Reverie

rill nt Au Sujet Pain G me Ce Nest Ncessaire 1 REVERIE

Contents
Alaina Smith. Oz Skinner.

My Feet 6 Moon Flowers And Morning Glories 9 Falling 11 Surfcaster 12 Tie Dye Uniform 13 Most of us are... 15 The Last Season 19 The Common Ground 20 Empty Sunset Hall 24 26
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January On The Left Coast 8

Todd Martin.

Robyn A. Stillings. Ronnie Black. Sharon Drum. Mindy Blank.

Its Always Shit In The Diaper 14 Glorys Sunset 17

Nic Ainsworth. Jake Musial.

Lauren Wilcox.

K ate Barcellos. Ify Umeugo.

We Only Dance For The Paper Moon 23

Amanda Vogler.

Emily Hoffman. Pelvis With Distance Ashley Case. Oz Skinner.

This Poem Is A Cliche`

Temptation 29 Finger Fiction 30

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Margaret Stockard.

Shainna Burgess.

Yearning Desire 31 Stillbirth 32

Hannah Blaisdell. Dave A. Czuba. Ronnie Black.

Green 33 Alligator Trance 35 Blood Of The Earth 37 Day 40

K ate Barcellos. Ify Umeugo.

Its Not A Walk, Just A Gesture 39 To Nia 41 The Beauty Of A Guitar 43 46

Robyn A. Stillings. Nic Ainsworth. Sheila K aveny.

Absolutely Confident 42 Wait 44 Poet Of The Body 48

Michaela Pugh. Steph Decker.

Ashley Case. Treasure In The Ocean, Head In The Sand Hannah Blaisdell. Brian Commins.

Oh No 49

Front Cover:

From the Friendly Toast, by Candy Smith

Back Cover:

The Tasting Lab, by Dave A. Czuba

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My Feet
Alaina Smith
I sat back in a pool as cool as glass and I Snapped a photo of my toes against the backdrop Of an hourglass land of blue sky sifting down Through red rock walls and boulders as the center And landing like a mirror in the clear clean water Where I decided to rest that day and capture The moment in a capsule of art perhaps in homage To the very sacred vehicle that couldnt have carried Me anywhere else that day and now I think of my feet When I was born they emerged soft and red so Curled and crumpled like larvae out of a chrysalis Cracked too soon so back into the cask they went After a little more time when my bones had realigned And each cast cut away by what distant doctor I do not remember I would have to ask my mother Well I can tell by looking that they did unfurl Like insect wings as bones elongated for balancing The scant selection of dainty heels on that lonely Marginal shelf of size eleven has taught me that I Was not designed to bend beneath the oppression Of the pointed toe or to march with the regime Of painful footwear as so many women do but mine Decided long ago they had had enough of compression Barefooted and loved my favorite part of the story Goes any lady with tremendous toes must know The feeling the exaltation that accompanies release Of sandal straps the great uncuffing of the chains As a child drops her clothes and runs like a sponge Into the soak of summer days I have left so many shoes behind In this photo my feet are as they always should be Strong and long and awkward free like me in water Worn hard as the stone they walked upon today With chipped red polish that remnant of girls night Months ago I carried it with me to the stream today My feet have grown long as the road they walk on Rough as the bark of the trees they climbed last year Long capable a little bit clumsy bony but very sturdy They mimic so beautifully the lady they carry

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January on the Left Coast

Oz Skinner
Inspirations waxes like perspiration seeping through the pores after philosophical confrontations with creative believability Family roots tangled at the shores of left coast blues bars, leaving the magical kingdom too trivial to pursue Apartments eat artists alive through the night gnashing their teeth at visions of abandoned windowsill fornication leading to the release of master elations Opinions carved into chests, defacing the appearance of reckless abandon Adrenaline fueling subjective fashion held forever in tricolor captivity Mexican buddahs in yawning ceiling hums that blanket the floor Fairytale doorways alone on linoleum platforms invite enticing eyes to partake of wood grain delusions Open doors channel past pockets poets adding to dissatisfaction connections beneath the old moldy conductors thru synapses speaking in desperation of moonless nights We never have our shit together so much for birds of a feather secrets scribbled inside locker doors and down pale hallways Filled with the shimmer of possibility The road never stops so obviously desperate to prove we are not lost I keep moving to remember that a rolling stone gathers not moss Spiting broken teeth into crowds, a harlequin clown asks for the time but my hands are stuck in clocks and calendars Gentlemen slip me five spots in back alleys to show them where fire burns But we breathe the kinds you breaths you breathe with your lips to cool your insides The universe talks me in soft translucent whispers in my sleeping ears A thousand fingers are stuck in my eye but a fool looks at the finger that points to the sky

Moon Flowers and Morning Glories

Todd Martin
I am the cerebral painter My paint is lucid and metallic My brush is made from the finest synapses Running rampant through your brain With your slow beating pulse my hands move melodically Altering your dreams as you flow down the stream Where the moon never sets and the sun is always rising Where the circular squares are but the curls in your hair I live in your breath and sustain all cognition Forever departing and constantly arriving I capture your nectar thoughts in a net of orange orchids And project them on your serene psyche. From the most minute molecule to the outermost boundary of the universe I splatter lifes matter on a canvas of infinite possibilities Your mind is but an inventory of clay thoughts I am the potter sitting at the wheel As you sleep dormant in your bed I work silently in your head Casting shadows and tapestries over your eyes Your subjective mind is at my dispose Unfurling with infinite regression like sunlight over rolling waves From behind the clouds you find yourself soaring Hurled like a paper airplane from the needle of a skyscraper, Falling through space like cosmic comet dust, You crash land into an ocean of flower petals Swimming along the velvet cuticles of the blossoms Inhaling pheromone aromas the nectar tickling your nostrils You erupt in a sneeze of cosmic proportions With the eruptive force of a violent volcano

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With the eruptive force of a violent volcano You erupt in a sneeze of cosmic proportions Inhaling pheromone aromas the nectar tickling your nostrils Swimming along the velvet cuticles of the blossoms You crash land into an ocean of flower petals Falling through space like cosmic comet dust, Hurled like a paper airplane from the needle of a skyscraper, From behind the clouds you find yourself soaring Unfurling with infinite regression like sunlight over rolling waves Your subjective mind is at my dispose Casting shadows and tapestries over your eyes As you sleep dormant in your bed I work silently in your head I am the potter sitting at the wheel Your mind is but an inventory of clay thoughts I splatter lifes matter on a canvas of infinite possibilities From the most minute molecule to the outermost boundary of the universe And project them on your serene psyche. I capture your nectar thoughts in a net of orange orchids Forever departing and constantly arriving I live in your breath and sustain all cognition Where the circular squares are but the curls in your hair Where the moon never sets and the sun is always rising Altering your dreams as you flow down the stream With your slow beating pulse my hands move melodically Running rampant through your brain My brush is made from the finest synapses My paint is lucid and metallic I am the cerebral painter

Falling
Robyn A. Stilings

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Surfcaster
Ronnie Black
Kelp enveloped rocks waver at the shore as thick dark water splashes onto them like blood into a wound. There must be a pervasive slopping sound as if a thousand little imps are racing fast with pails of a gelatinous mud fish filled to the brim swinging between their knees. The great orb, the sun, has shrunk beneath the glassy waves of the deep horizon the way a lure taunts fish. The spinning of a reel echoes off the troughs and waves like a grasshopper taking flight in mid July. The smell of that salt rising on the cool air like steam from a lobster red and butter smothered. This shore is familiar because it is every shore and no shore, all at once like a silhouette stands or sits.

Tie Dye Uniform

Sharon Drum
Reminiscing about Green Mattress And the worth of Green Tourmaline. His long grey hair and beard give age To his clothes, so loud that They drown out the sound of Thousands of tripped out hipsters. Getting their kicks by hitching And hopping freights. The Tie Dye Uniform signifies an ideal, And a strange appeal, Tie Dye Uniform To over-privileged youth Looking for a way out. They keep searching for something new But the uniform Holds the ideal Of San-Fran in 69. A break from the norm would be nice. Just a slice of paradise. Just to travel, kick back and relax. Proving that its not what you know, But who

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Its Always Shit in the Diaper

Mindy Blank
One of his rarest attempts was to take My clothes off In aisle two, the spaghetti aisle Too young for this atrocity Exhaustion has set in and bliss has worn off Santa sitting upon processed meat in the summer swelter Couldnt jump-start my mind Teeth piercing my nipple reminds me of the tattoo parlor I let out a sharp gasp, Silky as a whisper, Predictable as a lullaby Freezer-dry when the doors propped open, My life is drained. Rain slipping from both cheeks As if the new seed has not been sufficiently watered Youre so selfish Rip my hair, sway me to wake Gnaw that raw flesh harder-youve put me through worse This is natures finest magic trick, Isnt it clever? The tricks on me. I look like a scorched pine in Hell, And you-a cherry in bloom.

Most of us are
Nic Ainsworth
I am 22born in farm country, New Hampshire, surrounded by all the wannabe suburban town types, who live in renovated colonial style houses in an attempt to seem somehow greater than you, as they plunge forward, donning petty handme down smiles and clutching Americana fairy tales to their chests in a teary, solitary, nostalgia at the could-have-been-perhaps-maybees as they pay tight-lipped therapists to prescribe them justifications to stuff their true selves underneath their tongues and slip away into a sedated obscuration, but That is why I left, to find myself hiding anonymously in poverty-stricken nowhere Vermont surrounded by all the wannabe anarchist on the edge types, who live in one-room, beer sticky apartments in an attempt to seem somehow more liberal than you, as they plunge forward, donning explosive political propaganda and clutching stolen, page-torn cookbooks to their chests in a

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Glorys Sunset
teary, fervent tirade about the revolutions they will inspire, the will-one-day-be-perhaps-maybees when they at last find the time and money to move as they pay blank-faced gas station clerks to hand them their own self-prescribed sedations which provide them the necessary justifications to just sit still. I am 22about to graduate from college, bouncing between two worlds that have more than just my smile in common, on the cusp between outlined and defined as I swim through my memories in an attempt to find the headwaters of my essence and determine the possibilities of my destiny, but these mirrored water worlds can but reflect, refract, and blind.

Jake Musial
The Temeraire leaves port for the last time A haughty reflection of a bygone age; It was once a bright sea beast, A moving island of wood, metal and men. Now it is an impotent ghost of a ship, Its ninety-eight cannons melted down for scrap. Now antiquated pieces of brass did their duty, Saved the day, England, and Nelsons dead body. They have been melted down to make doorknobs. The old man-of-war does not even make its last voyage under its own sails; A vigorous little steam ship tows it up the Thames: A modern youth pulling the old, noble giant. Like a regally senile former admiral, dressed in his musty uniform, Being pushed around Trafalgar Square in a wheelchair by his grandson, A solemn and bright young boy, Dressed in brown clothing. On the old mans shoulders are golden epaulettes, On his chest his medals, and at his side an empty scabbard. That was the day! cries the old man, His grandson smiles meekly, I was a fresh midshipman, as green as moss. I was a boy when I woke up that day, But I was a man when the sun set. I was fourteen, thats how old you are now, isnt it lad? Im nearly thirteen, grandpa. Ah good good, old enough to know what glory is!

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Now when the first volley hit us I soiled myself, I jumped on the ground, covered my ears and closed my eyes. I looked up when the cannons stopped; I squinted because of the smoke, Next to me was a body without a head, It belonged to Hickerby, the new midshipman he was thirteen I knew him well enough to recognize him without his head on, you know. The gun deck was splintered wood and running legs. I was shaking and wanted to vomit, but I did my duty: I ran, sweated, cursed, put out fires and relayed orders, After a while I forgot about my shaking hands and ship-wrecked stomach. There were things that needed doing and I did them; that is what a man does lad, What he is supposed to do. The Young boy said nothing; he did not know what to say, He did not want to be a man, saw his nanny sitting on a bench, He wanted to go home and play with his toy trains.

The Last Season

Lauren Wilcox
Like acrobatic criers, Red-winged blackbirds are perched on withered cattail stems Heralding the oncoming spring with their trilling chorus. Tawny grass rolls away into a muted landscape dotted with islands of snow and ice The hired man sits on the crooked porch, Blinking in the sunlight He is soothed into a sleepless trance by the constant hum of cattle, Grinding hay between their flat bovine teeth, Aware of how his body groans like a stiff hinge, Clothing draped from lean flanks like a weathered scarecrow. He examines the knobs of his fingers stained dark in rusty soil, Clenching his fist rueful of how they creak and complain. Those hands are as rough and cracked as the leather straps He expertly guides behind the plow horse. Frothy and heaving between the rich black furrows, The good earth that has indelibly marked him as its own. For the first time he feels the frost creeping over his skin. Ahead is a precipice of labor, A season of burning toil, The question hangs in the air breathless and unspoken.

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The Common Ground

Kate Barcellos
Courtney was a wild thing, a nymph of wind and waves that lapped herself upon others with both ferocity and gentle insistence. Do you hear the waves? she asked me. I heard them, everyone did, but that was not what she had meant and we both knew this. Yeah, I said, whispering, isnt it beautiful. It was a perfectly stereotypical response, both generic and expected but not by her. She, somehow, knew far better than to expect such ordinariness from me, and so pushed further into the pit. I think, in a former life, I may have committed suicide in the water. She turned towards me. The waves pull me in, they call me, and I always have to stop myself before going in too far because I would keep swimming further and further into it. It feels like home, you know. I looked at her, wondering if I should bring to light the sensations I felt about the trees. The trees had always been my friends, my protectors, my brothers, mothers, fathers, sisters and children; the wayward oaks and subtle beeches, sweet swamp and sugar maples and immortal birches. She did not know of my pain when the logs were split for the fire, of my inner agony as the bark burned and crackled away, peeling like skin from the rich meat underneath, and yet she did. Youll have to be careful, then, I commented. She turned to stare into me, and it was such a look as I feel I will never receive again, by anyone. Her eyes were dark, highlighted by the twilight evening, and rolling with the crests and troughs of the water that splashed against her bare thighs. Droplets dappled her knees, her hair, her yellow sweater that she wore bunched at her hips so it would not be soaked by the water, and still I could see that if it was, she would welcome the wetness. She smiled then. Im going in. Her hair whipped about her face as she raced onto the shore to drop her sweater onto the sand, and then plunged into the lake. Ecstasy ravaged her features as she was bathed in it, as her pale body floated atop the waves and was almost camouflaged in the moonlit cradles so that you could barely see her but for her swim suit. It looked as if the water would swallow her whole, come upon her like a lover and wrap her in the translucence of its own skin, in the shining blanket that would bring her into its shadowy depths and she would let it, she would. Her mouth opened to receive the thick air hovering above the surface, and she ducked under. I almost feared I would not see her again. As Courtney swam, I looked about me: the trees bent and swayed in the lake breezes, moaning at the folding of their trunks into the winds will. The leaves waved to me, the deep greens dazzling my eyes and the dark curls of vinery curling up the branches, extending over the tossing currents like the lithe limbs of ballerinas. The evergreens bowed to me, and I could smell their sap like a welcoming even across the lake. It was sweet and fragrant, enveloping me in a sensation so pure and clean and basic that I had to close my eyes to keep from falling into the waves themselves. I wanted to be in the trees, for my soul, I felt, was already rooted in them. My trees, my beautiful strengths dancing and curving in the gusts across the mountains; they billowed as one curtain across the side of the hill, rippling in a great sea to steady along the edge of the mere to keep them in its wake. I was thrown and yet so strong in their view, empowered by their very existence. I understood them and them, me. Courtney returned, shivering, exhausted and satisfied, as if she had drunk the whole lake into her and it now flooded her veins. She threw back her head and sighed, content and full of the essence of the sweeping lake, and yet still wishing that she could again return to it. She was in love with the water as I was with the trees, and that is where we found our common ground.

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We Only Dance for the Paper Moon

Looking at her then, she looked as if she should have had fins. Her pupils were dilated with the rage of the waves and her arms and legs, lined with muscle appropriate for swimming, shook with apprehension at her now being on hard ground. Even as she shivered, she yearned for her wet world, her weightless tides and the sweet return into their deepness. I felt it in the air around her, the raw power of the surge and the triumph of each gush and swell. She was a fish in our world of earth and air, and each day that she went without her blue crush she starved. She was satiated only for the time being. Kate, for Halloween, we should dress up, she said as she rubbed herself dry. I smiled. Absolutely. Whatll we be? She thought a moment, sighing at the warmth of the towel; her eyes still the stewing, heaving, rolling pitch blue of the water. Ill be the water, she whispered. Okay, I whispered back. Then Ill be the trees.

Ify Umeugo
The graceful lines of her shoulders shudder Just a flick and twitch, the sinewy knots turn In time with the soft movements of her wrist. Her skin is even in the dusky light, Catching the glow from her lone swinging Earring. The nape of her neck is inviting, A mysterious profile illuminating in the clouds of the evening. Her back jerks and tightens, the silent dip and twirl of the earring Fills the void. The dim and gloomy lighting, the piercing Sounds of nothing.

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Empty Sunset Hall

Amanda Vogler
I watch her. She hears it; a silent melody running through cracking clouds of chromatic eighth notes. I watch her. She sparks; striking her foot against the forested floor lighting the match igniting into brushfires of footwork and flames. Im safe where I am; I dont dare stop her as the sun pours into the window suffocating the hall in hissing yellows and roaring oranges. She fills the room with her burning passion pirouettes and then erupts into a wildfire intertwining her arms--grasp the ceiling with your smoky glare reach stretch feel tomb pas-de-bourre arabesque until you find me watching and suddenly freeze. Your music ceases. Slowly compose your dangling branches and sturdy your relevd roots, the floating embers of your skirt delicately fall into place. Looking up with your open ocean eyes you run to your room through the dark hallway leaving nothing behind but the scorching energy of a once live inferno in the empty sunset hall.

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Pelvis with Distance

Amanda Vogler
The land is deserted, Hot, arid, dry Emotionless, bare, And still it cries. The pelvis is scorched, Sterile and dead Bloodless, it thirsts For veins glowing red. No water, no life, The blank blue sky, In this landscape of bone, Still it cries. The pelvis, locked in tension, A distance from land Memories of wind, Come in storms of sand. Release the cry! Tears touch the earth Breathe the first breath! Unspoken rebirth. The pelvis stretches open, From sky to ground A red lotus unfolding, And wind, the only sound. The wind awakens The dead white bone, What are life and death But the same blue unknown.

This Poem is a Clich

Ashley Case
I washed my hands for ten minutes, watched them turn red like lobsters claws. It takes so much time, like sand in the wind. Dont let them tell you life is short. Ive had one hell of a ride so far. I think Ive lived twice as much life as you and youre the one saying its short. You still have that pretty girlfriend right? The one youd rather fuck than me. The one you cant leave because shell have a nervous breakdown, an emotional meltdown, and while were both down, in the dumps that is, hows about we talk about this. Lets bake this Clam, and blow this Popsicle stand. Lets go for a walk. I do enjoy a nice sunset walk on the beach. I dont believe you when you say you love me. Beauty can be measured by looks, thats what it is, skin deep, and we both know Im no brown eyed girl. I bet if youd let me though, Id make your toes curl. Love is the most beautiful flower of all, more even than the red red rose. If you want it to grow you need to nourish it. You need shit. Real shits the best. So lets shit on our love and watch it grow, baby. If I live twice the life, I wonder if that means that I only have to go for half as long? Seventy is the average life expectancy; Im shooting for thirty-five. Fuck it, thirty, Ill round down. Who wants to live forever? I bet she was a good rebound girl, I bet she helped keep you out of the game, dont blame the player; Im just in your game. You think this is how I feel, and you think I hate your smile and smell, dear. But thats what I am, and Im really just caught hypnotized in your headlights. The cornered animal fights the wildest, and like one caged Im fighting against you. Fighting so hard you can see my fingernails scraped off on the side of this cage. Wherever did I leave that damned key? And my heart too is gone, but what? If its gone, why does this still hurt? Is it just my fingertips and nails or all of the parts youve touched? My hands are white again and you dont even know how much Ive hated you. You dont know how much Id love to smell your skin, and I am just a walking clich when it comes to you. I forgave my father for trying to break my face, for trying to break

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my spirit. I forgave him for trying to break my hide. Wait, he did break that. He never got my heart though. Daddys little girl has a secret. Does he know that the only thing he could never break was the thing I refused to give? But I did give my heart. Just throwing caution to the wind: dont give away any part of yourself that you need to survive. A pound of flesh, but what part to give? I like my eyes, my ears. I need my hands, my feet. I gave you the thing that makes us bleed. And you still have me hypnotized. Your bones were my bed frame. Your flesh was my pillow. Im sending you my heart with both hands.

Temptation
Oz Skinner

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Finger Fiction
Margaret Stockard
Once when I was a child I taught my hands to lie. It was no ordinary lie, but a lie To touch the ages with, a lie to Break the pages with. Fingers spoke To lines on faces, tracing palms in secret places Forbidden and unforgiven, my hands would Hold skin and breathing, fooled them into Thinking they had meaning. Lying came quickly To my hands, whos fingers held traces of Equivocations only seen by touching bruised places. Now faint whispered caresses spread seeds Of thrills and conjure up the making of love deals, Stealing only what I can hold, to make you believe The things my skin told Your heart.

Yearning Desire
Shainna Burgess
Throat consuming fire, Delicious burning Each drag, a lifes breath away. Nerves taut, shaking hands, Cocky, casual stance, The classic stereotype of gentleman. Chivalrously offers a light, To burn the ladys life to ash, She swoons and sighs, But to realize soon, Death eating from inside.

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Stillbirth
Hannah Blaisdell
Spring cools the dull sting of winter, for some, but I grow black flowers, dead as wallpaper. I grow a swarm of stunted blooms. I have red in me, I am round with it. The flutter of a hummingbird heart, the sucking mouth that wastes my veins, my brittle heart. Winter hid my bloodlessness in its white fog; now, March stumbles into April, that cruel month of confused seasons; it snows and rains in fitful bursts and the suns weak glances leave my bones unthawed. I am tired of the lonely places, the hollows that swell in me. Life, I birth but cant retain, like autumn rain. Be still, my futile heart.

Green
Dave A. Czuba
You could have been in the Navy band, by now a changed man, no longer a proud recruit plucked fresh from the street when doublets in uniform knocked on your door with urgency asking you: sign here. You were in demand for the war. You were eighteen and might never see their band, of course, not know the powers that be, or your mothers misery, know only lockstep and compulsory regimen, delayed stress syndrome, fatigue. You would not have known, having joined their band, what a band of your own could be, where your trumpet might take you rather than theirs you, calling all out of the bunks at dawn for reverie. You get to enjoy your freedom to discover what Frost said of natures first green, what Miles or Lee Morgan meant playing that thing, rather than fight for anothers right to walk freely by denying anothers right to live freely by dying at their hand Greed went headlong into Disasters alley. Somewhere, in shadow-lands, ghosts who had their lives cut short walk grieving, and in parallel worlds, young men are bound in buses for Fort Thises and Thats, and Basic Training. And someplace, right here, everything green is aging,

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Alligator Trance
rather than caught in a photo in a frame, forever young, because its subject was sent away never to return.

Ronnie Black
I remain unchanged since the beginning of time Armored by thick green scales and the grin of a killer Waiting in my shallow pool for some poor fool To come and wade into my realm, take a step back. My webbed feet clutch the mud as I raise my snout Smacking it hard into the water as a show of strength I bellow like a giant frog that was fused with a panzer And I see you, not too far from shore trying to get a drink. I have witnessed the destruction of the lizard kings And the creation of man and his God in all its glory But sixty-five-million years and I am still a threat Asleep and waiting for that moment, wade into me. Take a step back, on the human made time scale And find me at the bottom of the bayou in Louisiana My cousins, caiman and crocodile will warn you Beware our death roll, because few live to tell about it. I see you slinking and drinking the nectar of my river Slowly I approach, looking like a log with eyes of fire, Awaiting the taste of flesh that will sustain another lifetime Of this reptilian land of weeds and warm clouded waters. Wade into me, thats it, hear my smile from ear to ear Mouth full of sharp objects ready to embrace you Take a step back, stop, you are under my prehistoric spell I am the definition of instinct as I hunt from bellow. Take a step back, you are losing control of your senses Mine are attuned to natures vibration filled with the scent of meat Wade into me and you will find I have a kind heart Wade into me, my love, my pray and I will lunge, I will feed.

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Blood of the Earth

Kate Barcellos
My body is a landfill. My rolling hills bloom red, yellow, blue. Black. My roots are ripped away, my hips are dislocated, And there is a burning sludge between each of My vertebrae. My country! I am incapable, empty inhuman And I have failed you. My shores were smooth and dusty, The sun loved me. I am thick mud now, my palms Shredded like wet paper and Who are you and your pogroms? Shoving yourself into me, pressing with dirty fingers until Submission flows out like Ramses blood sea. A machete bores deep in my Throat, your street. My tongue, your pillow, My skin, your sheet. It scrapes along my ribs and cuts away flesh, Heart, spirit Into every orifice, skinning me, Choking me With hot glue and plastering me In gunshot residue. A glowing, toxic scar tissue Screams Look at me! Look at me! A conquered island. My trees have melted in the sulfuric air and My mountains are beaten. My lakes are thick with your gray wastes, And the fish are blind. My tears are only rain on your face, so put up your umbrella! Birdsongs are drowned by the deafening grind Of your slaughterhouse; My canyons are bare from your pickaxe Already mined. Oh, how I hope for the knife! The fresh pain into the green world Carve away my life! Let the mirrored edge shave away the Caked-on ruin And cauterize me. Oh, dreams of numbness come in tides Washing and breaching like injured whales On my smelly beaches. Honeybees lay, exhausted on my thighs; No. Those are flies.

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Its Not a Walk, Just a Gesture

Ify Umeugo
Give me your hand The slender juncture between a promise and A pink curled ending Well say our soft awws as the dust Catches our tongues. Our thoughts are heavy and thick with wanting Out against the hot skin And arrogant direction of the slick heat The elegant dip and flow of its shape Consume us in our entirety A smooth column collects the howling whines of the wind Your dirt streaked palm is marred With sweat and a furious scar Its threats to detach itself from the flesh Catches a wrinkle in your brow Now all thats left is a cure And a cause From the empty space youve left.

Day
Robyn A. Stilings

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To Nia
Nic Ainsworth
Im cheering to you, darling, to the tears I could never wipe away and the words I could never say and the hits I could never block and the lines I could never stop, see, I was on the other side of the globe, then, the other pole but a sudden swap of mystic magnetism drops, and Im suddenly drawn to this, this person with bags on the floor before me, and though youve hardly even shown me all those outfits of discontentment, I am in it ready to begin it these lengthy nights of tongue-tied talk, these nostalgically aware stories to share these hidden mutual wonders, and connected subtle blunders, these drip drip drops of consciousness The beers spills a little, and we become more than metaphor.

Absolutely Confident
Sheila Kaveny
I am the unreliable narrator. Everything I say is true. If you listen long enough, you will catch me in a lie. I am the mother of liberation, pouring through the spirit-spout; the watering can; the milk of the pelargoniums, letting down. I am the waterfall of the wind blowing, the perpetuation of the trumpet lily, smiling, because life is just what I expected. the flashlight showing the way. I am

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The Beauty of a Guitar

Michaela Pugh
Shavings litter the floor Like my tears that he used to wipe away With the calloused pad of his thumb. Back and forth, Back then forth In a rhythm that calms, distracts. Let the wood soak for days Before he bends it to his will. Glues hold and bond Like me to him; my dad. Then its shaped, smoothed, tenderly, And a figure emerges from the pieces: curves, no angles. Strings are added, changed, and tuned. Suddenly, loudly, not too harshly, sound pours out. Then Then I close my eyes and anything can happen between the notes. Beauty in a guitar, this is where I am home: In the space between the notes he plays.

Wait
Stephanie Decker
Wait Before you cant cover your round face With the ooze of jelly sandwiches Feeling, smelling, tasting its worth Beyond the confines of your mouth Wait Before you cant squeal with delight At your new fund love for toes and fingers Sucking and savoring as you would a TOOTSIE-POP Beaming. Wait Before all innocence has been lost Your smiles turn too serious Your eyes and limbs grown heavy And your wispy hair, grey, Like bleak, rainy days before spring.

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Treasure in the Ocean, Head in the Sand

Ashley Case
When I was seven I really loved to fish with my dad It was like digging a hidden treasure from the ground But you get to eat the fish Twenty something years on earth And I fail recognize myself Here now with a bottle of Carlo Rossi, a jug really Carlo and I stroll along the beach And I find myself awake on the sand Without Carlo (He left me sometime in my sleep) Without you Awake at sunrise before even the tourists arise Before they fill the beaches Dragging snot-nosed accompaniments Before they fill the beaches and take All the good sandy sleeping spots The first time I fell asleep here Here is always the same When you wake from drinking alone on the beach Carlo and I were on a break I was with my good pal Orloff then I awoke after the tourists arrived, vodka in hand In a pile of myself While the mothers hurried their children quickly past But this morning it was not a tourist Nor the sunrise It was not my hangover urging me to Pay it some attention But a man A silent man walked past me I bet he looked at me and knew Fishermen always know What had brought me to a sandy slumber But he never looked back at me He did not wonder why there was A twenty-something woman Alone on the sand Empty bottle Clutched like a child to her teddy bear He paid me no attention There were treasures to be recovered The best treasure comes with The light of a new day Before anybody else has their way with it Untouched

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Poet of the Body

Hannah Blaisdell
I am a poet of the body. I arch like a white ribbon, lifted. Soft billows of skirt, like wings of a butterfly, new and bursting. My feet mount the supple air, molding to its contours, my fingers, taut as violin strings, vibrating symphonies. Music trills in me, the heady swell of rushing notes urging my blood. Leaping, smooth as a line of poetry, I am joy.

Oh No
Brian Commins
3:13.26 is the time that my watch told me right before the thin circular battery behind the faceplate died. Ive always imagined the final loss of power to be subtler, the murky green indiglo light should have phased out. After a short death I was left alone with no watch in the semi-darkness of my early morning room. Today is February sixteenth, four hours ago it was February fifteenth; there are 687.5 hours until my tenth birthday. An outdoor sodium light leaks just enough dead yellow illumination onto my wooden floor for me to spot the biggest crawling insect in the entire world. A living breathing sewer lid is making its way home on millions of little brown legs, he doesnt think I notice him, he thinks I sleep. As it walks towards the steel heater in the corner of my room I wonder why any house in the desert would have such a thing. Something one of my teachers told me last year comes to mind, she told me that bugs are my phobia and in order to come to terms with them I have to find out a method that makes them seem less terrifying. After I couldnt figure anything out, she told me what she did, was to name them and then it makes them just like little people. The only name I could think of for him was Megatron, and that only made him more frightening. The minutes moved by in a dreadfully slow cadence; Megatron stopped moving when he was halfway into the heater, (perhaps he didnt fit) and waited there for ages. I needed to know what the time was, not knowing was killing me. Surely little boys died every day from not looking at their watches for a long enough period of time. Suddenly, hope at the end of the tunnel, I could hear her approaching the hall just as surely as the sun rises and just as smoothly as clockwork. I could feel the footsteps moving at the big white door, a smooth steady cadence that could put anybody to sleep. My mother entered the room, I assumed the position and pretended to sleep. Arnold she said, Arnold dear, its 4:30, its time to get up now. She didnt try to shake me awake because she knows what happens when people touch me, even when she touches me, I lose control of myself and forget where

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I am and what exactly Im doing, some doctors call it a panic attack. Arnold a little louder this time, I figure if I stir now it will look realistic, maybe I can say I was having an epic dream, shed know better. Im awake mum Good Arnold, now put on the clothes we laid out for you last night, remember what today is? Yes mum, today is Thursday February 16 and were flying an airplane from Hollywood Airport to Ogunquit Maine. Our departure time is 9:34 am and our arrival time 23:29 p Alright honey thats enough, lets get dressed, the taxi will be here soon and if we keep the driver waiting shell charge us an extra twenty dollars, you know how hard it is to hail a cab at this hour. I didnt know. I sat up in my newly lit room and found two new socks before I stood up on the wood. I patted my head with my left hand twice and craned my head four times. After I licked the doorknob of my room very quickly eight times, I was ready to get dressed. I sat down on my bed and looked at my grey pants very carefully, they looked clean and I knew mum wanted me to hurry so I just closed my eyes and put them on as quickly as I could, not paying attention to all of the dirt that was probably on them. My shirt was red, a good color, with a single yellow stripe that went all around my chest. Once I got my hat centered, I put on sunscreen, three layers of it, beautiful, thick and white protecting me from death everyday. No tumors for me thank you. I got a little bit on my shirt collar and the urge to change was so great that I almost died when my mother called for me to hurry up. I just repeat the mantra in my head when things get too heavy oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no. Now I can make my way down the stairs, but first I have to make my way out of the big wooden door that I closed before I got undressed. I turned the brass knob three times to the left and once to the right to open it. Before I stepped out I glanced at the heater, Megatron wasnt there. I picked up my blue duffle bag by the door and followed mum out to the taxi, just like that, Id never go back to that yellow house again. I knew this taxi driver, her name was Barb and she was mums least favorite. There was always a taxi waiting outside of our home whenever we went anywhere, Mum doesnt drive and Im too young. There was always a woman

driving the taxi too, mum always said something frightening about men, but I was always too distracted to hear everything. Oh no oh no oh no. We moved quickly on a mostly grey and blue highway called the 113; and mum and Barb seemed to settle their differences for this one farewell ride to the airport. So theyre just coming in your house today and shipping all your stuff for you? Said Barb between quick rehearsed drags on her long off white cigarette. Thats what they tell me, said mum, stiffly seated in a perfectly erect position. A shorter dryer cigarette rests crackling between her lips as she rummages through her purse for what? For gum of course. Well just see how much makes it all the way to Maine eh. After the forty-five minute drive was spent, mum once again reached into her purse, this time I knew it was for money. Barb grabbed her hand and said, That wont be necessary sister. She said something about strength and they shared a stiff tense hug. Mother looked down, said thank you, took my arm and we were off. Women like her said mother. I looked up because she sounded angry, I expected more but got nothing. Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no. We moved into the white city of people coming and going, I clung hard. My heart was pounding in the back of my head. I closed my eyes and moved, as we stood in line, I lost track of time and just recited my multiplication tables as quickly as a humanly could trying as hard as possible not to say anything aloud. I heard a big voice say something about a random search to my mum and I opened my eyes. It was a hulking white man with tan lines about his eyes. He was smiling so I figured it was a gag in reference to me. He must have seen my white fists and teary eyes because he didnt even try to save his sinking joke. We made our way through the gate and from a never-beforeseen angle I saw my affects assembled just how I left them in my blue bag. X-ray, you know. said the old bearded man by the machine. I know. I sighed hard, when we finally found our seats I was sweating. Mum went in before me because she had the window seat, I had the aisle seat. When I sat down I could see two old ladies sitting next to each other with light up poker visors and three men that looked a little upset wearing dirty suits with no ties or socks. I figured they were all going home to

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their families, tourists, unlike me. The plane lurched forward and I was pressed back into my seat like an astronaut leaving orbit. Babies cried teenagers cheered parents shushed and I clenched the armrests so hard my chest ached. Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no. As I was dreaming to myself about how we must be getting to Maine soon, and how if I could see out of the window Id be looking over Amish Country in Pennsylvania, The pilot rudely interrupted me with the exciting news of our passing over Utah. I knew then that this would be no ordinary means of transportation. How did all of these people around me find the strength to keep going on with the flight? How could they handle the sounds of the engine and the smells of the people and the artificial pressure? I needed to find out what the secret was that I wasnt being told because as far as I was concerned 16 hours had gone by, and I still had no watch! Another decade past and I was awoken out of my hibernation by a rotund man brushing my arm on his way to the bathroom. I screamed at the thought of his filthy green corduroys strapped to his frame by a thin leather belt touching my arm. It hurt, oh how it hurt to have him touching me, he had no idea though, so I screamed as to hurry him up. He was startled and hissed something at mum and I about how I need to find some manners or something horrid will happen to me in life. Mum shouted back at him for some time before a steward came and ushered the giant back to his seat (or seats). While they were shouting, everything in my whole world slowed down, I could see mothers lips moving at half their actual speed, and the same with the man. Everything always slowed down before I lost control. I remember, in my last moment of clarity on that white plane thinking, maybe something is wrong with me. Maybe Im just a small bit different than everybody else on the planet. I watched the others, to see their reactions, to learn from them. They were rubbernecking vultures. The plane landed, Maine was cold. Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no.

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Editors Brigadier General Ashley Case The one who led the charge Colonel Ronnie Black The one who was supposed to have led the charge Lieutenant Hannah Blaisdell The glue that held our unit together Staff Sergeant Rachael Ferguson A NCO who showed up in a pinch Brian the Bugler Commins The pacifist Ryan the Highlander Dixon There can be only one layout editor that is Private First Class Mitch LesCarbeau Our faculty advisor

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Spring 2009 Green Mountain College Volume 15

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