/

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STAFF. "[hank you all. 4and Valerie Smith, you are by far the

willinÿ to contribute time

Love Letter to the Nation

America,

You are like Sunday morning before church,

on the brink of confession and resolve,

still dirty from Saturday's misbehaviors.

You taste sour inside sugar cookies

when there is a sucrose shortage.

America, here is how I love you:

like an adopted child meeting mornfor the first time in a dry, sterile room,

Unsteady, awkward with antipathy,

anxious to be loved; afraid of wrong hugs.

I love you like glass refracting sunlight in-

to corners the rays never wished to go,

where slit wrists are slaughtered in upstairs bathrooms,

And no one in Congress will ever know.

I love your taxes attached to income,

detached from an honest wealth of purpose.

You are not familiar to a love song

because your melody is at unrest, so

I love you with the strength of morning

hours, before my soldier's deployment.

America, do you know terror

is in my heart, and not across oceans,a

The answers to your resolve are not

in Iraq. They implore at your front door.

Extend your ear through the entrance. Love us,

America. Like Sunday morning

In a sunny bedroom, where a solider

and his young love are defending our peace.

Jamie Mandelbaum

Miscarriage

My house is set away from the road,

And turning the last curve of

My driveway, becomes a guessing game

Of how my log cabin has changedSince I left. In my dreams,

When I am eight, there is a Halloween witch,

Straight from the costume store,

Standing on the stone walkway.

The leafless trees are reaching down to her

Pointed hat like magnets to their north.

She is looking down her nose at me

And steps asideWithout telling me whyShe is there. I run up the stairs to my room,

Squinting my eyes in case she followed me.

Then my family members start disappearing,

Only they aren't disappearing because I know

Where they go.

The grey sock monster with the linty toes

And worn down heels trips them,

He covers their heads and eats their hair.

And every morning, I wake up after he lets them go,

And we all eat breakfast before the school bus comes.

At school I jump rope with Jessie,We double dutch and beat the boys in four square.

She ate dinner at my house and came to my 8th

Birthday party, so I tell her all my secrets.

I might have to share a room with my sister because

My parents need that room for a crib and stuffed animals

And diapers. She told me I could share her room,

But I don't know where all my stuffwould go.

I come home and open my front door,

I want to show my mommy the story I wrote today.

She's on the phone with my grandma, so

I wait and watch her lean against the desk

And twirl the cord around her wrist."I just don't want to tell anyone about it yet Morn,

It's still early and I don't want to jinx it;'

I clench my teeth and think of Jessie.When the snow starts to fall,

I tell Jessie that my morn is getting pictures

Taken of her tummy today. She's going to find

Out if we buy the pink shoes or the blue ones.

Over dinner, my morn cries into her broccoli.

She runs to the bathroom and coughs real loud.

Mommy said it happens all the time and,

She's too old to give me a little brother.

But I don't understand because he never had hair for the sock monster.

I look out the window at the witch, and my chest rises.

She knows what I did.

Betty Haggerty

The Gambler

I'd hear the blunt cluttered clanging from her car,

like vibraslaps rattling out tired jokes,

It was a bruise-red Buick, shuddering by pump four;

a warning ding to my problem, The Gambler.

She opens the store door, flashes that rot

Carpeted and stalactite smile, the sharp

Scent of stingingly overripe dairyNow obnoxiously patched into my throat,

She will just have one Aces High, coupla' those

thank you so much, drop the stray bills and go.

She's going to be back, I know, I sniff.

In gleamed furor she's strangling a nickel

Over the dash in a tangle, striking at

floppy-dog scratch-offs and their ashy silver

dust, as it is flung and caught in jaundiced lightdraped from the windshield. She's going to Win.

Back again, and out, last time, again she swears;

the flittering bulb that doesn't blink out,or know its done, out of your reach to change.

I nod, say welcome, but not past the counter.

By dark she spurs off, broken not quite even,

My register black and ringing, her left tail light out.

Leah Waffle

Betty Haggerty

7

The Devil's Sleeping Trees

Sleeping trees, sleeping trees,

The Devil crawls up sleeping trees,

As blackened clouds slither across the sea,

The night God shoved me to my knees.

Up the roots to the branches' sea,

The Devil crawled up the sleeping trees

God shattered the branches into glass then leaves,

And the Devil dove into Jenny's ring.

Jenny looked up and dropped her ringThe night the Devil shoved her to his knees.Jenny then dropped her crooked ring,

I laughed and kicked it lightly sweet.

I laughed again I laughed with easeAt how the Devil crawls up the sleeping trees,

Up the roots to the branches' sea

Jenny never found her crooked ring.

The sun grows louder to wake the trees:

Sleeping trees! Sleeping trees! Be careful!Be careful sleeping trees!

Tile Devil crawls up sleeping trees!

Sleeping trees, sleeping trees,

The Devil crawls up my sleeping tree

As blackened clouds slither across the sea,

The night the Devil shoved me to his knees.

Put Some Socks On

"Get up, it's past noon", the patriarchal alarm rings.

"You're wasting the day, do something and get something to eat.

Get dressed, take a shower, for Christ's sake your not a kid"

Alrigbt dad, fine, ok. Shaking off the nocturnal escapism,I roll from my bed into the shower.

The head puts me back into my own world,

Nice**. my escapism sets in.

"Hurry up, shower faster, are you gonna take all day"

No more time to relax, white linen dries off avoidance.

"Get offyour ass and get ajob, its mid July"

Dad for the love of god shut up it's my day off.."Then do something, get up, you're wasting time.

Your brother is out there working like he should.

Go out there and play some lacrosse.

You used to be so good but now you're a goddamned sloth"

Ok dad, whatever, fine I don't care,

Please just leave me alone and let me be.

Denim and cotton are my only armor

As I walk down to the battlefield,Where the general sat waiting ready for combat.

"Food's been done for almost an hour, hurry up.

If it gets cold I don't give a shit you're still eating it"Half-assed, half-warm, half-edible.

I shovel it down to avoid Odin's wrath.

"Don't give me that shit, your brothers don't.

Now go do something with your life"

Bombs drop, my sanctuary is destroyed.

"And while you're at it get a haircut, it's too long"

I strap myself in and sign away.

The hair hits the ground as my sentence is cast.

This is what I will be, my father's son.

Upon completion of this task my cave awaits me.

The fortress of solitude, my sanctuary.

My dreams unfold into bright colored lights.I'm borne at last, I'm back in Azerotb.

The vividly fake images take control,

As I slash into trolls, and keep my friends alive.

But there he is Lex Luthor banging on the gates.

My Hero Mat DiGiovanna

10

The Sad Truth

The sad truth is

We're all just waiting to die

If you dofft look hard enough

You'll miss the only sign that we are still alive

Each cloud that escapes in the winter

Air is our soul trying to escape screaming

Follow me before it is too late

Follow me into the dim moonlit sky

For once, and see the stars are clearer here

Than they are on the ceiling at Grand Central

But those four walls protect and enslave us

So let Humpty Dumpty sit on his great wall

Let America build one to the south

And then the north, and what the hell

The east and west, I never liked the beach anyway

And look at the abject fear in our faces

When the great fall comes, and sales of

Miniature American flags go through the roof

Impossible you'll saÿ crazy

But what's more ridiculous

Talking eggs breaking,a

Or the horses that are trying to fix them.a

How many eggs will we break for

That perfect omelet in the sky

We are all victims of the fast food drive by

And our youth grow fat and listless

Admiring a rich, spoiled, tired looking whore

Who's only famous for being a rich, spoiled, tired looking whore

A whole generation of happy meals

And I'm going to steal your toy

And pray to God that choking hazard lives up to the hype

Because, I'm hoping if I scream loud enough

Someone will hear my voice

And realize would you like flies

Is not freedom of choice

For a group of people so interested in other peoples lives

We do a very little amount of living

But we have this idea that we should

Be afraid of death

But the sad truth is, I envy all those

Dearly departed, because I can

Only imagine the great places they're going

And all I can do is sit here

And write a poem.

13

David Leiper

Diana Westin

15

I don't really care

If the glass is half emptyAt least the drink's good

Jerome Palmeri

6

At Dick's General

Same old, same old sbit different day Murphy announcesIn a smiled sigh across the coffee counter

Every Monda> Tuesda}ÿ Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,

Morning at Dick's General; a clot of dirt-dusted

Carhartt and mustarded teeth. He'll have another burnt cup

To go, like his wife might have another schmo in line.

Same old, same old sbit different day, Murph presses BradsInto a stubborn wood panel, outside with the lead rain,

Water not heavy but swollen under his skin like balloons,

ambivalent to the breeze. Like the carburetor's wheezing

swan song and Shit he forgot the nail-gun anyway,

never worked to begin with.

The scent of mold basements and tankers clung to him

like the words same old, same old shit different day.

The day was never different. Bobby, the pencil thin

ass for a son, kept bringing the cops and whores in,

Julia, associated with both, did the same.

The third cousin to anyone's niece knew Murph, S.o.S.o.

Till Dick turned the Closed sign over the last time,

And Red saddled out to work without a sigh or moan,

And the sun' glint suddenly look less yellow than bronze.

17

Jeffrey Furtado

18

Union Station

A train skips along the tracks

Ticking like a pocket watch

In need of winding

Her breasts rock gently

As if she were dancing

At a bar or in front of a mirror eyes intent, darting through

The yellowed pages of an aging book

And I sit alone, captivated

Feeling something I've long since

That was dead inside of me

Lust.; Love.ÿ

Or am Ijust happy

That someone can make me feel again

The train screeches to a halt

And the doors slide open

I hold my breath

Expecting her premature

Departure from my life

But I will her to remain

And she doesn't stir

Doesfft stray from the words

Inches from her face

The words I want to say

Bridgeport, Stratford, Milford, New Haven

We dance together from our seats

As I follow her out the door

Her face brightens and she embraces

Her lover on the platform

They kiss deeply

And the woman, who Ijust met

Who's name I don't even know

Breaks my heart

19

Leah Waffle

2O

Symphonic Lightning

The porch light eviscerates maddened symphonies

under a canopy of infinities. Rogue minions to

God's hammer sway in worship but never bow

to the Porch Light.Caged animals tucked behind a flood of colorlessgreens and browns pop kernels of isolation

to be destroyed on impact. Soaring above,

Illumination fails to penetrate her skin and in

an act of pure insanity Porch Light struggles

in a purple nightmare, crouching to the knees

of a meadow prepared to implode the blind spring air.

I step beyond the light to witness melodiclaughter in a jackhammer syncjuxtaposing

a symphonic demolition. Frame the attention of my

eye drenched in lazy shadows under branches

who penetrate the weak grooves below my waist.

A pigeon freefalls in a suicidal flight catchingher wings, inspiring sunrise, demented far beyond

heavenless skies that crease upon dawn's rebirth into death.

The rented shadows of midnight's fantasies dissolve

into the church's childless homes and Porch Lightcreeps back to a standing position clinging to

pitless waste in a silent whimper of chasing

the invisible symphonic lightning.

Through my Lens

One time I dreamt,

That I was travelling in this yellow school bus,

And no one else was there but the driver.

I just watched him as he kept a steady eye on the path.

I couldn't see his face though, and I couldfft see clearly through the windshield.

It was fogged as if the air outside was damp,

And the droplets clung to the glass, like sand on your feet when you come from the beach.

No matter how much the wipers tried to clear the windshield, little droplets were still left behind.

I couldn't see where we weregoing, or where the path was, if there was any at all.

Everything was in black and white except somehow I still knew the school bus was yellow.

Then finally the bus came to a stop, and the doors opened.

I stepped out onto a dust> desert-like soil.

The wind kept blowing the gray pebbles into my face and it irritated my eyes.

But soon enough the dust cleared, and the picture in front of me became saturated with color.

Gigantic daisies dressed in vibrant reds and oranges,

Miles of verdant pasture.

I felt a cord around my neck, and at its base a camera.

It's lens was my vision, and when I looked through I could see the world as it was.

But if I capped the lens, everything returned to dusty grey.

It was my eyes, my sight, my point of view.

Things seemed brighter this way.22

When I turned ten I threw all of my toys

Into boxes- coffins of my childhood.

The crumpled stuffed animals in boxes

Were nothing but false comforts of fake fur,

Real on the outside but never within,

Like the faces of those I used to trust.

I depended on those plush animals

And looked to them to relieve my pain,

Just as I relied on my two parents

To keep loving each other forever.

I cried to my plush because I couldn't

To my parents. But they did not answer.

At ten years old I was all on my own.

So I sealed the case of my memories.

Wet drops of pain swirled into black marker.

"Childhood Memories" were written in tears

I mourned for the animals in coffins

As I grieved over my parents' marriage

And the guilt I felt for ruining it.

If I was good they would still be in love.

As I buried the box in the backyard

Two feet underground next to my old pets,

I thought I saw some small plush hands waving

Over the box edge, come to life at last.

I ignored their pleas for attention

Feeling betrayed by my former best plush friends.

And at twenty-one I look back to then

Wishing I never dug that big black hole,

Never letting go of my confidants

For I miss the childhood I threw away.

23

Jason Braff

I would like to close a door of hearts

Unhinge your hands from my hips

Your clammy fingerprints of want

I would like to uncover a bed of love

And shake out the fabric of you and me.

Rip out the stitches of weakened white thread

I would like to turn off the radio of thought

My mind's rantings about your skinny boyishness

Thoughts of how late you always make me

I would like to choke the breath from the air

The emptiness of oxygen, my throat is sore and red

Sometimes I can't stop talking

I would like to dig out my heart of hearts

And carve out the eyes that don't see

And the mouth that doesn't speak.

Diminished Remains

Right now, you are dying while I'm writing

The diminished remains of a nymphomaniac.

Quit standing guard against your heart's attack.

I'm caught; wanting to protect your passions

And protecting you in the same frantic fashion.

I'm desperate to deliver a defect NO!

Don't leave my heart in the desert snow.

You defend citizens who are civilized by sunrise

But I know, secretl> they are sunset savages.

My militant reservations are released in midnight ravages.

When you let your broken boots have their staircase rest

You are still the soldier, fighting when undressed.

Urgent opportunities are an orgasmic rush.

I surrender our last love to a battle lust.

I'm drunk. I'm dry. You're anxious to die.

We wrestle like terrorism thrives between thighs.

Naked, our hands are talking it over;

Aware of the weapon's weight on our shoulders.

If I break your legs you won't go marching away.

Shoulders to your ears say you won't stay.

This time when you hold me is the last time

Our skin will know each other's touch;

The next hands on your skin may be ravishing your guts

If I controlled your choices, you know that they would be

Anything that brings you back, unboxed, to me.

26

Alliance

HeyI see you

Sitting thereAlone

WeakJust like meIf I sit with you

nen maybe we'll get stronger

You are the black man

I am the white woman

Oppressor and oppressed

But which is which.ÿWe are each both

But we could be neither

In some kind of alliance

Separate, we are taboo

Freaks in a side show

People lookPeople laughBut we could be the laughing ones

For, together,

We could go from untouchable

To unstoppable

You got the junkI got the color

Let's get together and paint the whole, goddamn

world colorblind and genderblindFor we are connected, you and I

I am your daughter and your slave-driver

Your sister and your overseer

I captured you

I gave birth to youI gave you the lust for freedomBy raising you up and beating you downBut, one good turn deserves another

For you are my father and my brother

You are my husband and my son

You tied me up 'til I couldn't breathe

And mounted me like a wounded animal

You are my oppressor and my oppressed

I bear your children

You bear my whipYour skin belongs to me

And my breasts belong to you

I live in fear of men like you

And you live in fear of whites like meWe are each subhuman

I who am good for pleasure and children

You who are good for labor and abuse

We are trapped

Rats in cages

Smarter than we look

But too stupid to escape

Too weak

Too alone

Too terrified to stand up to our oppressors

Too drunk with power to let go of our oppressed

Let usjoin together

Let us become as one

For together, we could be beautiful

And better yet

We could be freeFree to do what we want with our bodies

Free to say no

Free to say yes

Free to be you and me

Because what we are is not what we seem

For I am not a white woman

And you are not a black man

We are human

And we are beautiful because of it.

27

28Jamie Mandelbaum

Tortoise Shell Acoustics

Studying the world map push-pinned against the dandelion colored walls of my bedroom, I heard the faint sounds of a careful

plucking of guitar strings. "Bling, blah, bum, bum, bling, bling, blah, waaa.." was repeated and varied one-hundred times over. The

sounds were so enticing to my six-year-old ears, I craved for them to come closer. I knew I must go to them, because this guitar

player was not traveling; he was staying put. I quickly ascended the narrow stairs of our Cape style house using my hands and feetlike usual."Clump-de-clump-diddy.clump.." up the stairs like a puppy dog I ran.

The strumming eventually grew louder and more succinct. The old wooden door was open, only by a hair, as indicated by the

paper-thin stream of vertical light shining through. Carefully, as if trying not to break the notes jumping off the strings, I opened

the door and entered the nicotine perfumed room. There he was. The master of the instrument; controller of the musical universethat marked my childhood.

fÿ ° ÿ ,My ather &dnt nonce my presence immediately. His head was down, his arms, hands, and fingers were occupied. His brain was

busy and his moustache was trimmed that morning. Silence and concentration seemed ironic compared to the bouncy rhythms hecreated.

Silence was also the dialogue of the moment. Strained by the stresses of daily routine, my father escaped into a world of tortoise-

shell picks and g-chords, closing his lips and speaking through his fingers. A simple look, a nod of the head, a tap of his worn

leather shoe was his way if saying"hi:' All I could do was smile. I didfft want anything else but for him to continue twanging thecool tune. And that's just what he did.

In my white dress with the big colorful polka-dots (that I couldn't wait for my birthday to wear) I sat. He played. I watched the

smoke dissipate from the cigarette butt smushed into the glass ashtray. He played. I felt the warmth from the setting sun com-

ing in from the window behind me. He played. I breathed in; tasting the resonating scene. He played. He played. He played andplayed as I listened to the soundtrack of my early life being written before me.

29

Jamie Mandelbaum

30

The Cycle of Life: Remix,7 : " _ ,

The beginning of life is death.Most people fear death for their entire life,

And it has already passed.

The early years of life are wrinkled and grey,

Living in a retirement home where other people take care of you.

Now it is time to "Get a real job,'

Paying the bills and doing the taxes,While working that nine-to-five job.

After all of that its time to go away to college and studÿ

Or maybe you just party.Graduation leads to high school,

LiVing at home with morn and dad,

Surviving on someone else's funds.

The later years are spent on a playground.

Life is full of coloring books and playing house,Singing, dancing, and letting the child's imagination run wild.

Then you spend the last nine months of your existence,

In a comfortable state of darkness.

Morn carries you everywhere she goes.

Life ends at the beginning.

"YESSSSS!" The perfection of an orgasm.

31

!

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1

qt

Mat DiGiovanna

35

A Title Directs Meaning

Black ink blurs to grayA smudge from pudgy,Fretful fingersA distinct imprint of youTo match the muddy trails that lineThe semi-gloss polished floors.

Piling in disgust.And you live in it,

It's the same mess that

You drove, throve out of

And pretend that you escaped.

It's extinct,

Yet without it, there are no words

Left for you to say.

You've used every letter

Scrambled them all together,

And still don't know what to say.

It's truly a struggle

To dress yourself in vivid verbs

And drink down dour nouns.

It's the weight

That tugs you down

Brings you,

Suspends you to that point

Teetering

And it's all you have

And all that you give awayBut, Yet, and reallÿ because,

Though,Honestly there is nothing true.

I am a cynic

On a search for luxury

Undiscovered ties,

A purpose never seemed to

Fit just right.Having a purposeNow that's the most unavailable thing

And a purpose, to do what.)

Something purposeless.)

Does purpose actually exist.)

And who gets to be the judge of all this.)Doing is worth doingAnd I have decidedI simply don't believe myself,My fateI find what I do to falter and then fakeI follow the path of the penIn search of knowing

Which direction,

In finding a certain perception

Or perhaps a purpose

And then I simply learned thatStraight lines disgust me.

36

A Marriage Made in Heaven

"Happy Birthday to you!"Your throat closed around the words as you spit

Them out at me and my egg-white only cake.

Time and time again I remember back to the days

When we'd jump for joy over spending one more year

Together. But I guess those years were just a wolf

In sheep's clothing. Your gaze over the candles, dripping with wax,

Was hotter than a two dollar pistol on the 4th of July.

You told me you didn't want to hammer out

The details of my night of passion with theWine and dine blonde from my office.

But as fate would have it, life is not all fun and games

And I knew that you resented separating the yolk from

The whites and stirring in the sugar.

Three months ago at the office party you asked me about her,

And I told you Tve seen better looking legs on a table"

The whole time I was eyeing the girl thinking,"I wouldfft kick her out of bed for eating crackers!"

I guess this is the just the tip of the iceberg ofOur falling out. You'll run like hell away from me,

When all our cards are on the table, you'll be

Crying your eyes out about my loosey goosey morals.I'll tell you it could be worse."Worse.a How could this be worse,a" you'd say,

And I'd tell you there's more fish in the sea,

But we all know,

A good man is hard to find.

37

Dan Osborn

l

James Turnley From the series Abstract Potato Chip Photography

39