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fall 1992

numero tres

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Lihhy JlrnhmsDon't Get It Wet 3

Moira Duffyuntitled ' , 5I

LIBBY BRAHMS

FirAt KI68 " ,., , ' 6Death on VaoltlioJl 7

·I>h.

When was the split secondbetween catching myselfand losing control--

Hcort8 Slated for Burning 8For violence to bonesI serve six to eight weeksbarred from the comfort I seekeach day in a showerand the fragile poems I abandoned there

GuvGrowing Up But Not In Ith"oa 9

utBidc. When the Old Hotel Came Down 11Mbo!! HllffHtickler

Rock Bottom 12Hyde Park Bakery 13

Aimee KeelerWine 14

Diane Kirsten-MartinRusty, a History 15Open Letter 16Grandma From Davidson Avenue, You Called Her .. : 17

Lynne MangionePazienza 18How I See You Peel 8 Grapefrvit 19

Fabian McCarthy. Jr.Cut Off ; 20And Maybe the Beaches, Too 21Sick People Come in Many Guises 22

They depend on water,the vapor-filled shower stallThey hatch in warm sudsand a needle-fine spraythat hones them to strike out on their own

A small loss of footing, mere 'stumblehas changed all that--in the split-secondbetween catching myselfand losing control

Contributors' Notes 23

My orthopedist warns,"Don't get it wet"He winds the porous gauze streamerfilled with plaster, dampened'round and 'round my legup over the bulgeof broken kneecap

Edilor: Larry O. Dean Co-Editor: Patsy MacGillicuddyArt: Jenna Martz, Nicholas B

Layer upon layer, a warm hugMy leg grows, changeshardens, grips, makes new rulesfor walking, siuing, lying in bed

Hip high, foot freeI can move sliff-Ieggedbut my head feels light, dizzy with feareven familiar obj~ct8 threaten

tlrllrm,IIII.III1'IIM ... ·loH, IlIIh, by Zenith 1lI'IIst, 1'.0. nox 191671, Saul~mUl'IH('II, t;A 011119. (e) '992. All rll(htN r0vol1. hack to lIuthorsullm. IllIhll4·1111I1I1. St'ull 1111COrrl'llllQlldllllC(l 10 th(; ahove address.

I find the best wayto sit down:extend rigid cast-leg far forwardhend back leggrip arms of chair behindbow low like an actor waiting for applauselower myself carefully, slowlyto safety

MOIRA DUFFY

Too many alone.Somehow unlocked doorsBeckoning to close stay shut.

Deep withinI feel kicksfrom poemsin utero

Leg muscles flexinside their prisonshin hits wall

I 8m suspendedin the split second

catching myselfwhile I can still holdmy poems closenurture themin liquid warmthbefore I lose control

I can't recall the hitthat split my kneecaplike a walnutno blood visibleand the kneeballooning like a boaswallowing 8 lamb.

But on the first datewhen he saw Diane's long blonde beautyfrom across the living room of her parents' house,Joe was ready to forget the trumpet forever,if thaI's what she wanted.

"We must help those, •dad said, as he sentmy brothers and meto collect leaves,snow, and excess lawnfrom Mrs. Gibson's property,"who cannot help themselves. "

7

GREG GELETA

GREG GELETA'

Like most that followed,Joe's first date was fixed up,with the sister of a trombone playerwho sat across from him in the school band.

For years all Joe dreamed ofwas his future as a trumpet player.Dizzy Gillespie appeared in one of these dreamsand Joe asked him how much he practiced his trumpetwhen he was a boy. Diz called out,"Ten hours a day," and that's how long Joe practiced,till his lips puffed to three times their normal size.

When I was seven,Bucky Gibsonbecame the first personI knewwho died.

We rarely sawhis wife after that,though she never failed to emergewhenever one of us hopped her fenceto retrieve a foul ball.

After the movie they sat in her kitchendrinking cocoa. His fatherwas picking him up 81 midnight.At 11 :58 their heads came forwardand their lips crashed IJoe glided to the front door,past the glow of the t.v., the glareof her parents,the moronic leer of her trombone playing brother.

Each seasonhad its thankless tasktill I grew upand moved away.

On Monday morning before band practicethe lrombone player stood at the conductor's podium,announced how loud it wasand the whole band knewthat Joe had his firsl kiss.

Now,back for Thanksgiving,we gather at the windowas dark-suited menbear her covered bodyto their double-parkedstation wagon.

We stand in silencefor only a moment. The dinnermust be eaten before it goes coldand there will be much to talk aboutwhen it's done.

this hour of waiting for crickets to sing againThree fat spiders have curtained my entrancesand exits The pine pines moulting and squirrelsrsttle beechcs for bcechnuts Something has weighed

the opening lines ofThe Human Comedyby William Saroyan

ROBERT GIBBSJIM GOVE

Winter engines are slow starting The housegroans with them The clock flexes its throatFrost warnings are out in heavier dews Blackgrssshoppers jump ahead of the mower and

yellowcappcd mushrooms tipand mush Sun edges in late and gauzesmy screen with minute rainbows Thcre'll beno return to this hour or from

"The Little boy named UlyssesMacauley one day stood over thenew gopher hole in the backyardof his house on Santa ClaraAvenue in Ithaca, California."

branches birch and maple silver and Norwayclose to the ground as if with thoughts of snowA moth larva heaves itself upwardto the crowded eaves Are these what I think:

in the photograph i stand inthe driveway my head cocked toone side my father on my leftmy grandfather on my right myfather later jokes about threegenerations of the gove noseeven today when i am tired 'icannot tell if my head isstraight or if it is cocked toone sidethey are? Signals of some fruit still

to cradle? Pale squash blooming stillfattening? Barred clouds out of the northopen and shutter the blue There'll be no

i am with my father we are outto buy a sunday paper we stopoutside of a bar i sit in thecar while he steps in for aquick: couple we drive homecarefully he always drives slow& careful when hes beendrinking he always brings medried shrimp in a cellophanepackage from the bar i cantaste them hard & salty evennow

return to or from this first fallday It breathes so little it seemsnot to have to at all and yet it ripens andburns behind its green screen It ripens

all upriver north to where it turnsinto Yankee country and north of that to the Gaspeand Quebec where frost has already lit lights andblackened tender things all the way to the

country's heart and to other far onesthat beat closer than I ever thoughtthey would hearts slated for burningbefore the year's out

my arm is being drawninexorably into the wringerhorror not pain disbelief beingeaten by the machine not beingable to do anything but finallycrying out in anger for motherto come rescue me

:10staying over with uncle howardaunt carlie my cousins a partythat lasted all night poker inthe kitchen talk of rebuildingmy fathers car his firstattempt at 8 ring & valve jobin the early morning i am inbed with my father & mother hisbreath is rank with the smellof alcohol & cigarettes

And there goes the television.The one we crowded around each nightto watch away the boredom of our lives.They don't understand I always hadmy eyes closed tight.I never had the slightest desireto know what was going on.

J I

II,I,

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riding in the back seat of unclehowards ford from san diego tosanta monica to spend the weekwith my cousin i remember myuncle driving fast withprecision opening a pint ofwhiskey shortly after leavingsan diego & throwing the emptybottle out of the moving carinto the dark night in mycousins bedroom the moon floodsin through the open screenedwindow & there is the sound ofcrickets as i fall asleep

JOHN GREY

O'ktsI~Cl, ~ ~ ( olJHo'kl C~W\t t>0W')\

im eating lunch & watching myuncle mac my uncle takes thelast slice of bologna i cryout this time mother does notrescue me my mother shames me

I personally don't careif they demolish this building.Do you really think I'd cryto see these memoriespummeled by the wrecking ball1Unchanged sheets,broken windows,and heat pipes as antagonisticas the weather outside.They've always made me wishI was round, hard and steel,swinging through the airlike frustration.

\

,II

II

my mother is in the kitchenironing & talking with auntgeorgia i am in my bedroombuilding a rubber band poweredmodel airplane a biplane a spadthe glue smells like pungentbananas i tire of the modeltake a clothespin clip it to mynose walk into the kitchen showit to my mother & aunt georgiai am surprised at how much ithurts

12..

Stopping late at nightat the Rock Bottom Groceryto mingle with the migrantsand transients and winoswhile shopping for good greygreasy salami and rat cheesefor midnight sandwicheson the way home from work,you tousled and sleepyand distant in thatintimate way thatstrangers can't be distant;then home through thePhoenix night, the clearstars distant, intimate,imperturbable andRock Bottom,oasis of hungry workers,receding into the darkness.

11

Daniel and I agreethat there are justtoo many scams attachedto spiritual matters;you can't throw arock in this countrywithout hitting a guru.Daniel writes songsand he always looks tired,standing behind the counter.It's not that we don'tbelieve in these thingsbut we think it's aprivale malter, thatall you need to knowis inside you somewhere.We both get angrythinking about it.The Viennese coffeeis dark and fragrantand there's always thesmell of new-baked thingsin that small room withthe counter and stoolsfacing the window soyou can look out whileyou eat. In the morningas I stand waiting onthe corner for mybus, Daniel passes inthe delivery van, wavesthrough the windowin the grey dawn lightand passes on.

13

ALBERT HUFFSTICKLER ALBERT HUFFSTICKLER

DIANE KIRSTEN-MARTINAIMEE KEELER

the bottleslips from my handthe moon is a white blurrymess in the skythe waves swing me in andout from the shoreI no longer see my feetI think this is it

this is it

Rusty went away to Vietnam worriedabout his father's drinking, his mother's mind.He went away my sister's lover;came back six years and one wife later,downing Buds by the quartto wash down the Mellarils and Stellazineshe stole from his mother's dresser,sleeping on my sofa for 36 hours while I read Spencer.

I have a bottle of wineand the wine is blushthe moon is a sharptilted hookthe cold breathof the searolls to my feetI close my eyestry to forget my nameand the names of othersI don't want to think aboutthis beachthis earththis universeand if there's anythingelse beyond thatI don't want to think about it

I never told you how I see him,one legged stork stance in cut-offs, across the kitchen,Kool Filter in one hand, blowing smoke rings,hiccupping Peggy Sue,"womb broom" beard on his chin.

It had been Rusty and my sister, Demtis and me,but Rusty wrote me letters-the elegant hand, the sentiments, the obscure quotations.Even after he married, on leave one Thanksgiving,he wrote. He came to see ine and played slide guitar,his hoarse voice flaunting experience.

His love-making was like his writing: fluent, skillful,-or the way he played,practiced till perfect, untilyou could almost think, eyes closed, it had real love in it.

It flowed like a current in the ocean,warming you who bordered it at no cost.

When my sister visited, they took up where they left off,and still there was no malice in it.I forgave him that, and the night I caught himwith Christine, and would have gone onforgiving him. I knew that Dennis,the one we both loved and neither could have,was the real reason he was drawn to me,the reason he drank and fell and forgotto come home again on Christmas--

the reason, one morning(saying he would always rememberand I, that I'd try to forget)we smoked the seeds and stems,he kissed me and left,for the next chapter waiting at the bus stop.

DIANE KIRSTEN-MARTIN

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When you came to visit,the baby, his father's son,threw raisins at you to bring me back.

When no one is looking you let your armfollow the polished snail of the bannister,and hop down the forbidden step,or visit the gleaming bathroom, tuftedwith faded pink chenille to try all the boxesof dusting powder.

17

DIANE KIRSTEN-MARTIN

You can't lose what you never had, so whatis my gripe? That it's so hard to talkin IS-year intervals-just when we get pastHow are you's and I'm fine's,the rest of twenty years in the gut,well I'm talking to myself again on the page.I wish you didn't do that, come back,as if to assure yourself a place in history,then shrink away into the vanishing point.

This is her country.Here, old women sit plumpedon aluminum folding chairs on stone stoops,lifting the hardy petals of their cheeksto meager brightness,wailing anxious warnings to children,punctuated by the EI'. cyclic roar.

What I never got drunk enough to askwas, if what I thought happened once, did,if a phenomenon we called sky was blue,if we both saw it.

You press the open-sesame buzzer to enterthe Bronx Deco lobby where electric logs glowand brass elevator gates slide open to facespeeking out from each door along the dark corridor.

There are things worth keeping-smooth stone, dried flower.Holding them, you hold waterfrom glacial thaw, that bore downmillion-year-old mountains.

Inside, the smell of fried onions and apple strudel.Framed black and white people on the wallstare straight at you and in one picture, 'your mother, at three, wears only a rose.

Carrying him on my hip,I walked you to your rented car,your white suit, what you thought we wore in California.

You cannot imagine the girlmarried at sixteento the man with the watch and the terrible temper,not know the thirty odd homes she lived in,the children--three lived--she bore,only this place where she was old.You love her for her laugh and her fat arms,to which you press your cheek.

Though the neighbors watchedthrough the levolors, I kissed you,the soft scratch of your beardon my cheek, like sunburnt grass.I turned back to the house.You said my name, Putting the child down,I held you then, one more time,for luck, like the smooth stone,what I know of mountains.

This is the last you will see of her-.She faces the window.Her scalp shows through scant hair.At full height, she comes up to your chin.

LYNNE MANGIONE

o

LYNNE MANGIONE

How :r:. ~ y"",Put 0 G '.rll..{vClti t

Beginning slowlystarting in the middlethen following your fingers aroundthe smooth surface

My memories of Italy are likethe lovely taste of salt in my hair

which I would suck onall the way home in the car Piece by piece

you tear the peel fromits clinging, white fleshoccasionally licking the juicefrom your fingers

when I was a little kidafter being at the beach

on a hot summer daydarting Mouth watering

anticipatingthe taste of thesweet, tart fruit

through the sand to the waterenjoying the tickle of oozing mud

between my wrigglish toes as I stood therebefore falling down backwards

You break it apartand giveme half(8 with wild, foamy splashes--

water creeping around my body,

then

hating the shrill cries of parting seagulls

because it meant sunsetand the time to leave

FABIAN McCARTHY, JR.

FABIAN McCARTHY, JR.

A~ M.1b~fu 8e~(,ht~,Too

no problem, replied Rick 2(

I ran into my buddy, Rick,a co-pilot for a major airlineat the local gin mill

the western horizonlay lit up with theforbidden colors ofa cheerleader'. sigh Rick knows his shit,

takes his flying seriously,and has a Navy backgroundthe Hermosa Beach pier

gateway to the sunsetinvited a closer look hey, buddy

I said

my wife and Ididn't noticethe small groupof homeless drunk.

hey, manyelled one

I'm heading to San Diegonext week, and since youwere stationed there,maybe you can turn me onto some local hot spots

1-0 as I pulledon my beer

no alcoholon the fucking pier!

meet me here tomorrow,Igotta go homeand refresh my memory

the next day,I ask my buddy

so, what have yougot for me?

seriously. says Rick

no matter what,you gotta check outthe zoo

FABIAN McCARTHY, JR.

Sic.k ft""P't. ~t.if\ t'\~1 (M,~~

I live across the roadfrom the Lyons VA Hospital

CONTRIBUTORS

lilly 1'Cllredn. Jlh"uy.

Despite a late start, Libby Urlliuns hllubeen widely puhlishcd in Ihe smtlll-prcsscommunity. Hcr Chllphook, 1"'l"Ilt WlIshingMochillc, NlJwton, IOWiU 19J5, is availablofrom Zenith 8<ltlHtPrc~8.

it's a beautiful facilityacres of manicured lawnscomplete with a 9-hole golf course

Molr8 Duffy tc~ohc8 ftrt In the SonPr.IlQIIIOOpubllo 101;001 •.

it just so happensthat the shortest distan'1ebetween my condoand the nearest liquor storerequires a run through the grounds

NOI ttl ho outdone by Moira, GrCf( GlIlclaIaluho. InKlnJlncntnl musio In the inner-

ly I'ullllo IIilhools of Philadelphia.

over the yearsI've discoveredsome interesting things

Z2 for instancefifteen years agothey took all the sand trapsout of the golf course

too many vetswere freaking outre-enacting Iwo Jimawith a five-iron and the flagafter landing in a bunker

hn[lcd Room, AUHtrnlian-

so I can't believewhat I saw todayen route to stock up some cold guysfor the long Independence Day weekend

ut •• Snn f'IAII"

a sign at the entranceannouncing

THE LYONS V A HOSPITAL IS PROUD TO PRESENTAccomplished spelunker Lynne MIIII~lone'8dream is to "look God in the eye/andsay hi."

A FIREWORKS EXTRA V AGANZA!

MONDAY, JULY 3, BEGINNING AT DUSKFabian McCarthy, Jr, lives in NewJersey.

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