Issue Three
Summer
An Ode To Symmetry
by Mark Davis
Symmetry!
An Ode to Thee
Curse you for the powers strange
That cause us all to rearrange
Our homes and lives to suit you all the more.
an insect i hadn't notice crawled over the paper as i wrote. i absently
flicked it away. killing it. searching for inspiration for my writings.
the pitiful. illogical. meaningless crap i continued to pour out in spite
of earlier rejection and depression.
another bug. and another.
more insects.
they creeped from every dorner. every nook. to alight upon my paper where.
only a second before. i had been discussing the quality of my writings.
my mind went blank. what was i to do in such a situation? the multitude of
tiny creatures sat there, motionleess. waiting, it seemed. they
covered every square millimeter of my paper, hiding the sentences i'd
written before. i slowly drew back.
i placed my pen on the pillow next to my bug-covered legal pad.
ever-so-quietly i swung around until my back was almost turned. i stood
up. i took one silent step towards the door until a stray movement of my
pinky finger disrupted the mass of tiny bugs on my paper.
insects! they scurried towards me, more than there were before. they
poured from the walls, the ceiling. screaming, i blindly raced for the
door. my sweaty fingers slipped on the doorknob. i screamed again.
bugs crawled up my bare legs, into my shorts, over my underpants, into my
shirt. and the damn door still wouldn't open. insects crawling over my
bra, up my neck, over my arms and hands. i foolishly opened my mouth
to scream again, and hundreds of bugs entered my mouth. i spit them out
and tried the door once more, but it was of no use. my skin crawled.
bugs, bugs, bugs crawled into my nostrils, obstructing the windpipe. i
had to open my mouth to breathe and then the bugs crawled in. too many
to spit out. they creeped deeper into my throat, cover the windpipe until
it became impossible to take even the smallest breath.
my body tingled. my head pounded. my heartbeat slowed. insects crawled
over my closed eyelids. my stomach churned and i wanted to vomit. but the
blacnkess. i fought. it won. i shivered and felt the bugs all over and
inside me. the dark, my own end, ending, bugs... and...
death surprised me.
- laura johnson
DARKNESS:LYING:SOFTLY:ON:A:BED:CRICKETS:DANCE:SING:
HAPPINESS:SLOWLY:LYING:STILL:COMPLETE:BLACKNESS:
SURROUNDING:FILLING:CALM:LYING:IN:A:BED:BODY:RESTS:
RELAXES:TOTAL:SERENITY:ENERGY:FLOWS:DISSIPATES:
FREELY:BODY:SINKS:DEEPER:DEEPER:DEEPER:LYING:STILL:
MUSCLES:RELAXED:TENSION:RELEASED:ALL:IS:NOW:
OUTSIDE:CARS:TELEVISION:WIND:TREES:ANIMALS:RUSTLE:
BUSHES:ROOM:SILENT:BREATHING:A:HEARTBEAT:BEATING:
SLOWLY:ALL:IS:NOW:BODY:SINKS:DEEPER:ALMOST:SLEEP:
BUT:AWAKE:FEEL:A:TOUCH:SLOW:SENSUAL:LIGHT:
IMAGINATION:THEN:ANOTHER:DOWN:NECK:SLOWLY:
METHODICALLY:BUT:LIGHT:BARELY:THERE:WARMTH:
EXCITEMENT:RUSH:THROUGH:BODY:BREATHING:
TWO:HEARTBEATS:A:CARESS:ALONG:THE:RIB:CAGE:
ELECTRICITY:A:BRUSH:ACROSS:THE:LIPS:BREATHING:IN:
AN:EAR:FINGERS:THROUGH:HAIR:EVERY:TOUCH:FELT:
SENSATIONS:KEPT:A:SPIDERY:TRICKLE:DOWN:THE:LEG:A:
KISS:ON:THE:LIPS:THEN:NOTHING:SILENCE:ONE:HEARTBEAT:
BREATHING:FASTER:BUT:ONLY:ONE:NO:ONE:ELSE:NO:ONE:
ALL:IS:GOING:FLEETING:MOMENT:WARMTH:ENVELOPES:BODY:
SPINE:SLOWLY:EVAPORATES:HEART:SLOWS:RETURNS:CALMS:
MUSCLES:RELAX:BODY:SINKS:SERENITY:TRANQUILITY:
OUTSIDE:THUNDER:RUMBLES:CRASHES:VIOLENCE:RAIN:
BEGINS:PITTER:AND:PATTER:CRICKETS:GONE:CARS:
TELEVISION:ANIMALS:BUSHES:VANISH:IN:THE:RAIN:NIGHT:
DESCENDS:DARKNESS:SILENCE:EVERYTHING:GONE:BUT:THE:RAIN:
literature is life concentrated,
this is the real thing.
a representation is "art"
a representation is "beautiful"
what isn't the thing itself?
what isn't the thing itself?
what isn't the thing itself?
an important question
needs to be asked many times.
do we describe a plain act
romatically, poetically, or plainly?
a Snapple label
hung on the wall
pasted on a notebook
read the colour
the flavour
is it art
is it beauty
"what's the difference?"
a painting, object, artwork
not really a sculpture or object
a statement, artwork
a campbells soup can
and an andy warhol painting
why is one higher art than the other
why is one art and one not
put them next to each other
"whats the difference?"
She is
running with the kite. She doesn't seem to notice that it is dragging
on the ground and bouncing and splintering as its wooden frame smacks
upon each edge of each hill she runs over.
She is
wearing a Winnie The Pooh tee-shirt, her diaper is threatening to fall
off, her hair is thin and short and blonde, her knees are the pudgy knees
of a small child, her hands and feet are dirty, her face is full of
innocent glee.
She is
running toward her father. He is in the grass. He has a beard and green
eyes and he loves her. He has his arms outstretched he is squatting down,
smiling, waiting for her.
She is
there she is there daddy is here and he is sweeping her off of her feet,
sweeping her into the air, sweeping her up, up, spinning her gently,
up where only Daddies can go, so high, so high, so high, where daddy's
face is smiling, is laughing.
She is
up on his shoulders, bouncing with daddy's feet toward the screen door,
through the grass, away from the spot where the kite lies, discarded,
forgotten.
She is
inside and daddy is sweeping her down, down, to the floor, gently shoves
her toward mommy who sits at the table with a cigarette and a newspaper,
her blonde hair is flowing down to her shoulders and she is also smiling.
She is
running to mommy, on mommy's lap, mommy is bouncing her, bouncing her,
quick up and down, on her knees, plumes of cigarette smoke rising around
her, the cigarette crushed in the ashtray, mommy's arms engulfing her, warm,
forgetting the smoke.
She is
asleep with her thumb in her mouth.
She is
dreaming.
She will
wake up tomorrow to that face next to her in bed.
She will
wonder how she could have gotten there, anyway.
She will
wonder if she was ever a child.
She will
light a cigarette.
She will
check on the baby.
She will
cry in front of the television.
She will
watch the Soap Operas.
She will
talk on the telephone.
She will
light another cigarette.
She will
dream again tonight.
- lisa shapiro
Lying in a mental paisley on my bed. The clock says nine oh five. But
then it's only a clock, what does it know? My arm lies without feeling
beneath my head. Broken and torn by the night's crusade. A dream fades
from my mind, slowly diminishing into nothingness. The covers lie
entangled with my naked body. A fan blows into my face. The heat
of the night has subsided.
Yesterday I got up with no problems. Today I lie in a tired confusion.
The ceiling is white, but then it's always white. I lift my head. I
feel drunk. My head falls upon the pillow again. My arm is still a void
of numbness. I take my other arm and slowly move it from beneath the
pillow. It lies heavy on my chest, asleep.
Some people jump out of bed in the morning. Others kind of roll off and
hit the floor. My mother used to pour ice cool water on my forehead. That
got me out quickly, when I had a mother. Now-a-days I slowly reintroduce
each of my limbs to the concept of movement. Only when they're fully
aware fo I try to coordinate them into the concentrated effort of getting
out of bed.
Pins and needles as my arm begins to wake. It's not exactly pain but it's
close enough. I move my legs. I only get more tangled in the already
knotted covers. My hand's almost awake so I try to unravel the mess my
dreams have made. Finally I throw the covers from my bed. I look at
the clock from between my legs. Nine eighteen. I almost have control to get
up.
It's pulling a rubber band until it snaps. You slowly draw the energy
from that midnight snack you ate at eleven last night until you have the
power and the will to do it. Once again, like I have on thousands of
mornings before, I lean my body forward, assuming a sit-up position. I
swing myself around until my legs hang off the edge of the bed. Then I
push off and get out of bed. Not that wasn't hard; was it?
walk in
close the door
throw the latch
unbutton your pants
and pull them down
sit down
and roll up your sleeves
staring at the grey mass in front of you
as you push
push with your stomach muscles
slowly shit slides out
your buttocks push apart
as a mixture of pleasure and relief fills your ass
waiting
for the next one to come
come
thinking
as the pressure builds again
push
as it gets stuck halfway out
push again
harder
a plop in the water below
splash against your ass
paper off the roll
how do you fold it?
wipe your ass
each person's style is different
remember
front to back
so they say
wipe some more
check to see if your ass is clean
is it?
pull up your pants
buckle up again
arrange yourself
unlock the door
and walk out of that stall proud
A Journey in Three Parts
I. these soft crawling words whispered between us.
II. six countries, three oceans and two rivers i cross to be come with you.
III. at each passing i burned the bridge leaving behind the
smoke to whisper and crawl through the traveling you.
this is for all those things you could never tell me.
every thing you could not give. all those times you left.
catherine connolly
spinning and stumbling
alone
she dances
spinning
swirling
spinning
she twists and contorts
into a blur
an unclear but flesh colored image
a fiery, perilous blur
there is no music.
she moves to the beat of life
occassionally she
trips
stumbles
falls
but never completely collapses
she moves to the beat of life
she clumsily careens through her song
the rhythm speeds up
as others fuse and connect with her blur
then disintegrate as they desert her
finding her dance repetitive
uninteresting
or sometimes...
horrors!
searing...
fierce...
burning
there is no music
she dances to the beat of life
as her performing persists
blisters accumulate on the soles of her feet.
exhausted she spins and swirls one last time
she trips
stumbles
falls
at last completely collapsing
other celebrate and sway on her paralyzed
figure
the dance goes on
but there is no music.
- cathy heard
Violins
That was the night we decided to attend a performance of the city's
orchestra. Memories lying open like the broken heart of a dying man lost
without his loved one. I walked further down the road and stole a glance
from the woman staring through the glass.
Her eyes glowed like two flaming rubies. The vicar, driven to near-madness
by her beauty, seized a nearby shopping cart and began dismantling it. The
store manager checked the stockroom, then began to turn out the lights.
Arnold secretly hide in the fancy closet that stood at the front of the
shop, almost near the window display.
Then, when the night came all the sherry was gone. This discovery shocked
everyone, whereupon they set out for a random midwestern city. With them
they carried fifteen bags of the purest silk, knowing that there's always
a demand for silk. They brought it to the desert where they discovered
that a priceless family heirloom had been cracked into five equal size
pieces.
The next day, when the blistering sun came up, I looked outhte window,
shrugged my shoulders apathetically and fell back into bed. The phone
rang and the caller inquired, "Where's the pizza? I order pizza not
fifteen minutes ago." Sam became disquieted.
All at once the furnace in the boiler room exploded with a deafening crash.
To combat this, he pulled out his turkey baster and crockpot. He was not
successful, but, in the end, he knew change was for the best. Nothing
could survive without change and neither could he. He flipped his thumb
back and started moving on.
Meanwhile, in the darkest jungle of Southeast Asia, someone was plotting
heinous crimes against our hero. The insidious villian picked up the phone
and placed a call to his aunt in Lancaster. She wasn't home, and her
answering machine greeted him with, "Sometimes I just hate it when people
call. Now piss off." So he did.
A few moments later, he screamed and decided that he always wanted to fly.
So he did. The birds looked at him like everytime before. He shook his head
smiling. At least noe he could live without worry. He threw down the
scarf and walked out, content.
Jeremy P. Bushnell, Trevor Lohrbeer, Cathy Heard
Searching for Victoria
Finding my way through the desert of my mind. determining movement,
control, feeling and attitude while I try to convince you to live
another five minutes.
slowly drifting in the sand down the hourglass and so are the days
of our lives
carnival dogs consume the rain
rain, rain, rain, raain, raaain, raaaaain, raaaaaain, RAIN! rain
quiet calm dark and fun, dance and scream and yell and play with her
tag along children in the baked burning, searing my flesh melted. pain
blinded me but i felt the others feeling the same. i died in the
holocaust.
yet through it all one small candle shone brightly at the end of a tunnel
leading into our minds each molded by freaks of nature, cripples, eunichs,
bearded ladies--Miss America pageant winnders.
and i sat uder the stars drifting alone in the cold dark space but that
space was my mind.
Cathy Heard, Mike Barbaro, Trevor Lohrbeer
Scenes from a Desk
The eternalistic text of a say-so society whose ends can justify no needs,
not even their own.
It seems we have once again entered a zone of conformity simply because
disconformity becomes conformity when performed en masse.
Learn to appreciate, not blindly hate.
Did you become god tomorrow? of a god? or did you stay down here being
human with the rest of us?
i feel very hostile today...perhaps i shouldn't have written in this frame
of mind...the cynical one...oh well, you would have met it sooner or later
had we become friends...will we become friends? (she said)
Partners only serve to get in your way and contest your assertions. I
always work alone if I can.
I don't understand anything, she said aloud but to herself as she read the
slightly frightening note that came with a crisp dollar bill.
Order can be so boring, you never find anything unexpected in the midst
of order.
DO we understand each other? I don't think you could understand me,
although it is nice to think that someone might. (she said)
I must be on some kind of doomed track...I must be doing the same thing
as everyone else because I am just as human as everyone else seems to
be... much as I hate to admit it.
I lost my train of thought. No, that's not right. I never had a train
of thought. People with trains of thought must be awfully boring. The
only things they ever think about lie on some pre-established track, and
the thoughts follow one after the other. More often than not, they
share their tracks with other people.
The woman who told you she never had a train of thought...hm, she probably
meant to say that it had been derailed long ago, or perhaps it went into
the wrong tunnel and never emerged again...
My typos give me away...I am no genius...I may like thinking myself one
sometimes but I don't think what he said was true...I am...me.
Allison Halleck (hallea)
Heather L. Truelove