWhy did they fire the lady at the orangejuice factory??Her dark glasses hid her eyes, but I sawher brows wrinkling in puzzlement.it sea joke, | saic,On, | see, she replied with a smile: 12donTt know, why did they fire the lady at theorange juice factory??Because sie COlldmt concenizate! " |shouted. I ran, but not before pausing for amoment 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. Ifound out a great deal through the unwittinghelp of my mother.At dusk one day she and I! were returningfrom the supermarket two blocks away.Although the days were getting colder, we hadwalked as usual. As we turned the corner ontoour street, each of us with a bag and I trying toeat my M&MTs at the same time, my motherfale, isnt thal Mrs. Brown: Sie s our newneighbor around the corner.?I looked up and saw the Birdlady walkingtowards us. I never called her Mrs. Brown,knowing full well that was an alias.oSay hello and be polite, you hear? Shakehands with her when I introduce you.?My mother was tenacious in observingcertain points of etiquette. She told me severaltimes no proper gentleman was completewithout a handkerchief, and she still stuffedOme Gary into the peckets of Father'sworkshirts he wore to the gas station.I watched the Birdlady approaching. Shestared at the ground as she tottered along, asthough at any moment she would stoop over topeck 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 ICoulee imehten her into flyimg, or at leastclucking and flashing her wings in alarm.oGood evening, Mrs. Brown,T said mymother.oGood evening to you Mrs. Halzman. I seeyoure coming back from the very place ITmheaded.?oTf [had known, I would have driven you.?oNo, thatTs too much bother. I need theexercise. I like to get out and walk"that iswhen my arthritis lets me. ITve been real wellthis week but cold weather always brings iton.oIT know it must be awful. My husbandTsmother is the same way. And on some rainydays she canTt even walk.?oMy hands were right bad this morning.That medicine the doctor gives me doesn't doathing.?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

T PFsKsZ ZALEMAR 2gDL7ZAELYSha ECK) PIALoTha eit :e Sood = > no EIPRY *n Eee ~oAy ey :"A ie% ,Key Py ' «oe: oe iP; 2pape, 6 Prag chft Yo. atais ~.Regge | meeewv o" wt Re eee: ee ae me diSue = Prd OLE AME Alawn. The wind was cold. I wanted to go homeand eat.oTt doesnTt matter anyway, she went on,obecause soon ITm going to Florida for a visit. Ihave relations in St. Pete I stay with everyyear.?oOh that sounds nice. Think of us up hereshivering and enjoy the sun even more.ToHave you ever been there? No? Well, itTs amust. And your children will love it.?oOh"have you met my youngest son?This 1s |alinis:She shoved me from behind while sayingthis. I held out my hand to shake."Yes, | hawe met your som, You Mave ahumorous boy here,? she said as she shook myproffered hand. Her fingers felt like knottedtwigs wrapped in leather. No human lady hadhands like that!"In fact, | have been looking tor iigm forseveral days,T she continued, obecause Iwanted to speak with him. He told me a jokethe other day, she said to my mother, andnow I| have one to tell you, Julius. Can you tellme why the birds fly south for the winter??Of course I knew the answer, everyone inthe third grade knew that one. It was in thejoke book in the school library.o"Tdont know,oOh, canTt you guess? They fly because itTstoo far to walk.They both laughed and I tried, too, but Iwas thinking about her hands and about thejoke. Maybe she was a Birdlady after all. Shemeant the joke to be a clue.We walked on. I had forgotten to look forpin feathers on her neck and scales on her legs.I glanced back several times to see if she hadleapt into the air but she stayed on the ground,a small white. fleure dimnimishing im tedarkness.oPoor dear,? my mother said, oher handsare almost ruined by arthritis. And her feet,too, she can barely walk. ItTs wonderful she hasso much vitality and still has her sense ofhumor,Il smiled. | had tered ou: what theBirdlady had told me. I had an answer for oneof the questions in my book: the Birdladieswere migratory. And if they went south in thewinter, then they would be back in the Spring.And then I would make all sorts of newdiscoveries about the Birdladies. Winter'sduration shrank suddenly to a mere intervalbetween warm times, and the falling leavesaround me were only a prelude to the budding-out of the trees. =13

14Babal BradyTs HobgoodEven nowyears after pot and Playboyhave reached the backroom of Babal BradyTs General Store and Pool Halljust across the rusty tracksof the Great Atlantic Seaboard Coastline Railroadand in front of the PeopleTs trailer-bankthe fourteen- through forty-year-old adolescents clinglike mold to the ragged, felt tops of the quarter-a-rack pool tablesin the carcass heart of Hobgoodin the clay and sand bottomof the Carolina Coastal PlainsPork Ambler sits in the dim, dusty corneron top of the drink cratesand turns his tongue into a funnelpouring in RichardTs Wild Irish Rose then saying:oKiss my GrammamaTs pussy, that fine red wineTs so good to me,Tbut no one laughs anymoreb)When I was fourteen I giggledand pissed along with the older boysin the grease pit out backof Babal BradyTs and puffedBull Durhams " the toughest smokesat the time and cussed as best I couldPork Ambler was my idol thenhe was almost thirty, drove a ofixed up?566 Chevy, drank wine and beer andogot some? all the timeOnce he grabbed a piece of cue chalkand ran me down somewhere just back of thedepot and held me, blowing his alcoholbreath in my face and with an empty, vacant laughchalked 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 dayshe said it was our initiationAnd even nowyears after ITve escaped thatreeking circle to nowhere in Babal BradyTs Hobgoodand the backroom death of the ragged, felt-topped pool tablesI wondered how I was lucky enoughjust to be passing throughRandy Stalls

[voung girl, black girl]young girl, black girlwith pen and dreamslivin in hell with a lockless keycleanin kitchen floors that belong to somebody elsebein hungry and sayin silly things likeono 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 songswonderful things insidethat cannot get out of youcause you keep dried shit from accumulatingunder somebody elseTs toilet seatsuch a lovely black girlit bothered youwhen the red plastic flowers you bought for the livin roomgathered dustthen diedand jesus watched carelessly from the opposite wallsuch a knowin childso much to telldid your blood make you pukewas it like you thought it would bedyin in a closetyour head between your kneesRicky W. Lowe15

ScreensStorm windows lean,stacked six glasses thick,in a basement corner.{t is Hilliswho plays there.She is eleven,one head tallerthan the frames.Her dress-up clothes becomewatery grey pastelsas she watchesher dance passthrough the firsttransparency intoa tripling curveof dim translucence, knowingShe iswho shereally issomewhere before the last glass,opaque against the basement wall.Upstairs,on a ladder,Her father puts up screens.Five PoemsThe Next RoomIn a roomlit only by the next roomTs lightshe lifts her hand,palm inwardso the nails reflect like five new moons.From her back she conductsthe musicof a radio down the hall.Turning, stopping,her hand-shadowshit the grey wall silently.For thirty years she has gone to bed at dusk.The calls of childrenchasing each otherin the last lightdelay her sleep.For nine years she has slept alone.For the lastthree nightsshe has dipped the moons of her handsinto the dark crevicesbetween her fingers and prayed.

Sue AydeletteSentimentsSitting on wallsof scratched footlockers.Chests full ofdark unprojected slides.Tiny sisterscaught in bathing suits.Neat compartmented boxesheavy with the plaster fossilsof crooked teeth.Folded white envelopes,names and dateswritten on the textureof old curls,Blue and yellow drawings,simple poems,crayoned birthday cards sentand found here as if returned.I refuse them,excuse myself,watch myself,wait to be well.SourcesI squint for your shapeamong the whorls and crossesof my loverTs hand.You are never there.You are seeping rustin mystomach.You hang infrozen gushesfrom a rottedwooden water tower.You sprawl acrossred rows of brickabove pooled taron warehouse streets.Or you pin yourselfon the closedsleeve of afreckled one-armed man.Someday I may lock youin a bottom drawer, staysober, serene, havechildren.Points of DepartureFor the last few nights I have listenedto 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 myRed-print rugs, plain white shadesin 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 sunon this front room mantle.

Susan Harbage18

Photographs19

i sssa1

Night Movesby Kim ShipleyHe walked into her dormitory lobbyMonday night at 8:30. Walking through the bigroom with the vinyl coated chairs and brokenTV, he debated whether or not he should callher name over the intercom box on the easternwall. He stood in front of the 8? x 11? box withthe buttons across the bottom and waited. Whywas he visiting her again? What if she wasasleep? Maybe she had some guy up in herroom on the sixth floor.A couple walked into the lobby. He quicklypressed the button marked six and spoke intothe box.oCarolyn Kirsch,? he said clearly.He stepped back and looked at the box"the small rectangle that all young men had tocall through before they could obtain permis-sion to enter the private halls of women. Thesmall grey box that barred post-adolescentmales from savagely fulfilling their fantasies.He thought of his fraternity house staging amassive rape and pillage of Lucille WinstonDorm. If that happened, he would go straight toher room. Number 621.Her voice broke through the box and histhoughts. She sounded like the Apollo spacecapsule reporting to mission control.oWho is it?? she said.oWayne, he answered into the box. He feltlike 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 beenwaiting for two-and-one-half years. Duringthat time, they had developed a relationshipmouoe commenly refer to as a ~closefriendship.? They went to each other for fun,consultation and companionship. Everythingexcept what he wanted.He had met her two years earlier in highschool. During the next summer she lived withan ex-girlfriend of his on CousinTs Isle. Waynespent two weeks visiting them, watchingCarolynTs ass on the beach and in the Sunfishwhere she worked asa waitress. That fall, backin school, he watched her every Friday nightfrom the football field while she went throughher cheerleading routines. Wayne scored theonly touchdown of his free safety career in theclosing seconds of the conference champion-ship game. The play was called back on

interference and they lost, but it didnTt botherhim too much. His touchdown had causedCarolyn to jump and shake, and, as always, hehad wished he could call her his.The big double doors swung open andCarolyn popped into the room. Her face shonewith a slight smile. Her blond hair was atangled mess. The brown corduroys and workshirt were wrinkled. Her green sock wasmatched by a holey pink one. She wasbeautiful.oHey, cheerleader ... ya wanna?? Waynesaid.oKiss off, stupid jock,?He looked at her and thought of MonroeJunus Humphry, the dark skinned, blondisland boy with the 18 acre body she had mettwo years ago during that summer and beenstuck to ever since. The boyTs nickname wasoHumpT"a name Wayne hoped he didnTt livelip 10.oWhatTcha doinT?? Wayne asked.oWatchinT Kojak,? she replied.oCome on, letTs go to CagneyTs. I'll buy youa beer.?oTd rather have some Nectarosé,? Carolynsaid.She was teasing him.20) eaeoWait here, Ill get my coat. Sie wanthrough the doors and they swung shut behindher.Carolyn had been to the coast over theweekend. He would have to listen to her tales ofsand and Hump. He wished he could plowthrough Hump with a bulldozer. Scatter himaround and pave over him. Hump would makea good parking lot, his head was just the rightsize tor if.oAccept the breaks,? Wayne thought. oButwhy the hell should I??Carolyn flew back into the room in hergreen Army jacket with the oPHUCK EWE?button on it. What kind of cheerleader wore abutton like that?Cagney's was a place where friends wentto get buzzed. College town bars have theirown quality. Call it cheap, call it juvenile.Wayne liked it. Against the back wall was ahuge oak bar. On the North wall was a hugeblowup of James Cagney sneering at the room.Wayne and Carolyn sat directly beneath thepicture. Someone had scrawled oCagney was afaggotT in red felt-tip pen across his lapel.Wayne looked up at Cagney sneering down atthem. It looked like the old movie star wantedto blow snot all over their table. There were alot of people in the bar and everyone was in aparty mood. The juke box blared Bob SegerTsoNight Moves.?oCan I help you?? asked the waitress.oYeah. A scotch and soda and a bottle ofNectarosé.?~I cant drink a whole bottle!? Carolynscreamed.oTl help you,? he said. She knew he didnTtdrink wine.After a while Carolyn saw someone sheknew and and ran across the room to say hello.Wayne watched her ass when it moved. It wasa little large and waddled like a duckTs whenshe operated it. He loved it. He wanted it to behis.He could see the whole evening already"he knew it all too well. Carolyn wouldeventually finish her wine and he his scotches.Then they would start singing Christmascarols. It was April.They talked about school, music and otherpeople. When oNight Moves? came around thethird time the wine bottle was three-quartersempty. There were only a few couples left inthe bar. Wayne decided it was as goodatimeasany to ask.oHow was the coast this weekend?? heasked.ote, Canolyan ve lialoWhat ~cha mean??oT guess I wonTt be going back fora while,?she said.Why, moeoT dumped Hump.?oYou whatT Wayne felt an instanttightness in his jeans.It was about fucking time! She sat therewaiting for his reply. He took a long sip off hisdrink and tried to steady his hand while hereached for a cigarette. iWayne looked up at Cagney and laughedsilently at the picture. Suddenly it dawned onhim. He knew the girl. He was the best friendshe had. He knew the damn girl like thenational anthem. Someone put the StoneTsoYou CanTt Always Get What You Want? on thejuke box. WayneTs eyes drifted to the dirtyashtray. They wouldnTt be able to get throughafirst date without giggling the whole night.They could never have sex. He tried to imaginehimself screwing her and saw her laughing andrunning 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. Helooked at her eyes, trying to think of a way hecould get inside her head"or jeans"and plantseeds.Wayne looked around. People wereleaving. He started to speak when he felt herleg press hard against the inside of his thigh.He looked back at her. She was still looking athim with that smile. She began peeling thelabel off the empty wine bottle, and heremembered the old adage that if youcan peelalabel off in one piece then youre a virgin. Thelabel tore in half in her hand. She looked at himand started singing softly.oChestnuts roasting on an open fire,Jack Frost nipping at your toes.?A moist dew hung on the tree branches inthe woods south of campus. The dew drippedoff the branches and onto the ground until thesoft April grass was covered in moisture. Asquirrel sat in the nook of a huge oak tree in thecenter of aclearing, the starlight shining silveron his fur. Through the trees came a loud off-key voice.oEveryone knows some turkeyand some mistletoeWill help to make the season bright.?The squirrel scampered into the branches.The clock at the bank they had passed said 2:14in neon bulbs.They came stumbling under the oak andstopped. Wayne had his arm around her waistand she leaned on him to keep from falling. Sherested her body against the tree and stretched.He could see her nipple through her shirt.oKind of nippy tonight,? Wayne said. Hecould hardly talk.oNot really,? Carolyn replied.She looked at him and raised her righteyebrow. He wiped his sweaty palm on hisjeans and listened for his mother to call him. Heshut his eyes and had visions of Carolynlaughing and running away. When he openedhis eyes, she was kissing him. He was as rigidas the oak they were standing under. She slidher hand from his shoulder down to the seat ofhis pants.They drew apart and he looked up at theoak. He half expected to see CagneyTs nostrilaimed at his face.oWhat's the matter, Staubach?? Carolynasked.oNothing ... itTs just that ITm not much of aCasanova.?~hope not, Hes dead,? she said.24She sat down on the ground and hefollowed her. They lay back and held eachother. He felt like a three-year-old about toreceive a vaccination.Whats wroner Carolyn asked a littleimpatiently.Wayne looked up at her and said in babytalk, 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?? sheasked.oNot with another person,T Wayne said.They looked at each other for a second,then at the ground. Then they looked back ateach other and broke into hysterics. Shehowled wildly at the moon, leaning back on herhaunches. He felt the tension leaving his armsand neck.oThere are a few of us left, y know. Me,Debbie Boone, Marie Osmond, Prince CharlesShe lay back on the ground, and after asecond he reached over to her top shirt button.oI take it this means you want to join theclub?? Carolyn asked.Ti ivy any ihme onceHe unbuttoned her shirt and slid his handinside. Her breast was firm and silky. Shewriggled her shoulders and her shirt fell off. HeFooked at her maked breasts coated inmoonlight. Far away a bird sang and a lonecricket chirped. Wayne ran his hand gentlyover her breasts. He kissed her.oWait a minute while I check myinstruction sheet,? he said softly. He sat up andtook off his shirt and kicked off his shoes. Thewet ground tickled his feet. He undid his beltand 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 andwatched the sun come up. He sipped his coffeeand stared at her eyes. She had pieces of grassand twigs in her hair and some dirt on her face.oCarolyn: -ULoDid you really dump Hump??She smiled and looked out the window.oT have now,? she said. @

Chicken Raising Made Easyeat 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 Poemsand compare shells.crack them (as you must) as they wish,and plop them into the cold teflon frypan.heat the coils orange-britehear 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 mellownessgrasp the pan firmly Just Balances and Weightsfork directly.© Father.You woke mepulling my other left leg. Right?oGet dressed and lookbright-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 leitRobert Jones i...- as sudden as an acorn-drop.your sonPS: to munch every kernel of memory.25

Love On LeaveHomecooked mealsetting for twocrystal wine glassesLongthin white curtainsblow separate waysMusicconversation and laughterflickering candlelightWrinkled silk slip slideswhispers and sighsThe clock ticksZippers zipbuttons buttonTrailways bus stationFort Hunt destinationA good-kiss, bye-kissa Mascara tearThe door closesthe bus turnsslowlyinto misty lightsToni P. Harris26Painis hard likeshiny red candythat is slow to melt andimpossiblysweet. you alwayswish you had neverhad it andwonder whenit will melt and begone. it seems youcould rememberthe last timeyou had anyand would bewary. but even thoughyou know what itTslike somehow youforget andtry it again.Karen BrockBreakingI break nowlike the thin sweet smileon her face. She knowsme"how I walk swingingmy hips like a lanternand how my fingershave painted yourskin in bare colorsand she saysnothingYou feel like anonly grandchildtugged and passed fromarm to armsecretly you arepleasedbut your mouth willswallow my name beforeshe hears it andyour skin will stopbending toward mine likewild flowers hungry forsunrise and I break nowin your handslike stale breadDenise Andrews

MotherTs Day 1962Against the sprays of sunlightyou stood twelve stories highwaving to granny and mebelow on the grey pavement.We met inthe antiseptic roomarranged with leather couchesand modern lamps, andhe came to us " thegauze and bandagesencircled his shaven headlike a white turban.I stood in front ofhis wheelchairwanting to be liftedonto his lap andsurrounded by his arms "I was met instead by his glassy gazethat peered past mefocusing on nothing.And you took my handand led me outinto the sunlighttitat Gast Ourbroken shadowsagainst the pavement.Diane NelmsTwo poemsRetreatStartledinto wakefulnessas icy rainsbeat down gutter pipesthumping loudlyinto deep puddlesthat form in the sand.Corroded oFor Sale? signflaps againstthe paint-chipped porch railingin iambic rhythms.Cat fights soundfrom underneath the deserted structureas chilling snarls and hissescut thequavering coastal windsButthe wooden piling supportsof my week-end retreatswayas a hammock in the windinviting sleep.27

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Photographs

TwoIsaacTs First FuneralIcicles form around dead healthy genesAt the end of winterSnowflakes fall fresh on the walkLike white plateletsDead from the airDead like the airI killed the fascist bigotThe automobile salesman from DetroitNot with blank military staresOr even clean salutesNot with the three blanksThat wring the air nowBut with real bulletsPoemsBloody SundayThe poetTs mouth coughed rosesBlood redAnd for the last timeSo that a young morticianComplained about the smellOf alcohol and mucusBefore he died the poet mumbledoBloody SundayI am your spirit (made from flesh)Bt restAnd that is all that you bastards think ofI see heaven nowYou own itIt is blacker than your rusty prison barsand deeper than your gutters?Sam Silva30

The Solipsistby Luke WhisnantThe first time the Solipsist hit the StudentCenter he set fire to the Crafts Room bulletinboard. Thick black smoke poured from thehallway into the lobby. The Student CenterDirector frantically P.A.ed everyone out of thebuilding and phoned the fire department, butby the time the trucks arrived, a janitor namedAndy had put out the Blaze with anextinguisher. Taped to the wall next to thesmouldering board was a note typed onDepartment of Philosophy stationery. TheDirector read it out loud to Anely aie divefiremen.o*The only order in the world is that orderwe as individuals impose. Everything else ischaos. Among the many paths of order open tous, I have chosen that of the solipsist. I know,and have known for years, that the only realthings in this world are those things I aloneperceive.T The Director stopped for breath.Andy was scratching his airo. Whats tisnote about?? he asked.oThere's more,? the Director said, olisten tothis: ~However, I have grown tired of the worldmy mind has created and this Student Center isnow declared to be under a state of siege as anexample of the solipsistic method. The nextattack may be only moments away. TheSolipsist. ~oWhat in hellTs a sop-sist?? Andy asked theDirector.oA solipsist. Someone who believeseverythingTs in his head; that nothing is realoutside his own mind.?oThat mother on hard drugs,? Andy saidoYou wanna press charges? Arson?? thefirechief asked.oYou better believe it,? the Director said.The firechief got out his fingerprint kit.*Two days later, the Solipsist tripped anemergency fire alarm on the Student Centereround floor and the buildime head to tbeevacuated again. The lime-green firetruckshad just pulled into the parking lot when Mrs.Sansole, who had managed the Student Centercafeteria for almost twenty years, found thenote taped to the brick wall beside the firealarm. The note was titled THE SOLIPSISTMANIFES PO and Wis, Sanusele couldn!understand a word of it: oThe destruction ofthe surrogate worlds corresponds directly tothe success of the solipsistic method and thesolipsistTs desired end result: self-suicidethrough denial. I deny that you are there andtherefore to prove it I will destroy you.? Thenote was signed, in red ink, oThe Solipsist.?Andy was disappointed that there wasnTta lire ior him to put out this time, but theDirector paled as he read the manifesto. oJustwhat does this guy want?? His hair wasbeginning to gray on the sides and as he thrusthis fingers through it a few tiny white flakessnowed to his shoulder. oHeTs not even a goodphilosopher. He doesnTt even believe what heTssaying. If he were a true solipsist, he could willthe Student Center out of existence"hewouldn't have to burn it down.?oYou're dealing with a real nut here,? thefirechief said.oFell me about it, ihe Mirectur saiddisdainfully. oWhy would anyone want toburn down my Student Center??it's certainly mot a very Christianattitude,? 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 theStudent Center, the firechief never found asingle fingerprint. The Director began glaringat anyone who wore gloves inside the Center,and once he followed a tall, greasy-haired malestudent in ragged jeans and striped gardeninggloves around the first floor for almost an hour.While the Director watched the student beginhis seventh game of pinball, the Solipsist wasupstairs setting fire to another bulletin board.Within the first two weeks the Solipsist burnedfour bulletin boards and five trash cans, turnedin four false fire alarms, built a campfire in themiddle of the $6000 carpet that covered thethird floor of the Center, and lit a forty-foottrail of lighter fluid that led to a huge puddle ofkerosene in front of the DirectorTs office door.And at the scene of every attack he left a note.The Philosophy Department stationerywas a dead end, too. All I know,? the firechieftold the Director, ois that there are seventy-something majors, a hundred and sixty-oddminors, and twenty-two faculty members, notto mention the four departmental secretariesand the part-time student office help. Thestationery is accessible to anyone. Justanybody could walk in right off the streets andgrab a handful"itTs lying right out in the openat

on the secretaryTs desk.? The Director swore.oAnyway, I did check on solipsism,T thefirechief continued. oThereTs no such coursetaught, and the department chairman thinksit's such a stupid philosophy that he nearlylaughed me out of his office.?oGreat,? the Director said. oHe laughedyou out of the office. I think that makes him aprime suspect.T He began chewing on afingernail. oHe laughed you out of the officeand here I am with a guy so dead serious aboutthe subject that at any minute he may burn thewhole darn building down around us.?The Director hired two off-duty cops topatrol the Center full-time. He circulated noless than seventeen memos on buildingsecurity, cautioning all employees to reportsuspicious-looking persons immediately. Heoffered a $100 reward for information leadingto the SolipsistTs arrest. The attacks continued.The Director began to suspect people on hisown staff.*At the end of the fourth week the Solipsisthad struck a total of 21 times"often twice aday, then skipping two days, alternatingbetween tipping trashcans overinthe womenTsrestrooms and setting off cherrybombs on thecentral staircase. Each cherrybomb had acigarette impaled on the fuse as a time delaydevice to allow the Solipsist time to get awaybefore the explosion. The Director gave up oncatching the Solipsist. He consulted with thechairman of the Psychology Department andthey composed a letter especially tailored tothe SolipsistTs psyche. The letter ran on pageone of The Advocate, the student newspaper:oTo the Solipsist: YouTve done very well. Youhave eluded us and shown your superiority.We salute you. However, you have problems.We want to help. Turn yourself in. Weguarantee you will not be harmed....? The nextday The Advocate printed four letters of reply,each from persons claiming to be the Solipsist.The editorial of that issue praised the Solipsistas an oindependent spirit, a doer, a man ofaction in these mellow, laid-back, apathetictimes.? That afternoon the Solipsist set fire toawhole stack of Advocates in the lobby by theStudent Center main entrance.*At the infirmary the Director was usheredinto the examining room ahead of a whole lineof students. oItTs some kind of skin rash,? hetold the doctor, unbuttoning his shirt, oand ititches like wildfire. ITve never had anythinglike this before.?The doctor looked at the rash. oShingles.?32oWhat's that??oA nervous condition that leads to skininfections. The medical name is herpes zoster.?The Director felt the blood drain from hisface. oHerpes? Like you get from, uh, sexualcomtact!?oSame family, but this one comes fromtenisidnh, Presstire, nerves. | Gah Give yousomething for the pain and the itching, butthereTs 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, oyoulook like warmed-over hell. How long have youhad 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 theloose.?oAh, yes"the Solipsist,? the doctor said.~Vread it in the paper. He scribbled out aprescription, handed it to the Director. oYougoing 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 andwrcte at the top, The Solipsist!!! Then he madea list:holes in carpet"3false fire alarms"approx. 20roman candle in the auditorium"twiceroman candle in the stairwell"three timescherrybombs & firecrackers"2lighter fluid"oncebulletin boards"sixtrash can burnings"approx. 15?Under this he wrote How much longer??? Hescratched his herpes absently.*The DirectorTs tic got worse. On Thursdayof the fifth week he found a note taped to theback of a vinyl couch that read simply, Cogitoergo estis. The couch had been slashed toribbons and the Director looked as if he wereready to hit someome. His arms weretremble olwats a $200 couch, he said toAndy and the Programming Chairperson. |oWhatTs the note say?? Andy asked.oIt's Descartes. It means, ~I think, thereforelamiThe Programming Chairperson had hadmore 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 orsomething. Like we're here Tcause heTs thinkingGit ws.oGodTs the only one can say things likethat,? Mrs. Sansole said.The next note was a long quote from Beingand Nothingness and none of them spokeFrench well enough to transiaie if WieDirector's secretary was finally able tostruggle through it with the aid of her French-English dictionary: oThere is the Self and thereis the Other. The Other is accessible to us onlyby the knowledge we have of it and if thisknowledge is only conjecture, then theexistence of the Other is only conjecture, and itis the role of the Self to determine the exactdegree of probability.? The secretary looked atthe Director. oHey, this guy is a real psycho,huh??oAbsolutely crazy. Hes bonkers, tlieDirector said.oHas his references down, anyway. Whatdid he get this time??oThe curtain on the assembly-room stage.?oThe velvet"?oYes, the Director said. His face twitcheduncontrollably. oSame as last time"heslashed it with a knife.?The secretary sighed in disbelief. oDelTaudace, encore de IlTaudace, et toujours delT'audace.?*To translate the Nietzsche mote tieDirector had to call tie Boreign EaneuaceDepartment. He spelled the words over thephone to a German professor, aad theprotessor translated: Im ihe emd) oneexperiences only oneTs self.T? Under the quote,the Solipsist had typed, oThe destruction of theworld is contingent on the destruction of theself. When I cease to exist, so will you.? Thenext day the Solipsist lett a note on Wirs:SansoleTs third floor office door which calledher cafeteria a oculinary cul-de-sac? andsuggested that the hamburgers were 90%horsemeat. An hour later, he threw a piece offist-sized concrete through the Director'ssecond-story office window. Wrapped aroundthe rock was a mote tat weacd, HappsBirthday.?"If lever catch that SB. ime Direetorcried, oI'll kill him with my own bare hands.?*In the sixth week the Solipsist stoppedleaving notes. The attacks continued, how-ever; the last three days of the week werepunctuated by rapidfire explosions of fire-crackers at almost hourly intervals. TheDirector locked himself in the bathroom andthrew up repeatedly.*On Monday of the seventh week, Andynoticed a short, balding, middle-aged manleaning against the carpeted wall beside thethird floor eastwing firedoor. The door wasstanding wide open. Andy slammed it andturried to the man. oKeep this door close.? Theman smiled.Two minutes later the man was trying toset fire to the wall with a butane lighter, andAndy, who'd been watching from around thecorner, and who had played a very mediocredefensive right guard for Berkeley High,charged across the room and flung the man tothe floor with a very passable shoe-stringtackle.oYou the Sopsist, Andy cried, you theSopsist 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 knowhim! I know you. You're an English teacher,aren't you??oT think heTs a Communist,? Andy said.oDo you know what the most reflexiveverb in the French language is?? the Solipsistsaid sardonically.oShut up, Andy said. You aint Frenem.You crazy.?oSe suicider. It means, ~I commit suicide tomyselfT.?oAre you a Free Will Baptist?? Mrs.Sansole asked.The Solipsist spit at her. oGet away fromme, 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 Solipsistkicked Andy hard in the shin and pushed himinto Mrs. Sansole. Andy grabbed for him andmissed by inches. The Solipsist dove over thebanister to the floor below, screaming oJe mesuicide!? He hit the floor on his hands andknees, scrambled to his feet, and crashed intothe two policemen at the Information Desk.oStop him, thatTs the Sopsist,? Andy shouted,and both policemen tried to grab him. TheSolipsist punched one cop in the face, dodgedthe other, and broke for the door. The other copdrew his gun. oStop or I'll shoot!?Upstairs in his office, the Director heardthe gunfire and mistook it for another round offirecrackers. He lay his head down on his deskand started crying. m33

Just Jazz34Right now pickinTs is slim,l mean, it takes time to learn haw to live.I ask myself where I amin my lifeand I answerat 8:40 tonight you madea long-distance telephone call.What do I like?Musicthat touches and pulls.I like friends and loverswho do the same.I also like workwhich is both the tail and the kite.I sin so muchthat the concept ceasesto have meaning.C esi ta vie en rosejazz jazz jazzbluesThe moment is the rushwe gradually learn that, whilethe stars etc botherour sense of finite death.The eternal spreads out so muchon either side of us:Chest ka vie.Trite, butsignificant. Old French songswell up throughthe star-drunken night.And jazz. Always that knowledgeof our fallen selves.As well as our deaths, loves,and the infinity which one isto one's self.Jazz dizzyinglymatches the infinite withdeathto becomewell, human:paradoxmade into a music.Jeff Rollins

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Gallery Title PageZane LeakeThe Blue Is Still Standing But ItTs Not So Dominant AnymorePlate Disguised as a DrawingMaggie NossKay Parks=

Robert T. DickHomage to StephenBound to Create37

Sees ICJanet RoseRobin Singleton

The Perfect Flying Machine Janet EnnisaKip Sloan39

Obs40equiousneJeff Fleming

41Jaime BernsteinMom62a o"_aggp

'tEy:é:&~Goat's Head Soup JarRobert Daniel4i|\itRoxanne Reep42

"" hi aut eNeither Here Nor There 3 Roxanne Reep43

44rniePiSloanJim Barnes

Marylu WarwickSelf-Portrait45

46Betsy KurzingerDebbie Strayer

ris47John MorRi aeiersonsFor God Is No Respecter Of P

StormA man stands naked inthe rain. His skinbeads water like a goodraincoar. | couldpretend he is not there.I could stand near-by and wait for thepolice. The last thing hewould want, I tell myself,is me pulling offmy sweater, stepping out of jeans.People stare. It rainsharder. Suddenly I am scaredof my fear of water. Scared.Four PoemsNovemberAmbulances tlock in this duskto the stationhouse by the black riverand sometimes the sirens at nightsound like cries of a strange, wounded birdunable to fly any farther.In the kitchen you cut things for soupturning the red-stained knives.Scarlet leaves blot the yardand blow down the street in slow motionand the woman you live with keeps bleedingday after day without stopping.These make it hard to remember:the winter is never so grimas this foreshadowing; the dogwoodblossoms return, brown stainscrusted deeply into the edges;you always seem to forgetthat each spring, trees in your backyardwill fill with the nests of wild birds.

Luke WhisnantTerminalAt frst, he tried to livehilt-deep, to make the time die hard.A string of whores, a womanthat he raped, alcoholand the drug of sheer frenzyscorched creases im lis fame:The grave he plannedwas cluttered with aluminum cansand newspaper. One morning sunfound him face down, burnt-out,literally lying in a gutterbecause he never had.Like that, he would have lived a2 month at most.But then a calm descended. He went home.MirrorsStepping out of a carand turning to close the dooryou find your face reflectedin the curved windowwhich contains onlyeverything that is there:a foreign glint in the eyeyou thought was totally yours.The strange mirrorsof water, steel, backless glass,hubcaps, tiled wallsare always holding youand in the living roomcowboys try to catch the breathof a man dying, holdinga foggy glass to his face;then your hand drawing awayfrom the TV switchfloats on the dull screen.There is always the fearof turning into a framethat you mayor may not hate;Rergoig aca brouebi soa goth ot meace. there is always the bathroom mirrorfriends saidthat he transcended deathor maybe just forgot to count the heartbeats.Everything"his will, the bank account"was put in order. He boughta funeral: roses, poetry, no religion.Around the house he sangoDonate your cancer-racked body to science,Tthen signed away his eyes.that strikes you straight in the facebecause you cannot get around it;no way to approachfrom another angle.He told his wifeoLove comes more than oncea lifetime. Be strong.?And then: oI love you more than words.?And so the months burned by and she was fineuntil the night he woke her crying in her arms.

What follows is an excerpt from MysteriousWays, a novel that tells the story of a foundjournal.Tristeza Nao Tem Fin,Felicidade SimSadness has no end, happiness doesby Terry DavisThe Night That Death BringsThursday, 2:40 aia, March 21, 1968I finished reading Elie WieselTs Nightaround 2 a.m. ItTs only 115 pages long and onlytook me two hours to read, but it got to me like Ilived it. Tread the last line, then turned back tothe front and read the dedication " oIn memoryof my parents and of my little sister, Tzipora?" then I put my head down on the desk andcried. The stuff that happens in that book is sadbeyond any dreams of sadness most of us arecapable of; but I was crying for myself mostly, Iknow, not for the Wiesel family.They get off the train at Auschwitz, andWiesel 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 frommy mother. I had not had time to think, butalready I felt the pressure of my fatherTs hand:We were alone, For a pert of a second 1glimpsed my mother and my sisters movingaway to {he right. Tzipora held Mothershand. I saw them disappear into the distance;my mother was stroking my sisterTs fair hair,as though to protect her, while I walked onwith my father and the other men.Nobody knows, until itTs happened intheir lives, the darkness of the night that deathbrings down.ItTs very interesting that I should use theword onight? that way. I was just trying to getmy thoughts down, and there it came withoutany conscious link to the title of the book. Iwonder if thatTs maybe what Wiesel wants50people to think of. For me is just the onlymetaphor I can come up with that halfdescribes how I felt when Mom and Dad andJesse vanished from this life. I mean I couldphysically feel the blackness, or the emptiness,or the black emptiness seep into my bones likedry rot ina timber. And I knew my house wasweaker, or that my song had grown fainter, asthe Indians say.Anyway, what started me crying was theempathy I felt for Wiesel when he said, oI sawthem disappear into the distance.?I'd marked all the important passages, andI just went on from there, like a glutton forheartache, from that one to the ones about hisfather.Wiesel and his dad and the other male Jewsfrom the train are being marched towards aditch where something is burning. A Germantruck comes up and dumps a load of babies intothe flames, so Wiesel knows theyTre walkingtowards their death. Amc he says. ~~In- thedepths of my heart, I bade farewell to myfather, to the whole universe.? Even though theGermans turned them away from the ditch andmarched them into barracks, | cried harder.But that still wasnTt enough for me, and inthe full-nelson of some really fucked masoch-ism I flipped back to the end, tears runningdown my face, to where his dad actually doesdie.Mr. Wiesel is sick and crying for Elie tobring him water, and the German officer yells

at him to be quiet. Mr. Wiesel keeps callingElie, and the German officer comes up andbashes him on the head with his billy club. AndElie says, oI did not move. I was afraid. Mybody was afraid of also receiving a blow.oThen my father made a rattling noise andit 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, soawfully and at the hands of such scummycocksuckers, and I cried because my ownparents died just for someoneTs thoughtless-ness, and I cried because people can be scaredand beaten to the point where, even when deathis right there staring us in the face and weknow thereTs no way out, weTre still so afraid ofgoing to meet it that we'll let it scare us out ofeven getting a drink of water for our earthlyfathers.And it was just then, when I was crying socompletely it actually felt good, not loudespecially, but steady, that Jonathan Grigsbypoked his head in the door.I tried to quit im the mext breati, war oncourse I couldn't.Jonathan closed the door and came over tothe desk, put his hand on my shoulder and said,oGod, Karl, what's wrong??I was too weak, too drained of feelings toget my dislike of him worked to the surface, so Ionly said, while still crying, oI just finishedreading a sad book. It makes me miss my folksIs all.Jonathan gave my shoulder a squeeze andapat and said, completely without the smirk onhis face or the condescending, pretentious tonehis voice usually has, oI think maybe I knowhow you feel. ITve never had anything happento me as bad as what happened to you, butabout three times a year somethingTI] set me off" a book or a movie, or even a song " and ['1lery like a baby, just for all the bad shit thatsbuilt up, even for things thatTve happened toother people.? Then he walked over to thewindow and pushed it up all the way. He stuckhis head outside and breathed deeply. Then hepulled his head back in and said, Night,Brother. Sleep good.? And he walked out andclosed the door, leaving the room fresh with thenight breeze.JonathanTs always going around calling alltheT @uys in the iratermity Brother,~ ana 1made me sick until tonight. He said it with aspecial tone, one he hadnTt used before, ormaybe I just hadnTt been tuned to it.Its 4715; not ieht yet, but-the birds havestarted to sing. I'll sleep good tonight. I donTtthink thereTs enough left inside my head tomake a dream.A Lover of the ClassicsFriday, 11:00 p.m. Maren 227 1968Finished all my Spanish, read thirty pagesof Western Civilization, and got about fiftypages into oThe Inferno? tonight. I like the pas-sage where Dante meets Virgil. Dante's in agreat desert and there appears before his eyesoone who seemed hoarse from a long silence.?oHave pity on me,? Dante cries, oWhatTerthou be, whether shade or veritable man!?And Virgil answers, oNot a man, a man |once was; and my parents were Lombards, andboth of Mantua by country.oIT was born sub Julio, though it was late;and lived at Rome under the good Augustus, inthe time of the false and lying Gods.oA poet I was; and sang of that just son ofAnchises, who came from Troy after proudIlium was burnt.?Then he asks Dante why he didnTt go up themountain, and Dante recognizes him.oArt: thow them dhal oime, and thatfountain which pours abroad so rich a streamof speech?oO glory, and light of other poets! May thelong zeal avail me, and the great love, thatmade me search thy volume.?Then Dante tells him about the she-wolfthat scared him off the mountain. ~See thebeast from which I turned back; help me fromher, thou famous sage; for she makes my veinsand pulses tremble.?oThow must teke another toad... Viner!answers, ~if thou desirest to escape from thiswild place.?God, I love that stuff. The language makesit seem like youre really on an adventureinstead of just reading about one. I rememberthis exact feeling when I was a little kid andMom read me oThe Iliad? and oThe Odyssey.? Itried reading oThe Aneneid? aloud to myselfnights during my senior year of high school,but it wasnTt the same without MomTs voice. Ithink ITm back into it now though.51

Monday, 7:05 p.m., March 25, 1968Bolao woke me yesterday afternoon atthree, saying the sorority girls were coming atfour, and that as a professional hamburger chefI was in charge of the grill. My head ached sobad I couldnTt stand up straight. I walkedHowneldirs all bent. aver .in pain, andHildebrand sand to Fimch; ~Look, its thehunchback of the second floor.?I canTt figure out why I wasnTt sick to mystomach. I know the term ohangover? meansthat the effects of the drinking ohang overT intothe next day; but in my case it might as wellmean that the victimTs body will ohang over? inexcruciating, hair-to-toenail pain. God, God,God! I swear I'l] never drink that much cheapwine that fast again. I took a shower, and infifteen minutes or so I could open my eyes allthe way.Joe-Ben had the charcoal already burningin the fireplace in the back corner of the yard,and I helped him press the burgers and set outthe chips and beans and paper plates and stuffon the dining room table Mac and Jonathancarried out to the yard. Jonathan donated oneof his Peter Max bed sheets as a tablecloth andit didnTt look bad. Jonathan himself, however,did look bad. He and Mac came out again thistime with my stereo, and Jonathan was wear-ing an ascot. An ascot! I mean David Nivenand Roddy McDowall wear ascots! I thoughtJon was all right, but there are things I refuse toforgive, and ascots are one.The oils cars pulled wp im tromt of thehouse and Leo walked out and opened the doorof their presidentTs car and took her arm andthe arm of their house mother and walked themup to the porch and introduced them to Mrs.Conners who was sitting in the porch swing.Icould imagine Leo saying to himself: oNicegesture, huh guys! Suave city " right!? Thenour pledge class had to meet their pledge class.We lined up like football teams at a bowl gameand shook hands as the two pledge mastersread off our names to the group. They seemedlike nice girls. All freshmen.Evervibinge went okay, and 1 eot nocomplaints on the burgers.After about everybody had finishedeating, Leo asked Bolao to sing some songs. Ipacked up the stereo and took it upstairs beforethe air got too damp. I listened to Bolao fromthe window for a minute and was impressedagain with how good he is. He would tell abouta song, translate a bit of it into English, thensing it through in Portuguese. He gets a lot ofmileage out of just playing a kind of music that52A Song For the Cowboynobody around here plays, but heTs also very,very good. I listened to him play the song fromoBlack Orpheus,? then I went back out.He got into his rap about how there arethese kindred spirits all over the world, andhow they think the same things even if theydonTt speak the same languages. Then he said:oHere's a song about this idea that I'd like todedicate tomy roommate, Karl " The Cowboy" Russell.? I was embarrassed because hepointed me out and everybody turned to look atme in the back of the crowd sitting resting myback om the trent bumper of Andys 37. | stillhad the spatulain my hand, so! brought it up toEne crown of my chefs hat in a little salute.Suave city, right Leo! I thought to myself.The song he sang was beautiful. He typedit up for me later that night, and here it is for therecord. He had to help me a little with thetranslation, but I know almost every wordfrom Spanish.Para Lennon and McCartneyBy Lo Borges, Marcio Borges, e Fernando BrantPorque vocés ndo sabem do lixo ocidentalNao precisam mais temerNao precisem da soliddoTodo dia @ dia de viverPorque vocé nao vera meu lado ocidentalNao precisa médo nadoNao precisa da timidezTodo dia é dia de viverEu sou do America do SulSei vocés nao vdo saberMas agora sou cowboySou lauroEu sou vocésSou o mondoSou Minas GeraisBecause you don't know this Western trashYou don't have to be afraid anymoreYou don't have to feel aloneEvery dayTs the day to liveBecause you don't see my side of the WestThere's no need to be afraidThereTs no need to be shyEvery dayTs the day to liveIam South AmericaAnd I know that you're not going to knowBut now ITm a cowboyITm blondIm. youITm the worldITm Minas Gerais (the state in Brasil thesongwriters are from)As soon as he finished oPara Lennon andMcCartney? he broke right into the guitar

introduction to oHelter Skelter,? and everyface lit into a smile. He sane it file, bul itwas funny to hear the words with a Brasilianaccent. Actually, Bolao knows the wordsbetter than | do. 1 mever really wader:stood the words when the Beatles sangthem, so I looked them up on the song sheetfrom the album.When I get to the bottom I go back to thetop of the slideWhere I stop and I turn and I go for a rideTill I get to the bottom and I see you againDo you, donTt you want me to love youI'm coming down fast but ITm miles aboveyouTell me tell me tell me come on tell me theanswerYou may be a lover but you ainTt no dancerHelter skelter, helter skelterHelter skelterWhen he finished, and before anybodycould clap or anything, he held up his handsand yelled, oITve got blisters on my fingers!?like I think itTs John Lennon does at the end ofthe song on the album. Then everybody reallylaughed.It was getting dark and a little cool andthings broke up then. A few minutes laterBolao and a beautiful girl with long blond haircame up to me where I was wiping catsup andmayo off JonathanTs Peter Max sheet, andBolao asked if I wanted to go up to the languagelab and see oOrfeo Negro? with him and Laurieand LaurieTs friend Rhonda. They turned backtoward the street where I saw a hand wavingfrom the driverTs seat of anew yellow Camaro.oYou bet your boots! (replied.I was so blown away by the movie I didntpay much attention to Rhonda, who smokedanyway and who wasn't real captivated by meeither, | dont think, Belao put om the mim,turned the sound way up, then he and Lauriedisappeared into the room where the tapes arestored. | sat on the floor michi im front or inescreen with my elbows on my knees and mychin in my hands like a kid, and Rhonda sat atthe control table and smoked. I donTt think sheknew the movie was going to be in a foreignlanguage. I only recognized about three wordsmyself, but I think I got the whole story.I thought oOrfeo Negro? was a Brasilianfilm, but it was really made by a French guyand spoken in Portuguese. ItTs a simple lovestory, or actually, I guess, more of an allegoryabout how nobody, not even great and devotedlovers, beats death, taken from the Greek mythabout Orpheus and Eurydice, which I'm awareof not because | fad a goed bieh schoo!education, but because I had a mother wholoved mythology and read to me from EdithHamilton when I was little and then when |grew up just kept on telling me the stories. |had the feeling that the French director tookliberties with the original story, but I wasn'treally sure, so I checked up on him when I wasin the library this afternoon.In the myth Orpheus has just returnedfrom his voyage with Jason and the otherArgonauts, and he and Eurydice have justgotten married, when, at the wedding feast, aguy named Aristaeus gets Eurydice alone andputs some moves on her. Eurydice is havingnone of this guy, and she runs away along astream where she gets bitten by a snake.In oOrfeo Negro? everybody is black andpoor, and Eurydice is a girl from the small townof Nitarei who takes the terry acrossGuanabara bay to Rio for Carnival and meetsOrfeo who is a streetcar driver, a Sood bitamateur samba singer and guitar player, andthe best male samba dancer in the favela. Hisgirlfriend is the best female samba dancer.In the myth Eurydice goes down intoHades with the other dead, and Orpheus sitsalong the stream, playing his lyre and singingto her memory. His love is so strong and hesings his grief for Eurydice so beautifully thatthe goddess Persephone is moved to make hima deal: Orpheus can go down into Hades andbring Eurydice back to the world of the living,but she must follow him and he can't look backat her until theyTre both in the sunlight again.I grabbed the first myth book on the shelfin the library this afternoon, and it turned outto be in verse, which IJ think I like even betterthan Edith HamiltonTs prose. Maybe I like it somuch because itTs VirgilTs writing and I feelclose to him right now while ITm reading oTheInferno.? Anyway, the part where Orpheusbreaks into the light, and in his joy forgetsPersephoneTs stipulation and turns to look atEurydice while sheTs still in darkness justfractures me. Orpheus has just turned around,and Virgil says:That instant all his labor went to wasteHis pact with the cruel tyrant fell apartAnd three times thunder rocked AvernaTsswamps.She cried out, ~What wild fury ruins us,My pitiable self, and you, my Orpheus?See, once again the cruel fates call me backAnd once more sleep seals closed myswimming eyes.Farewell: prodigious darkness bears me offStill reaching out to you these helplesshandsThat you may never claim!TIn the movie Orfeo and Eurydice fall inlove at first sight. He takes her home, tell hisgirlfriend he has to practice his guitar and getsome rest for the big Carnival parade the nextnight, and he and Eurydice wind up in the sack.53

In the second most beautiful scene in thefilm Orfeo sings a song at dawn. HeTs gotten upbefore Eurydice, and heTs standing at the edgeof the mountain top where the favela is located.Orfeo is playing his guitar and singing, and asthe sun burns away the mist and you see thecity and the bay and then the south Atlantic allspread out below, you think maybe itTs not sobad to be poor in Rio if you can live in OrfeoTsneighborhood. Just as he finishes his song twolittle boys and a little girl walk up to him. ItTsthe first day of Carnival and they were tooexcited to stay in bed. TheyTve never been upthis early before, and they ask Orfeo if his songis what wakes up the sun. Orfeo tells them itsure is, then he hands his guitar to one of theboys who starts right in working on OrfeoTssong.In the third most beautiful scene Eurydiceis lying in bed, her long, wavy, black hairspread across the white pillow case. You cantell sheTs naked, but all you see is her face andher beautiful hair and one beautiful milk-chocolate-colored breast with a darker areolaand a black nipple. SheTs fifteen or sixteenyears old. It just takes your breath away. ThenOrfeo comes in and she pulls up the sheetmodestly.In the myth, after Orpheus loses Eurydicethe second and final time, he mourns for sevenmonths, ounfolding his tragic song to the frozenstars, enchanting tigers, moving oaks with histheme. ... He wandered lonely through the icy_ ~waitinet pop, hoe in a aeof 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 beslowed 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 knowthat true rhythm is also strange "&isnopassage / even tho there is ~movement the_ movement is seizure & is now:_jump iis 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 tionNorth, past the snow-encrusted Don, throughthe mountain tields of unadulterated. frost,conveyed the grief at HellTs ironic offerings.. until finally he ends up in Thrace and runsinto a gang of Bacchanals who are outraged athis fidelity to a love dead so long, and they tearhim to pieces. Literally...they tore the youth apart,And scattered his limbs around thespacious fields.But even then his voice, within the headTorn from its marble neck, and spinningdownThe tide of his paternal River Hebrus,The cold tongued voice itself, as life fledaway,Called out, ~Oh, my forlorn Eurydice!Eurydice!T and the shoreline answered backAlong the river's breadth, ~Eurydice!TIn the movie all the escolas da samba aredancing down the street on the night of the bigparade, and a guy ina skeleton costume startsfollowing Eurydice. She spots him and feels asupernatural fear, like the guy really is Death.Orfeo is his samba schoolTs big gun, so he canTtleave the parade. TheyTre dancing along to allthis incredible samba music, in flash afterflash of smiling, sweaty black faces, sweatyblack belly buttons, luscious black cleavage,feathers, sequins and costumes that generallymake the pictures ITve seen of Mardi Gras inNew Orleans look like an Amish picnic, whenfinally they come to the end of the street andOrfeo takes off looking for Eurydice. He asks_ When ihe ie come ot a t nighta screech owl scorches theirbare 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. Hefinds her, and he and Death have a knife fightfor her. Orfeo gets kicked in the head andknocked out, but not knifed. When he wakes upboth Eurydice and Death are gone. He looks allthe rest of the night for her and finally finds herin the lowest level of the basement of the citymorgue.It's nearly dawn when Orfeo comeswalking up the steep path along the edge of theclill to the tavela tariyiae the fody ofEurydice. His girlfriend has been waiting forhim, and when she sees him carrying Eurydice,she freaks out and starts screaming like aharpy " ora Bacchanal, and she flings a rock athim. OrfeoTs not even looking at her because hiseyes are locked on EurydiceTs beautiful deadface, and the rock hits him in the forehead. Hestaggers and slips and his body and the body ofEurydice bump and scrape all the way downthe straight, black mountain side and wind upcradled in the leaves of a huge plant at thebottom.The most beautiful scene in the moviecomes next. I nearly cried, and would haveif I'dbeen alone. The three little kids are looking forOrfeo. They've got his guitar and theyTre afterhim to get him to wake up the sun with hissong. The little girl tells the kid with the guitarthat he'd better do the job himself if the sunTsgoing to come up on time. The kid with theguitar says he canTt play like Orfeo, and theother kid and the little ee tell lan io a!7 The e Sky 0 over the Lake, ' Win| Geese ae acrossthe pink- -orangelast shadow >of the sun,struggling~10 danceOnasinkng =_ shoulder of aeotrailing apartspit- to neckassuming a weaveoe themselves.anyway. So the little guy starts playing andsinging, and the other two start dancingsamba. And there they are: these three littleblack kids, one playing and two dancing to thisbeautiful samba song as the sun breaks overthe horizon and brings into full light the greenhills around Rio, the rock mountains that jut upeverywhere, the gray buildings of the citybelow, and the blue waters of the bay. And thekid keeps playing and singing, and his twofriends keep dancing, and pretty soon the songis louder and louder and seeming like itTscoming from everywhere. And thatTs how themovie ends.Bolao and Laurie came out when the filmstarted flapping in the projector. Rhonda saidshe had to get right back to the sorority tostudy, and Laurie said sheTd stay and helpBolao put the film away. I walked home alone,singing words | pot only didnt Know butcouldn't pronounce, and trying to dance samba,trying " as Bolao says white people must " tokeep my back concave and my ass high in theair as though I were impaled on a stick ofsugarcane.I stayed up listening to BoldoTs recordsthrough the headphones until he got home. Wetalked then for a couple hours about Rio andCarnival and samba schools and favelas. Hefinally went to bed, but I stayed at the desk andlistened to Brasilian music and hummed up thesun. @7 ee ly was ae+ ~Whenl carefully caught_ the roach "you were about to fatescradled him, ne enclosed@ my palm, aI 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

Ee'q:The ObserverA 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 facesmothered in textured vision:the peeling and envisioned eyelids.Crouching behind blinds,hunting a life,stalking the sage and aniseed fox;carving the hunterTs callinto foreboding, chortled wind.Froth-like snow goose on the waves;a fool sparkling in the marsh bladeswith the sign of the futile hunt,the search,the false chase,the sign of the spent child behind the blindscarved in his eyes.Joe Dudasik58Two PoemsGoliathWith my leather sling,I commanded the pebbles of the quarry.Thirty terty, fiityadolescent paces separated my braveryfrom the fierceness of a wooden boxthat 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, landingwith the force of youthful exaggerationThe box,my foe,crashed against the ground(wooden villain, hateful crate)smashing into Biblical smithereens.And without ime smile of victory,my bronzed, skinny countenanceeraced the quarryof stony, silent applause.

I was sitting alone in the living room of mytrailer and thinking about Linda beingpregnant when Mark came over. He had drivenout in his white ~69 Firebird wearing a royalblue White Stag sweatsuit and Tiger MontrealI] shoes to see if I wanted torun. He knew! did.I changed into some ragged nylon shorts thatwere once bright green and an old gray hoodedsweatshirt. I didnTt wear socks. I almost neverwear socks when I run. They give me blisters.Mark always wears them though.We performed a sort of pre-run ritual inthe living room, First I put an Al Stewartalbum on the stereo and then we each didtwenty push-ups and took a bong hit. Youwent up and down twenty times and took in~ smoke. If you didnTt cough, the blood vessels inyour lungs would be really dilated and you'dget a tremendous rush. Mark and I would dothis to loosen up as well as to raise ourthresholds of pain. That day we did two~StillRunningby David Trevino59

hundred push-ups and ten bong hits apiece. Bythe time we had done eighty and four Al waslifting me up and down from the speakers:On Carol, | tank 11S timefor running for cover,Believe me, you re everyoneand nobody's lover,You've got a one way ticketfor all your yesterdays.When we had become thoroughlystoned, Mark and I left the trailer and walkedthe hundred or so yards to the 10th StreetPrenton ancl started io jog. Tsay jogbecause we weren't running at all. We weremoving a little faster than a brisk walk. I like toshake out my hips for a while before I start toreally move, but Mark likes to start stridingright away. I donTt have any cartilage in my leftknee anymore so I! have to slow him downwhile I do an extended warm-up. We kept thispace for over a half mile, past the intersectionby Hastings Ford until 5th runs into 10th nearthe Western SizzlinT Steak House. Once wecrossed the five lanes of traffic on 10th wepicked up the pace a bit.We trotted down 5th, past the HighwayParo! biiding. Dumms Auio Shop, theKentucky Fried Chicken and a trailer park.When I say otrot? I mean to move about as fastas those fad runners on their hot days. I guess IshouldnTt look down on them. ItTs just that ITvebeen a runner for a long, long time andit hasn'talways been as popular as it now seems to be.At one time you didnTt see very many peoplerunning by the side of the road, but noweverywhere you go thereTs some dumpy guy inBermuda shorts waddling byin his black socksan@ tisha Puppies. 1m sorry. | guess iis likehaving been a Mets fan before they ever wonanything. I canTt believe all those awkwardpeople pounding their joints on the pavementCan experience the same joy I do. For merunning is one of the few, uncompromisingrealities of life. So of course I hated to be seenout in public trotting along like some cloddishjogger, but I had to warm up or my knee wouldgive me trouble. I screwed it up trying to beajunior Joe Namath in high school football.So with my gimp knee to unwind wecontinued our relaxed pace past the whitepeople's cemetary and Green Springs park tothe Catholic Church on Beech Street where weturned right and continued on until we hit 3rdand turned left. We kept on trotting to where3rd ends ina peanut field and all the cars haveto turn left if they want to stay on pavement.60Mark and I turned right onto a rough dirt roadthat skirted the field and meandered on for amile until it reached a trail into the woods bythe Tar River which went on for a couple ofmiles until it finally petered out into nothing.Once we got off the pavement I picked upthe pace again. The footing wasn't that good.The road was a pair of tire ruts littered withcorn stalks and shucks. Between the ruts wasatangle of dark, dried grass and pine saplingsthat would never grow much taller. It wasn'texactly a fast track, but by the time Mark and Igot to the field on Hickory Street we had beenout for over a mile anda half and I felt prettyloosened up. I was ready to start stretching themuscles in my hips, my thighs and my calves. Iwanted to shake them out a little. It felt good.ItTs a lot easier on my body when I get to warmup and set the pace for a while. ITm sure itTseasier on Mark, too. When you rerunning rightbehind somebody itTs like an intangible suctioncarries you. If he can go that fast, so can you.We let our legs stretch out and pull useasily. We concentrated on perfecting long,reaching strides, but continued to run at lessthan three quarter speed. When youre inrelatively good shape, striding around like thatcan be exhilarating. You're not tired, just looseand you're not really pushing yourself hard,but the motion still thrills every nerve in yourbody. We went to the end of the peanut fieldand turned left with the road, away fromacornfield to run down the length of the peanut one.The peanuts had been harvested weeksbefore. Some enormous machine had comealong and torneverything up. Then some othermachine came and baled all the stuff left over.A couple of days after that some black menloaded these bales into trucks. They got mostof them, but there were still a few left out in thefield that afternoon. When the black men hadfinished their loading, families of locals andgroups of college students went over the fieldame milked! wo most of the peanuts themachines had missed, Almost all of thepeanuts were gone and parts of the field werecovered with bright, green winter grass. TheSoil that showed was am ugly gray colorbecause the guy who owned it had growntobacco for too many years before he decidedto try something different. This year it waspeanuts. Last year it had been soy beans. Theother seven fields around it have always beencorn. At least they have since I have been herein Greenville. Not much changes around thispart of North Carolina.Stands of pine and oak grew between thefields. I guess they were there to protect thefields against wind. I donTt know. We were in

the middle of October already and all the treeswere still green. I thought that was prettystrange.Along the edge of the peanut field stoodthree tobacco barns. Although dm varyingstates of disrepair all were of the same basicarchitecture, wooden structures covered withblack and green tar paper on brick foundationsand crowned by dull tin roofs. You could seebuck shot patterns in the tar paper where thedove and guail hiumters had iired teeshotguns. The spread pattern was for distanceand the tighter one for close range.About half a mile from Hickory Street andthe dirt road turned right toward the Tar Riverand away from the peanut field. It was still amile to the path in the woods. The ground in thecorn fields was different from the gray stuff inthe peanut field. It was more tawny, the colorof a lionTs hide. Maybe it was because thebroken stalks were still out in the fields withthe dark broadleaf weeds. There were whitecorn shucks everywhere.As Mark and I glided through the fields Itried not to think. The more! thought about mysituation, the more tragically trapped I felt. Ijust wanted to forget it all and just feel, justlaugh. I wanted to run warmly through thatcrisp autumn air. I wanted to forget aboutLinda crying with me in her the night before.So instead I thought about how dry my mouthwas and how my jock rubbed against my rightthigh.When we got to the path by the Tar River,Mark shot out in the lead. I watched him runfora while. Mark isnTt built like arunner atall.I'm five-eight and one-forty. Mark is twoinches shorter and twenty pounds heavier.He's not at all fat. He just lids 4 stocky bodythat makes him still look like the high schoolwrestler he once was. Actually, itTs his facethat makes Mark look like heTs still im highschool. ItTs gotten a little less round recentlyand that does make him look older, but itTs stilla boyish face dominated by a pug nose andtopped by short black hair. I think Mark willalways look young, no matter what he does.He picked up the pace and we did the nexthalf in less than two anda half minutes. Marklikes to run in front. He likes to lead the packand control the pace. I don't. I'd rather hang onthe front runnerTs shoulder and blow him offdown the straightaway.It was even harder to run through thewoods than it had been on the dirt road. Thetrail was not as heavily used. Geveral rootsgrew across it as well as ruts worn by the rain.Branches and vines hung down on you. On theleft you could hear the river and once ina whilethe trees would break openand you could see itmirroring the foliage. It was a beautiful placeto run. I saw motorcyle tracks on the trail andsilently cursed the idiot who had brought amachine into these woods. His knobby tireshad torn up the trail and made the footing evenworse.After Mark had led for a half mile I felt myadrenalin begin to pump as he began to fade. |passed him as we crunched across a stretch ofereen wandering Jew. My feet were reachingfar out in front of me and my heels threw updrops of mud onto the back of my shorts. I hadreached a pain barrier and run. through it.Running now became more of a mentalexercise and less of a physical one. I had runaway from the hurt, the awkward, unnaturalstrain that plagued the fad joggers. Now [ ran.My body worked as effortlessly and asnaturally as if it were making love.Tearing along at a 5:20 mile pace I reachedthe point where the trail ended, turned andkicked back another mile and a half until Islowed down to let Mark catch up. My headthrobbed and my chest felt as though it hadcaved in, but Linda was a million miles away.Mark quickly caught up and took the leadagain, slower this time. We trotted along foraquarter 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 astretched-out green snake. It was no thickerthan a magic marker and less than a foot anda61

half long. We stood and looked at it amazedlyuntil Mark finally said, oIf itTd been a cottonmouth I'd have gotten bitten for sure.?I looked at the terrified, little snake andlaughed.Mark knelt over it and held out a twig tosee if it would strike, but it didn't. It remainedperfectly still until Mark grabbed it with hisleft hand. Then it become a writhing, clutchingmuscle. It was a scaly, green tentacle. Its tailwrapped and unwrapped around MarkTs armas it tried to escape.He handled it for a while, letting it crawlall over his arms. Then he passed it to me and Idid the same. We stood around in the middle ofthe wood with the smooth, cool snake for nomore than a few minutes. We toyed with theidea of taking it to some girlTs house asa sign ofour wildness, but the sight of the helplesssnake in my hands made the notion seemridiculous. I put it back on the ground and itquickly wriggled away into the brush on theside of the trail. We watched it disappearbeneath the way we had come. We pushedpretty hard the rest of the way with Markleading until we came to the corn fields wherewe quit.We walked out into the fields and startedrummaging among the stalks, the shucks andtne cous, lhis iteld had been harvested, too,bi | hadnt rum by to see it. This corm was forlivestock, nothing you'd eat yourself. It wasnice enough looking corn for animals though,bright orange kernels on dark red cobs.The sun was going down as we walkedover the corn field. The trees on the westernskyline were black silhouettes under the fiery,pink clouds. A pair of Air Force jets streakedfome te seymour johmsom, leaving brilliantred and white trails in the sky.I found a pair of ears that still had all thekernels on them. I peeled back the shucks touse as handles and began to beat the earstogether as I chanted some gutteral gibberishthat sounded like the Indians on televison.Mark laughed and began to look for a pair ofears for himself. I started dancing through therows of dead corn stalks, chanting louder andlouder and hitting the ears together harder andharder until the kernels began to fly. Markfound some ears and we both banged corncobsand howled like savages as the moon rose overthe trees in the east.lt Was a yellow moon, Almost full. Themoon only stays yellow for the time itis lowinthe sky. When it gets higher it becomes asilvery white. The light it reflects changes,too. When it first came over the trees it gave offa golden glow. It gilded the tips of the trees62beneath it. Directly across the field and treesunder the sunset were sharp, black outlines. Itwas beautiful.We left the corn field and our ritual. We randown the dirt road to the peanut field and saton some bales of straw. I stared silently at thesky above Mme uml: Mark finally asked,MWittats with you: You seem out of it, joey.?I looked at the moon and studied the darkspots that are supposed to be seas or craters orsunken plains. I can only vaguely rememberthe details of my astronomy class. I lookedback at the sky and then told him about Linda.She had missed her last four periods and nottold me until that morning. She was beginningto put om werent and that worried her. |couldn't believe it.What could we do? What would we tell ourparents? What would four months on the pilldo to a fetus? On the label of LindaTs birthcontrol pills it said that taking them duringpregnancy could lead to mental retardationand other birth defects.Abortion was out. I knew no doctor woulddo ome alter iour momths. | was relieved. |didnTt want to have to make that choice.Mark almost had to make that choice fiveyears earlier when he was seventeen and ajouer im high sehool. His girlfriend, CathyGoodwin, told him she was pregnant and in thesame sentence that she had had an abortion. SoMark never had to choose. He said that it stillbothered him sometimes anyway.I told Mark that I didnTt love Linda enoughto marry her and that I thought it would bestupid of me to tie up my life trying to live up tosomeone else's expectations. But I couldn'tleave Linda with that baby. It was my babyand I would take responsibility for it. ITd getcustody of it and raise it myself.ItTs strange when your life starts takingplace in the present tense.oAll the rest of the women you fuck in yourlife will probably think thatTs really noble,?Mark said.That made me feel bad. We talked a littlelonger and decided to start home. We ran theway back to the trailer slowly. When we gotthere Mark got in his car and drove away. |took a shower and spent the rest of the nightsmoking pot and reading Anne Sexton.Two weeks later Linda had a miscarriage.Three days after that we broke up. Within theweek I moved into a house a block fromcampus with Andrea Moscrip, a dancer in thedrama department with long, bleached, blondehair. Sometimes Mark gives me a hard timeabout it. It makes me feel bad, but | still donTtstop.

My Father After Ninetyfor Imogen CunninghamYou seem prepared for winter.The stack of newly split logslaid out behind youpromises warmth in the coming cold.Bright burning fires that blazeinto ashes.Black branchescasting spindly shadowsagainst the old shedbespeak the approaching cold.But you do not fear it.You have prepared yourself well,and now you siton the dead tree stump,calmly clasping"not gripping"the bent walking stick,squinting boldly intothe late afternoon sun.KarenBlansfieldTwoPoemsRiver DreamoWelcome to God's country,T you saidas we rounded the bend intothe circle of still watersguarded by centuries of looming trees.We sat in the still waters,the lapping of the waves against the boatdimmed by the din of locusts,the mournful baying of the houndsfrom deep within the woods.We watched the sonar bleepsto see how deep the water was.But the depths kept changing.I watched two whirlpoolseddying in opposite directionsswirl swiftly towards one another,touch momentarily,then spin off againlike two whirling jacks.And the eye of heaven watched me,a huge red dripping ballthat peered from a slitin 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 throughthe sweep of grey sky and water,back to the rushing worldthat would spin our two lives apart.63

Notes on Being Potty Trainedby Kim ShipleyoResentful? is putting it mildly. oEnraged?is a tad bit strong. oDisgusted? probably bestsums up my feelings toward the sixties.Kim Marlowe Shipley. Born April 15,1959. In 1963 I was four and not aware whoJohn Kennedy was or where he got off gettingall this publicity for being shot. In 1968 I wasnine and my mother would not allow me to goto the Democratic National Convention, andwhen I screamed oUp against the WallMotherfucker!? at the neighborTs gardener Iwas spanked and sent to my room.The real bummer happened in August ofthat year when everyone else was off to MaxYasgurTs farm in Woodstock to listen to thebands and I had to stay home because mygrandparents were coming to visit. A millionand a half people at Woodstock listening to theWho, and I was at home watching oThe Ghostamd Mas; Munir.?I didnTt blossom until the early seventies,when the wildest thing the decade could offerwas Alice Cooper. By the time I first smokeddope in ~73 Joan Didion had already leftHaight-Ashbury and was part of the establish-ment again. Face it, I missed out. I got left out ofthe revolutionary sixties; Iam a product of themundane seventies.When you were born in 1959 you kind ofwonder what you're expected to feel. They tellyou that we've just come out of a war and thatthere was a big one a few years ago. But noweverything's cool and we live in the bestcountry in the world. So you go ahead withteething and potty training as if nothing is thematter, fully believing everything they toldyou a few years ago about how stable we are.You can't read the papers and TV news is overyour head, so you rely entirely upon them (theones who bother to talk to you) for all yourinfo. The most upsetting thing that happens inthe house for about five or six years that youare aware of is Elvis on Ed Sullivan one nightand Lucky the cocker spaniel getting worms.So things go along pretty smoothly. You startkindergarten and they have a big Easterpageant that isnTt half bad for an elementaryschool production even if Miss Rietter is about20 pounds too heavy to play Peter Rabbit. Thenyou're in third or fourth grade (some of uscaught on earlier thanks to older brothers andsisters) and suddenly it hits you.WHAM! JesusFuckinT Christ"thereTs a revolution going onout there! Free love and LSD. The only draw-back is that you're not quite old enough to get itup yet so the free love part is out and you don'tknow any stores that carry LSD.Actually I should have caught on earlier.Along about ~68 my older sister Jan, whoNEVER questioned our mother, flatly refusedto wear bobby socks any longer; I should haveseen it coming. And when my brotherTs roomconstantly shook to the sounds of oIn a GaddaDa Vida? I really should have seen it coming.But children tend to believe what they are told.I remember being humiliated in front ofmy fourth grade class in 1968. There was anelection coming up and we all had to be candi-dates for a day. Guess who! got to be? I realizeRichard Nixon didnTt become a criminal untilWatergate but my older brother Ric took measide one day and told me that Nixon was partof the capitalist establishment and he wasgoing to do everything possible to see the piggydidn't get elected. Anyway, Mrs. Brown hadlittle sympathy when I politely informed herthe next day that I didnTt care to be part of herpropagandistic campaign to brainwash thechildren of Room 14. When I said I was goingto call my brotherTs friends Abbie Hoffmanand Jerry Ruebin and have them hold a rally atBeechwood Elementary I was told to take myseat. When I yelled oMake Love Not War? Ifound myself in the principal's office. He wasnot overly helpful either and I had a ratherflushed face when I returned to the class; andthey STILL made me play Nixon. But I musthave been pretty damn influential over thosekids since I won the election three to one. Andit was Kim they were voting for. I knew thetakeover and subsequent turnover of the mainoffice were only a matter of time.The real thrill happened inT69. A year afterJim Betts and I had been apprehended in ourplan to go to Chicago and destroy the systematthe convention, the record album to Woodstockcame out and weall learned the fish cheer. I can64

During the Sixtiesstill remember the exciting feeling, the tinglingof my nerves and adrenalin rushing throughmy veins"standing on top of the monkey barsscreaming oGIVE ME AN F!? and the wholeplayground stops and screams oF!? One time Igot all the way to the second oFUCK? beforethey yanked me down off the bars. What werethey gonna do? Make me stay after school andwrite oI will not scream ~fuckT from atop themonkey bars any more.T? I wasnTt afraid ofthem.And then there was the biggie. Vietnam.oGet the fuck out of Nam.? oBomb Washington,not Hanoi.? oMake Love Not War.? None of itseemed to do much good. All I understoodabout it was they were talking about sendingmy favorite brother over there and a couple ofhis buddies were already dead from it.Vietnam was not something I joked about orfought against. Watching TV and havingWalter Cronkite tell me that 57 Americans and328 Vietnamese had been killed there todayterrified me. I didnTt understand it. There wasso much fighting going on here about it andnobody agreed and everyone hated each otherbecause of it: I simply did not understand. Itscared me to think thatina few years I could gothere too. It still does scare me.And then the fighting hit closer to home. In1969 they started burning down Detroit andmarching with guns and torches towards thesuburbs where | lived. People were shot on thestreet by National Guardsmen and sniperswere all over the place. Anyone on the streetspast ten oTclock was locked up, and if he ran,orders were to shoot to kill. I remember drivingdown the street with my mother and for milesseeing nothing but black frames where thereused to be buildings. I remember sitting out inthe back yard with my family, watching thesky grow redder to the east of us. It was scarythen and it would be now. The only time I haveever seen my mother scared is when she andmy sister and I were in ScottTs Nursery and thelights went out and a voice came over the loud-speaker. oWe have been informed,? it said,othat there is a mob of about 650 blacksmarching this way with torches and it isestimated they will be here in ten minutes. Weare closing immediately.? I didnTt know whythey wanted to hurt us. All I could figure outwas that it had something to do with the blackman who was shot in Memphis whose lastwords were Sing it pretty for me.? But I hadnTtshot him and neither had my family.My last brush with the sixties came in 69.My mother grew up in Kent, Ohio, and myfather attended college there. My familyplanned to visit my grandparents one weekendin April. The day before we left home, NationalGuard troops opened fire on a group of protest-ing students from Kent State University,killing five of them and wounding twelvemore. When we got to Kent it had been boardedup like a plague town and there were brokenwindows everywhere and naked porches withsigns on them that read oFree Laos.? It wasnTtthe same town that I played in as a boy. It hadnone of the warmth and friendliness. It wasopenly hostile "savage. Kent has not yet re-turned to a livable state. There is still hostilityand unfounded hatred. And there are the fewoldtimers who try to go along like nothing everhappened, and they are even more patheticthan the town itself.Say what you like about the sixties. Youcan praise the enlightenment and personalfreedom or condemn it. But as a child, I sawtwo cities and many personal lives affected tothe point of ruin by that era, and as far as ITmconcerned, you can have those ten years. Inowwear my hair short because itTs easier to keepclean. I smoke dope because I like it. In the lastelection I campaigned for Ford and I would doit again. I am constantly amazed when I walkinto a restaurant and find refugees from Wood-stock staring at me blankly. TheyTre out thereen masse" wearing Lenin tee-shirts, macrame,and electrified hair down to their beltloops. Ifeel like screamime at them, Gass llnot tsdead!? or oRowan and Martin are off the air!? oroAngela Davis sold out"she wrote a book!? ItTsbeen almost nine years and these people stillhaven't recovered from the sixties. The seven-ties are not boring. ItTs just that fifty percent ofthe population is still too bummed out fromJanis JoplinTs death in 1970 to enjoy 1979. Forall those people"open your eyes, take a lookaround. Catch what you can of the seventiesbefore theyTre gone. Dig it, man: you can comeback out now. The Movement is dead. There isno Revolution. The war is over.65

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by Ray HarrellThe bucking tractor broke my sleep as Albumped the clutch to pull the Peterbuiltabreast of the pumps. I stretched and yawnedand the locking brakes hissed like a giantreptile. Al looked at his watch and made the logentry while I rubbed sleep from my eyes andpulled on my boots and slid out of the sleeper.We swung down out of the cab and met thepump attendant.oWhaddya say, Clawhammer?? the pump-er asked. oClawhammer? was Al's handle onhis infernal C.B. radio.oAll right, Sarge, how about you??I stared harder over Al's shoulder at thepumperTs worn jungle boots, greasy khakis,and frayed field jacket with the Screaming-Eagle on the shoulder.oAs usual, Clawhammer. How much eeneed tonight??SargeTs beard, hair, and moustache wereall the same length, and a Cat hat with rolledbill pulled low over his eyes kept all but hismouth out of sight as he spoke.70oClose to eighty gallons, Sarge, both tanksare about dry. How about checking my oil andcleaning the windshield?? Al reinforced hisrequest with a five stuck into SargeTs breastpocket.oSure thing, Clawhammer. I'll lock it upand leave the key at the register for you.Al nodded. oGood enough, Sarge. Come onMike, letTs get some coffee and chow.?oHow's the food in this place, Al??oThe best. The best around at one-thirty inthe 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 intothe misty night behind us.The truck stop was small. A small shop, asmall store, a small pay shower and four smallrooms above the small diner.oWho would want to rent a room ina placeno bigger idotsvemnaeyt-samoAnybody who needed a room for anhour,? said Al with a wide grin.at @) oe LSoIt might be small, but it sure has2= oia ee a dor ae CTpega eeee

everything,? he added with a Groucho Marxtwirl of the eyebrows.As we pushed through the diner door aaway from a police scanner by the register.Al led the way to a window booth halfwaydown the side, and a waitress brought water °and menus. She was about our age, 27, averagelooking and with the complexion of someonewho has spent too much time working, longnight hours. |oBe back in a minute, Al.? ofoTake your time, Edna,? Al answered andgulped down his ice water. ".*"I looked through the window at AlTs rigswinging around into the parkitig line.oSay, Al, I meant to ask: ~about that fellowout there.? eAs I spoke, we sdw v Sarge hop out of thecab 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 deepbreath. oThey say he was with the One-O-Onein ~Nam...oYeah, | recoenized the patch.group of locals, shaking their heads, turned

oWell, story is him and about eight or tenothers went in some place to set up an ambush,but the surprise was on them. Sarge was incharge, and just him and one more got out, shotall to hell. HeTs been in another world eversince. VA can't help anybody that donTt wanttheir help, 1 reckon,Whatil you boys have??We hadn't noticed Edna had come back toour table.oOh, two eggs, grits, and sausage, Babe.?oWake a i.0, | added,oIf you two can eat slow, I get a break inabout twenty minutes and I'd like yourcompany.?Al snapped his head up. oWell, hell, justhold ours till you can come out. Probably takethat long to cook it any way.?Two brown and tan uniformed deputiesstepped in, and the dozen or so people cut offconversation 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 tilleveryone was ignoring them. But somethingabout them kept my attention, though.I had noticed their uniforms were spottedwith dirt and wrinkled when they came in. Thebreast pocket was torn off the taller oneTs shirt,amc botn of them had wide rines of dryperspiration in the armpits. Both were broadshouldered, and the tall guy wore a .357 lowonhis hip with a thigh strap in the bottom of theholster. He should have been wearing TonyElamas instead of the brown. oxtords, |thought. His left eye had begun to swell anddarken, and his nose had been bleeding. Helifted the water glass with his right hand, andthe knuckles were scraped and bloody.The shorter deputy was muscular butbeginning to showa paunch. He was especiallyquiet and sat staring out of the window withworried eyes. He lifted his water glass, but hisMane began to shake and he set if downwithout drinking. He wore a standard serviceholster and revolver with six cartridge loopson the belt. Three of the .38 slugs were missing.The tall one snorted. oMaybe some of thesewild-asses around here will calm down now.?His voice was loud and sounded boastful.oYeah.? The shorter deputy didnTt seemanxious to talk.oThat bastard really laid one on me, buthe'll be eating through a straw for two or threeweeks.?oYeah.? The short deputy lifted his glassand again set it down without drinking.The tall deputy leaned over the table on hiselbows and stared hard at his partner.~look, lerny, shake if ofl, its part of theTZjob. Besides, you didn't have any choice. Youwaited longer than I would have.?oYeah, | reckon so.oYou're damned right, weTve got to showthese 2.oDrop it, Luke!? The tone of his voice andthe look in his eyes kept his partner quiet forseveral minutes.Edna came back with coffee and slid intothe booth beside Al. Your eggs are almostready, BabsTll bring Tem.?Al sipped his coffee and turned to Edna. oIdidnTt think you waited on tables after elevenoO Glock.ToT donTt, but Bill is letting me do this untilthe doctor says itTs okay for me to go back towork upstairs.?Al rolled his eyes and pinched the bridgeof his nose between his thumb and forefinger,and I tried hard not to cough with my mouthfull of coffee.oT hope I can go back next week.?Wathout looking at her, Al said in alowered tone, oYou'll never quit it, will you??Leok, Al, tow can | make this muchmoney doing anything else??oWe "I get along fine ona hell of a lot lessthan you make!?oWell, maybe I donTt just want to getalong!?I tried to break the following strainedsilence by saying something dumb about howrough it must be working at night all the timeand Edna said something to the effect that youget used to it.Babs appeared with our breakfast and wechanged the subject. She sat the plates downand I watched the two sunnyside eggs driftaround the rim of the oblong platter, skid intothe sausage and come to rest against thegelatin glob of grits.oMore coffee please, and a pack of Tums.?Babs turned her eyes to the ceiling. oI knewit, anybody riding with Clawhammer has to bea smart-ass.?Al dug into his, while I sipped coffee andtried to convince myself I was hungry.There was another commotion at the doorand one of the deputies said, oOh, hell.? Twoloud couples made their way to the tablebetween us and the deputies. Two greasers andtwo women with bleached Tammy Wynettehairdos. One of the fellows stood out; in fact,he would have stood out in any crowd. Hisshirt had a wide collar and large table clothchecks with sleeves rolled halfway to theelbow, slacks that resembled one of grannyTsquilt linings and a white belt. All of this toppedoff 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 keepwolves for pets.?~| dont know about tial, but] tear thesheriff uses jackasses for deputies!?This brought whoops and howls from theother three, and they slapped the table hardenough to jar their flatware to the floor. Thearea around them began to reek of beer.oCome on, Jerry, let's get out of here.? Thetall deputy started to leave his seat but hispartner 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 smalljokes and seemed to have terminal giggles.Those two ridiculous bleached hairdos bobbedlike channel markers in a gale.Al and Edna had resumed their small talk.I was watching the crowd and trying to cornermy slippery eggs. Edna patted AlTs hand andwent back to work.Al looked at me, grinning. oWhat wouldyour buddies at the bank think of you havingbreakfast with a whore??oJust about the same Sandra thinks of mespending my vacation on the road with youinstead of with her and the kids at my in-lawsTfor a week.?oHumph,? Al snorted, oyou're getting to bea regular low-life, ainTt you??He stared at LoudmouthTs table for a fewseconds. oReal sociable crowd, ain't they??oYeah,? I said. oI believe the big deputywould enjoy kicking their butts.?I saw the short deputy glance at his watchagain, then back at the greaser, and a faintsmirk lit up his face.A young black couple came in and took atable away from the crowd. A. few minuteslater Sarge came in and handed the guy a set ofMercedes keys.oT parked it off to the side, under the light,?Sarge told him. oChecked all the fluid and thetires, figured you had a long way to go.? Thefellow offered Sarge a big green tip, but Sargewaved him otf, No tromble,? he said, gingstrode away. As he passed between us,Loudmouth grabbed his arm.oHainTt you got nothing better to do thanwait on them, you dumb-ass??TSargeTs hand slipped into his field jacketpocket and the short deputy popped out of hisseat, laying his hand on SargeTs shoulder andpulling him away from the table. He whisperedinto SargeTs ear and the little man nodded hishead. Jerry sat back down and Sarge stuck hishead through the kitchen door and called,oMore coffee for the Good Guys, on me!? Hereached the diner door, looked back and smiledat Loudmouth"the only expression I'd seenhim use"and strode back out to the pumps.The deputy looked at his watch again.Edna made her way toward the blackcoupleTs table with menus and water, andLoudmouth put his arm out to stop her.Wait a minute, oGood Lovking, ieslurred. oYou hainTt got to wait on them jungle-bunnies.?Al started to rise from his seat, Loudmouthsaw him and let go of EdnaTs arm. She took theorder and went back to the kitchen.The black man came over to the rowdiesTtable and leaned over with both large, hardlooking fists on the table.oMister, you owe my wife and I anapology.?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 timapologizing to a damn ni"?oSHUT UP, Odom!? The deputy roared.oYou're under arrest!?oLike hell!T Odom shouted, jumping fromhis chair and reaching toward his hip pocket. oIalla cone melmume!oDisorderly conduct.?oShi-i-i-t!?oOkay " ? the tall deputy said, obreakingprobelion, vour curio, ts a0. ane ic 230now.?Odom reached for his hip pocket and theSears driver behind us shouted, oAutomatic!?Gustomers scrambled under tables.knocking over chairs and breaking glasses.The tall deputy shoved one of the metal chairswith his toot ameT cracked it agaimst Odom sshin. His partner grabbed Odom's iree arm,slung him around across the back of a chair,erabbed a handful of hair and pushed his faceinto the plate of grits, then pulled the otherhand from OdomTs hip pocket and clamped thecuffs on so tight he howled. OdomTs buddy duga Dlackjack from Is poeke! benmed iedeputyTs back, but the black guy rapped hisright fist against the back of the jerkTs head andhe was still out when Odom was subdued andhis face cleaned off."Well see what volr ipiemds ai tnecourthouse can do for you this time, you son ofa bitch!? The deputy was snarling mad. oLuke,bring that other punk to the car!?Luke told the two women to take OdomTs73

car home and dragged his groggy prisoneroutside. The deputies shoved the men in theback seat, then climbed in the front and thecruiser disappeared down the road under theblue strobe.Sarge came in and helped Edna and Babsclean up the mess and when he was finishedsat down next to Al.oT might not be here next time you comethrough, Clawhammer.?What?oMy folks are coming to take me homeThursday. Haven't seen ~em since I got back...? Sarge stared hard at the table top. Al calledBabs and told her to bring Sarge a cup of coffee.oThey claim they know a doctor who canhelp me forget, or at least learn not to thinkabout it. Damned sure worth a try for that.?Al put his arm around Sanges shoulder,You can make m1, buddy. die reached into hisshirt pocket and took out a business card.o Youcall me or write me here anytime.?oGreat, hereTs my folkTs address. You canreach me through them, Clawhammer,? he said,scribbling an address ona napkin and stuffingMonte Als pocket. The blast of an airhorncaught 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 thoughtof AlTs Purple Heart, his cousin last seenin thatSledmime. COlling jungle, the walls ofconcertina wire from which the only freedomwas Jack DanielTs No. 7 and Vietnamese Red,and how too many of us clung to that freedomuntil it imprisoned us and the crowdedwards at Walter Reed. AlTs eyes showed that heshared my thoughts.oDamn, Mike, itTs ten till three, we ve got toeel?:We got a cup of coffee for the road, paid thetab and picked up the keys. Edna caught us atthe door.oWhenTs your next trip this way??oNext Tuesday,T Al replied. oYou be herethen??essI headed on out to the truck and left themalone in the shadow of the door. After a minuteAl trotted up behind me.obets check the tires and lets,This done, we climbed in. Al revved theDetroit to build up the air. He set the styrofoamcoffee cup on the console and slipped the truckin gear. It grunted twice, the brakes hissedagain, and Al fanned through the gears as weapproached the highway. He ripped a shortblast on the horn to Sarge who finally took offhis hat to wave, and we headed down theentrance ramp back onto the fourlane.The Peterbuilt neared road speed and Alturned on the radio. Jimmy Page screamed intoour ears and Led Zeppelin beat hell out of theimisice of the cab. Al tummed if down.~ou can tell Saree has been im liere, helaughed. oGet L.J. the Dejay will you??I dialed in the truckersT D.J. on WBT as hewas giving the weather report. oAll younorthbounders be careful around Richmondand points north. Having their first cold stormup there with some bridges icing up. Here inCharlotte we've got fifty degrees and clear,with clouds moving in by mid-day...?oGlad we're heading east at Raleigh,? saidakoNo shit!?L.J. caught our ears again. oSpecial requestfrom CandyTs Truck Stop for Clawhammer;every truckersT favorite, Dave Dudley, withbx Days On the Roadriomdammn! Al shouted. oLet's truck!?We were already going sixty, but Aldouble-clutched and dropped back a gear, andI closed the vents to shut out the Detroit'sscreams. The speedo wound onto the half of thedial I couldn't see, and as the tar stripsthumped against the front tires in time withthe walking bass guitar I leaned my head back,giving in to drowsiness once more. g

Forty secondsEchoes of sirenshigh-heeled shoes clicking wet concretea distant babyTs cryWhite lights, dark cool skyWater glistening on 42nd streetSubways rumble beneath meYellow taxi flashes bytires spinning out rain and mudfirebolts splinter darknessAn old geezer sleepsunder the eaves of JoeTs CafeBroken bottles at his feetTall granite buildingsdisappearing into the skylinestand cold and desertedWalking through round green lightsclutching my mud spattered trenchcoatwhile rain christens the city.Nancy MooreCrabtreeTumble swirl through blueBarbed wire acrobat for nightBelow some net awaitsA tireless tree burdened withGrape, limbs and dreamsA matter beyond superman.Falling ... callous handGrips shade makes a dealHandshake bleeds another summerUnforgettable autumn goes by.Finish a glass, plan somethingOf right texture of sun and shadeThin elastic desire rules sees somethingThen suddenly unable to rest in a room.Monty BarhamThe HobbitHe came to use the phoneon a warm June afternoonrolling pin joints from my stashlaughing through the same boring storiesas he moved onto the couch.Eating ~ludes, swilling beerbringing motorcycle gangs home for the nightillustrating eating pussy and kicking assgetting a call every morning at fiveand never answeringas he moved into BillTs room.With a friendTs guitar and a bag of dopehe skipped town in mid-Augustowing ninety dollars to the girl upstairsleaving only seeds and a notepromising to keep in touchand send us moneyall before we realizedno one knew his name.Michael F. Parker75

76ThreeEden SongI hearleaves settleanimal fur thickenOur house iswrapped in plasticnewspapered pipessnuggleUnder hardyneoe tlaors:Insidewe sleepto the beatingof wingsthe rumbleof animals burrowing.CompensationOn oir Sageing porch,a tiny grey wrenbuilt her nest neatlyin the middle of my hanging coleus.The bright purple and green leaves,evicted from their homeby the pine-straw nestwilted without water.Then four blue eggsno bigger than marblestook their place.Now dried, raisin-colored leavesstill cling to the empty nest.

Jo EllenChoosing Sidesa. LoeTiny ballerina has lost hermusic box.Alone, she springs silentlyover polished floorssearching, searchingfinally spinning helplesslyintowhat your daughter wants to bewhen she grows up:a pink powder-puffed picture ofsomeone's dreams.Hair tightly bunned in backeyes slanting andcurvydown to herpink little toes thatcome down slowly atthe floor.I could bepink and passionateslow and slantingbut to be graceful?om...I never understood why theylaughedwhen I cupped my hands inrest position.Rivenbark2. Tagejelto beat my feet on the floor.Hair loose, hands freeblack shoes flashing.That clickity-clackclickity-clackof toe tap to heel thudputs sound to a rhythmborn from some intercoursewith songand the heartbeatleaves a dullSCUllimankea 1loar asproof of my existence.ves

Two PoemsDear Grandaddy,She gave Tim the high-top fishing bootsand the .22, and she traded the rest of the netwire in on a door for the small bedroom. I guessshe doesn't like that cardboard one anymore.She got them to put a new light switch andFormica wall panels in the bathroom. I guessshe got tired of pulling the string and peelingthe walls.She doesnTt eat at the dining room tableanymore, except when I come from otheCollege? on Sunday afternoons to eat friedchicken and potato salad and pineapple cake.She usually eats sitting on the white stool bythe kitchen cabinet"says the tableTs too big.She got them to paint the back bedroomwhite. Everywhere. With that white bedspreadand curtains, it looks like heaven. I guess itmakes her think of you.She had a wreck about a week ago, andBuster talked the new policeman out of makingher pay the fine seeing as sheTs on foodstampsand she just lost you and everything. She onlybruised her hand and cut her elbow a little.Folks say itTs a wonder she wasnTt hurt worse.Course, she says someone was looking out forher.Bot you dont have tm worry about her~cause that new policeman is going to live intown, 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 yearnow. I sure miss breaking catfish heads.Love,Reneé78

Roanoke River at Palmyrathe wooden steps built intothe muddy banksnap and quiver likegrandaddyTs legs as he steps downinto the crusty blue boatrank with the ferment of fishskin, blood, ane tallem leavesthe river has droppedtwo feet in the last two days and there aresoggy twines of river slugsdraped on the bank brushit will not be long beforethe mosquitos stop biting andmoccasins stop sunning onfloating logsand the boatwill be sprayed withcold water from the greengarden hose before the pipes freezeand the fish and leaveswill fertilize the back yardand the boat will be hungin the garagenext to a bloodyhunk of venisonReneeDixon79

WRITERSDENISE ANDREWS is a juniorEnglish major with a writing con-centration and a journalism minor.She is from Goldsboro, NC, and herpoetry has been published in ThePicture Window and Whispers ofthe Unchained Heart.SUe AY DELETTE is 4 juniorEnglish major who is currentlyworking in Washington, DC. She isa painter and poet, and she won hersecond Rebel poetry award withoScreens.?MONTY BARHAM is a graduatesiudent in English and this is hisfirst appearance in The Rebel.KAREN BLANSFIELD is a grad-uate student in English. Her poetryhas been published in Tar RiverPoets and The New East.KAREN BROCK is a junior Englishmajor with a writing concentration.She is from Jacksonville, NC.TERRY DAVIS is a writer fromSpokane, Washington who teachesin the ECU Writing Program. He haspublished short stories and articlesin Sports Illustrated and CollegeHnelish, Vision Quest, his nevelabout a high school wrestler, will bepublished in October by The VikingPress.RENEE DIXON is a senior Englishmajor with a music minor. She isfrom Alexandria, Virginia, and thisis her publication debut.80JOSEPH DUDASIK lives in Green-valle ING. tle ds a jamter andCliitarist, ame a member ov the ECUPoetry Forum.RAY HARRELL is a senior Englishmajor with a History minor. He isfrom Wayne County, NC.ROBERT JONES is a senior Englishmajor with a writing concentration.He is a member of the ECU PoetryFor ian,RICKY LOWE is a junior Politicalpelemce Major with an Enelishminor. He is from Madison, NC, andthis is his publication debut.S. PHILLIP MILES is a graduate ofECU and has been published inSanskrit and Tar River Poets. Helives in Fayetteville, NC, where hewrites and teaches English.NANCY MOORE is a senior with adouble major in History and Eng-lish. She is from Turkey and this isher publication debut.DIANE NELMS is a senior Englishmajor with a Psychology minor. Sheis from Rocky Mount, NC, and thisis her publication debut.MICHAEL F. PARKER is a seniorEnglish major with a writing con-femiration, fle is from ElizabethChi, WC.JO ELLEN RIVENBARK is a seniorEnglish major with a writing con-centration and a Psychology minor.She is from Wallace, NC.JEEE ROLLINS is a graduatestudent in English and a native ofinched, ING. Hits work fas ap-Beare ?"? ar River Poets andCrucible. Jeff edited The Rebel in1976, and he is a member of the ECUPoetry Forum.GREG SCHRODER is a seniorEmghish major. te is from FortLauderdale, Florida and this is hispublication debut.KIM SHIPLEY is a sophomoreDrama major and has appeared inseveral ECU Playhouse Produc-tions including A MidsummerNightTs Dream, Pippin, and Nation-al Health. He is from Charlotte, NC.SAM SILVA lives in Greenville,NG and is a member of the ECUPoemy Forum. |his is his first pub-lication in The Rebel.RANDY STALLS is a graduatestudent in the ECU Writing Pro-gram and president of The ECUWriters Guild. He is a native ofWilliamston, NC.DAVID TREVINO is a former ECUstudent. He lives in Houston, Texasand this is his first appearance inThe Rebel.LUKE WHISNANT is a _ seniorEnglish major and the recipientof the First Annual Russell Christ-man Scholarship. His poetry hasappeared in Sanskrit and TarRiver Poetry.

ARTISTSJIM BARNES is a graduate studentin English and a photographer. Hisfiction has also been published inThe Rebel.BILL BROCKMAN is a senior BFACommunications Art major with aPrintmaking minor.JAIME BERNSTEIN is a junior BFAPainting major and. this is lesfirst appearance in The Rebel.LARRY CURTAIN is a graduate ofEast Mecklenburg High School inCharlotte. He is an avid amateurphotographer.ROBERT DANIEL is a graduatestudent in Painting. He has a BFAfrom The California College of Artsaad! ~ratts; and this te lie timerappearance in The Rebel.ROBERT T. DICK is a graduatestudent in Painting. He has a BAin 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 isfrom Burlington, NC, and this is herfirst appearance in The Rebel.JEFF FLEMING won first placemixed media in the Fourth AnnualRebel Art Show. His biography isfound on the inside front cover.CHAP GURLEY is a sophomoreMarketing major from Raleigh,NC. He works for the EGU PhoteLilo.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 graduatestudent in Communications Art.ZANE LEAKE is a senior BFAComminitcations Sat major Ge iscurrently employed as a graphicdesigner for The Department ofHuman Resources in Raleigh, NC.ED MIDGETT is a graduate studentin Printmaking.DAVID NORRIS is a senior BFAPrintmaking major with a Drawingminer, fle 1s trem Charlotte, NC.MAGGIE NOSS is a graduatestudent im Geramies, and tis 1s herfirst appearance in The Rebel.KAY PARKS is a senior BFA Com-munications Art mayer with aPaittine miner amd an imierestin photography, Sme was om Di.rector for The Rebel in 1978.PETER E. PODESZWA is a seniorCommunications: Art major andHead Photographer for the ECUPhoto Lab.ROXANNE REEP holds a BFA insculpture and metal design andteaches in the ECU Sehool of ArtHer work has been exhibited inshows in New York and Washing-ton, DG, and her mixed mediapiece oSimultaneous HeartsT ap-peared on the cover of the 1978Rebel.JANET ROSE is a junior InteriorDesign major with a Printmakingminor. She is from Goldsboro andthis is her first appearance taThe Rebel.ROBIN SINGLETON is a juniorBFA Painting major from Williams-ton, NC Her piece, Seurce BFwon the Attic Purchase Award inthis yearTs Rebel Art Show.KIP SLOAN is a bicycle racer, along distance runner, and a free-lance photographer from Charlotte,NG. He is a former ECU student,and this is his first appearance inThe Rebel.DEBBIE STRAYER is a freelancephotographer from Greensboro,NG. She fas am MA in ClinicalPsychology, and this is her firaiappearance in The Rebel.MARYLU WARWICK is a seniorBFA ~Communications Art majorwith @ Drawing minor, | his is Merfirst appearance in The Rebel.