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Great Lake Review - Fall 1989

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Great Lake Review - Fall 1989
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Great Lake Review
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Editor-in-Chief Martin Steinberg, Treasurer Lisa A. Malo, Staff Marie Beshures Luann Brazill Mark Childs Cheryl Cotter Barbara Flayton Tom Fugalli Justin Goltermann Dot Hoffman Christian Langworthy George Liveris Peter Souveroff
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Great Lake Review is SUNY Oswego's student-edited literary and art magazine. Great Lake Review is published, in general, every semester, and contains primarily student art work, poetry, fiction, and other literary works.

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----FALL 1989 GREAT lAKE REVEW

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----I Knew A Girl Who Sang The Blues Dee Marie ._-----

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nI 1 (I g r e a +, ..I i, e r e v, 1 e w Fall 1989 Editor-in-Chief Martin Steinberg Treasurer Lisa A. Malo Staff Marie Beshures Luann Brazill Mark Childs Cheryl Cotter Barbara Flay ton Tom Fugalli Justin Goltermann Dot Hoffman Christian Langworthy George Liveris Peter Souveroff Copyright 1989 !iJ. Great Lake Review All rights reserved to authors and artists. This magazine is made possible by funds provided by the Student Association and by the efforts of the students of the State University of New York at Oswego.

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u the new wine .." Meet me under the willow tree Come and taste the wine Meet me where the laughs are free Where songbirds talk in rhyme ('II run my fingers through your hair And lift your spirits high Amber skies without a care This is your chance to fly A shallow world with sunken eyes Home of black synthetic lies So let me take you far away Where time cannot dissect the day Beneath the tree the earth is cool Your body is like new Let's dive into the mystic pool And for one day be true Tom Fugalli "Where is the wine, the new wine? Dying on the vine." -Quote from Jim Morrison Mark C 2

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GREAT LAKE REVIEW Fall '89 Volume XXIX ART Todd Williams Dee Marie Kristine DeFio Mark Childs Aaron McDowell Julio A. Claudio Marie Beshures Julio A. Claudio Julio A. Claudio Aaron McDowell Marie Beshures Missy McCormick Darryl Redalieu Jim Gould 1, Dan Damon Mark Childs J I Mark Childs Judd Vetrone Aaron McDowell David Cooper IIIi 1 Corey B. Swertfager 1Todd Williams FICTION Jennifer D. Sawyer Christian Langworthy Justin Goltermann POETRY Tom Fugalli Linda Loomis Lisa Malo J.A. Carle Martin Steinberg Martin Steinberg Davey Cheryl Cotter Martie Tom Fugalli Ron Throop Luann Brazill Luann Brazill Davey Christian Langworthy Nat Siembor Cheryl Cotter Cheryl Cotter Linda Loomis Ron Throop Davey K. Walker Lisa Waterman Sass Ii Robert laRocque Martin Steinberg Cheryl Cotter judy schempf Olivia McCullough Robert laRocqueIi 5 Men Walk Together Without Caps front cover I Knew A Girl Who Sang The Blues inside cover GLR logo 1 untitled 2 untitled 5 untitled 9 Alien Landscape 11 untitled 13 My Two Sides 14 untitled 15 Bucky 18 untitled 20 untitled 22 Anastomotic Energy 25 untitled 29 untitled 31 untitled 32 Why We Don't Sell Bubbles 36 To Elephants untitled 42 You Wouldn't Take Care 43 of Your Own Mother? Courthouse Meltdown inside cover Smashed Girl Being Rained On back cover untitled 6 Wednesdays 21 untitled 38 the newwine 2 Creation Myth 4 A-Pathetic Cadauer 8 Turmoil 9 genre 53: in a spiral notebook 10 A Crossword Poem 10 The Lecture Rag 11 Ontario 12 SUNY 1, SUNY 2 13 Hiding in Sunlight 14 Upon Looking For Culture at the ,15 Chicago Art Institute and Finding Vincent Van Gogh Deceased Painter Obseruations One Night in June 16 untitled 17 Why Bother Growing Up? 18 Calligram "Puppet-Step" 19 Cold Heart 20 You're Like a Good Book Boby 24 untitled 25 Crown of Color 26 Robert E. Lee Indeed! 30 Tienanmen Square 30 Out of Many One People 31 The Widow's Walk 32 Bock From The Docks n Wondering 33 At What I Am Plied Blood 34 Dream 34 untitled 36 there's no school today 37 Our World .43 We Sit In Circles 44

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Creation Myth At a concert October 3, 1989 at Ithaca College, composer Dana Wilson explained that the title of his work, "Shakata," is untraslatable. It conveys the ritualistic nature of his composition which deals with the creation myth of the Australian Aborignes who believe that the world was called into existence with a song. Sing me up from the earth where I've listened in Clay for the song that would lift me and loosen my bonds. Sing me up! Shatter rocks; scatter dust; draw me out. Oh, create me! Create me. Only you have the power, Shakata, Shakata! Only you have the power to create me. Drum me forth from the trees with a piercing tattoo. With a beat pull me straight through the bark; lure me down from the leaves; send the wind; drive the rain. Drum me forth! Oh, create me! Create me. Only you have the power, Shakata, Shakata! Only you have the power to create me. Come and conjure me out of the rivers and seas. With the force of your magic, put blood in my veins. Source of life, primal drop, fill me up with your spell. Oh, create me! Create me. Only you have the power, Shakata, Shakata! Only you have the power to create me. Pull me down from the hills that are distant and dark. Give me strength with your rapture and life with your song. Roll me over the valley and dust me with dawn. Hold me close. Oh create me! Create me. Only you have the power, Shakata, Shakata! Only you have the power to create me. Lift me out of the skies with your transforming power. Fill my lungs with your breath, give me spirit to soar. Give me wings; lift me up; let me fly; Sing me life. Oh, create me! Create me. Sing me up from the earth; drum me forth from the trees. Come and conjure me out of the rivers and seas. Pull me down from the hills. Lift me out of the skies. Sing me love. Sing me life. Only you Shakata! have the power, Shakata! Shakata! Shakata! to create Shakatame Linda Loomis 4

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-'--Aaron McDowell 5

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by Jennifer D. Sawyer "Your anxiety continues. Soon everything hurts, from your stomach to your head to your back. Your blood pressure goes up and your mood goes down. You can't sleep. You feel worse and worse. Your queasy stomach may evolve into colitis or ulcers. Your high blood pressure may bring on a heart attack. Your tension headache may become a migraine, and your back tension may become a permanent spasm condition." Close your eyes lightly. Feel the darkness; examine it. Everything is completely and totally dark, you see nothing. Take a deep breath. Let the cool, refreshing air fill your lungs to a maximum. Hold the air, it is too good to let go of just yet. Slowly exhale, feeling each air particle pass your lips. Your body and mind are one; completely relaxed, stress has momentarily escaped. Erase the darkness to picture a telephone. Any style, any color, the choice is yours. Reach over and adjust the knob marked "volume." Yes, that's it, the one on the bottom left hand side. Turn it up slightly. Perfect. Hold on to something nearby because your image is about to change. The telephone is emitting a rather piercing sound; almost unpleasant. You want it to stop, you want the peaceful image to return. It's too late to turn back now, the sound has been heard. Concentrate on your temples, you feel the rapid pulsation of blood through narrow veins. Your heart begins to pound, faster and faster. Your palms begin to moisten, and perhaps you begin to shift your weight. The more you dwell on the ringing, the louder it becomes. So do something about it. Pick up the receiver and answer it. You can't, can you? Look around you. You're standing on a street corner at dusk. You see a sign designating a one-way street. Unconscious of any effort, you walk until you become aware of another sign. You read it. It says, "Welcome to the Point of No Return." What can this mean? "Where am I, How did I get here?" you ask. The Point of No Return. You know you can't go back now, it is too late. You must arrive at an answer. You know you can't just let it ring. But can you answer it? Are you capable of facing who is on the other end of that telephone wire? You must. That'sit, reach outand answer the phone. A simple, "Hello?" willsuffice. Reach for the phone. "Your anxiety continues. Soon everything hurts,from your stomach to your head to your back. Your blood pressure goes up and your mood goes down. You can't sleep. You feel worse and worse. Your queasy stomach may evolve into colitis or ulcers. Your high blood pressure may bring on a heart attack. Your tension headache may become a migraine, and your back tension may become a permanent spasm condition." The date is January 12th, you are strolling down a quiet street in a small town. Your breath billows from your lips; it is briskly chilly but calm and peaceful. The sun's rays reflect from masses of snowflakes like floating diamonds in the sea. 6

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Suddenly, the air sings of home and your surroundings become intensely familiar. Internal excitement builds as you recall the feeling of relaxing in your most comfortable chair, in front of the fireplace, of course, with your new find; Italo Calvino's "If on a Winter's Night a Traveler." Opening the door, you take your very last breath of winter air, as warmth from within melts over your face. Shedding your coverings, preparing for complete relaxation, you notice a yellow scrap of paper laying helplessly on the counter. You reach to pick it up -it is a handwriting you do not recognize. It simply says: Call 634-4176. Now What? You search your memory. Have you ever seen this number before? No? You feel your muscles tighten ever so slightly. You know now that relaxing with a Calvino by the fireplace is completely out of the question. You must call. But you can't, can you? You pick up the receiver, your fingers delicately touch the numbered squares. 6 ... 3.... You hang up. You can't bring yourself to do it. Your brain begins to race, creating scenarios of the party at the other end. Concentrate on your temples, you feel the rapid pulsation of blood through narrow veins. Your heart begins to pound, faster and faster. Your palms begin to moisten, and perhaps you begin to shift your weight. The hand holding the receiver relaxes and the piece falls to the floor with a startling "thud." Your mind, running wild depicts scenarios of The Other Party. What if it's a man and a woman who carelessly failed to remove the receiver? You'd disturb them. Could it be husband and wife; he with a frying pan raised in his hand over her head, preparing to kill her? The unplanned ringing of the phone could save her life. Could it be him? That shadow that has been following you for weeks, for months. Is he watching you right now? Has he finally found you? You will never know. Don't let yourself be helplessly sucked into the trap of fear. Fear of The Unknown. When you become afraid of The Unknown, you will forever be afraid for as long as there is existence, there will be The Unknown. Are you prepared to be trapped forever? Defend yourself now and dial the number. You can barely hear anything except the pounding thud of pulsating blood rushing through constricted veins. Your fingers are numb, but you touch the keys with such confidence. 6 3 4.. 4 1 7 .. 6 Don't hang up now, the hardest part is over. You hear it ringing, do they? It rings and rings. The scenarios rush through your mind once again. Are they lovers ignoring my call? Is she dead yet? Is he watching me now, laughing? The Other Party isn't answering, Why? Your body is frozen in place, you cannot move. You wait ... The piercing rings echo in your head like a fire alarm early on a cold morning. You're reaching to pick up the receiver but you can't reach it. Try harder, you have to know now. Hurry and reach for it, it won't ring forever. 7

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By now you have realized that the Lover/Murderer/Shadow is not going to answer Your body relaxes somewhat; enough to place the receiver back on the hook. YOtil stomach turns, you will never know ... You finally reach it, you pick it up and place it on your ear. Involuntarily you utter, "Hello?" You hear a loud click, and ... Silence. Quotations taken from: Anxiety & Panic Attacks: Their Cause and Cure. Robert Handly with Pauline Nefl Rawson Associates: New York, 1985. pages 6 -7. Also: Pages 132-139, In a Network of Lines That Interlace, from !tala Caluino's If On ( Winter's Night a Traveler. A-Pathetic Cadaver Two eyes may see, but may not watch. Two ears may hear, but may not listen. A mind may think, but may not react. A mouth may talk, but may not speak up. Two legs may stand, but may not stand up. A human may function, but if he or she does not watch, listen, react, speak up or stand up, apathy will continue to infect the masses. Like a contagious disease, it will fester, leaving behind in its ruins apathetic cadaver after pathetic cadaver. Lisa Malo B

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Julio A. Claudio Turmoil Turmoil, like the winds of hell-fire Spew me in the air. I am twisting, turning, turbulant. I heat, I burn, I rage. I breathe the chaos. I spew it out, to all of my enemies. I reel in the delight of madness. I live for it, I have become it. Ispread chaos, my ally, to all that surround me. With deranged features and hideous smell My aura encompasses alL The rotten corpses of life Wither and falter to the earth. I float, consumed in my own fury, Alone and lonely, Friendless and bitter, Burning in my own created hell, Never to die, but to burn for ever, Hurting. -J. A. Carle 9

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genre 53: in a spiral notebook I've been experimenting in many different mediums. Lately, I've written with pencils, pens (both erasable and otherwise), in a spiral notebook, on a roll of paper on a noteroller, on Apples (not IBM's or California fresh with dangerous oil based pesticides) and written into my memory to be copied later, not to mention the kinds of weather I was in. In the future, I plan to experiment with smalls, larges and extra larges. Martin Steinberg a crossword poem 1. Referring to a single noun; it is missing from the sentence "ball bounced." Also the first letter of the alphabet. .....3 ..... 2. a compound word made up of the word for a Christian religious symbol and the word for a basic unit of ........ .. ..language. Also the second word of the title of this poem. ..... .. .I .... .... .3. a four letter word. .. ...... ... ..... ,.... .. .. ....... ...... ... ... .... ....... .. .... .... -Martin Steinberg :::::::.:::::::::: :::::: :.::::: :::::: 10

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Alien Landscape Marie Beshures The Lecture Rag Eyelids start to droop, head starts to nod. I know he's only doin' his job, but does he have to be so boring? Tryin' to pay attention, trying to take notes, but priorities, man tryin' to keep from snoring. Davey 11

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Ontario I walk along the Weathered rocks and See scratches of your Existence. But you are Gone. I find a flat slab of Granite, Tilted like a Lounge chair. I decide to sit. The waters of the Lake are still. I thrive in the Solitude. Soon, Two figures Appear. They are playing The role: One Male and the Other female. She sits perched ana Dainty rock, crouched, Yet, playful. He stands and Demonstrates his Strength by the Thrusting of a tiny Pebble. My breakfast thrusts Too. Cheryl Cotter 12

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SUNY 1. SUNY 2. I am alone. Your editors don't talk about me. I am not a freshman, And I am not a senior. I did that. A long time ago Your editor was in 1st grade. I have hopes, dreams, and goals; I have bills, insurances and debts. I am your mother (my daughter is a senior in high school). I want to teach. Your children when -not if they become. I am alone. Here. With you. I am alone. My society recognized me in textbooks as a disease erased. [am everywhere. And I teach your children to be love. I can't afford to park here. I am fixed income, an unrecognized part of college society. A profitable contribution to life. If you allow me to park. Martie Julio A. Claudio 13

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Hiding In Sunlight No matter how long you close your eyes Or cloak reality in a disguise The problems remain Stop hiding your head in sunlight to avoid being blinded by shadow You see what you want to see You hear what you want to hear The door is always locked on your fortress of fear Still hiding your head in sunlight to avoid being blinded by shadow And the walls of your fortress are so thin Its a matter of time before something gets in But you cannot hear me, you're smiling too loud And you cannot see with your head in a cloud You're setting yourself on fire to avoid being burned by the cold My Two Sides 14 -Tom Fugalli Julio A. Clal

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Upon Looking For Culture At The Chicago Art Institute And Finding Vincent Van Gogh -Deceased Painter Ah Vincent, look at their eyes! If you could only sell your swirly mysteries To someone other than St. Peter! You could do without unearthly fame And paint a masterpiece in my dusty room. A lonely place Vincent, Yet one where no money will buy them a head. Come Vincent. Your sweat could never stain my canvas. We will become rich from a beautiful wallpaper; A freely celebrated room Filled with curly colors and minds discovered. Ron Throop 15

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Observations One Night in June it is late and iam sitting in a chair no where and my mind is everywhere the boys walk by my window girls are so stupid they say i take blue smoke into my lungs and worry of an early death theagrivatingly consist ant humming drum of my life is making me crazy earlier today i napped in a bed still heavy with the scent of you and sex and dreamed of somebody else when i can not find an ashtray or am too lazy to look i flick the ashes into the palm of my hand they only burn for a second then they do not but the burning of the mind is daily hourly always i smell the stench of burnt brain cells and the smoke leaves out of my nose i should be studying the acidity of rain in the streams of the mountains and the growing hole in the ozone layer then why am i sitting filling the room with smoke of my brain and cigarettes and a page with silly words Luann Brazill 16

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i sit and stare forcing a memory of your face that does not exist behind the eyes of this lifetime who were you that died and left me after years of taking care of you nursing you loving you i want to touch you but can not i wanted to touch you then but could not i wonder if your existence was real he said that it was he held my ring and in his brain saw the heavy wedding band that you had given to me no ring sits on that finger in this incarnation yet somehow somewhere when i dream with my eyes opened wide i see that thick banded hand rubbing a washcloth over a fevered forehead feeding a soft dying mouth home-made soup and suddenly i am crying because i know that if i stood over your grave i would not even know that it was your shell below me whispering a name i do not recognize as my own Luann Brazill 17

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Why Bother Growing Up? Little boy. Skippin'stones. Happy. Three skips, four skips, five. Champ! I'm the best in the neighborhood. Simple pleasures. Teenager. Poppin' pimples. Worried. One zit, two zits, three. Crater face. She'll never go out with me now. Simple worries. College student. Takin'tests. Stressed. Poli sci, bio, econ. Finals. I'm never gonna pass. Serious worries. Just married. Payin' bills. Panicked. Water, gas, electric. Mortgage. We'll never make ends meet. Serious problems. Elderly woman. Slowly dyin'. Petrified. Housing, food, muggings. Health care. How am I going to survive? Only worry. Why bother growing up? Davey Marie BeshuresBucky 18

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Calligram "Puppet-Step" Over rice paddy you kick back water-stumbling like a frightened drake with wounded wings targeted by seasoned hunters. Your life suspended by reflections you puppet step around the dead who soak-up water. The bloated bodies wear cold shoulders and blue faces bobbing, bobbing something new enough to break you and absorbed by grim thoughts you realize you walk on a twoway mirror through which the dead can not leap back. Christian Langworthy 19

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Cold Heart Wrapped in the cold cloak of your anger, your body set like flint, Iknow you would cut me the most deeply were I only to caress you. Nat Siembor 20

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Wednesdays by Christian Langworthy The boy didn't know the man's name. His mother knew, but she wouldn't say much. He bought the boy boxing gloves. The boy thought that he was a nice man. Then the MP's came and took him away. That was Wednesday night and he remembered they took him away without a word being spoken. The man had on a nice pressed uniform when he came, but when he left, the coat looked a little crumpled. The MP's wore nice helmets too. Outside, it had been raining. The front yard was beginning to flood. The rain stung the metal shingles and ran down into the eaves. The boy slept in the back room of the small apartment. He was curled on a mat covering a cement floor. It was dark. There were no windows. A gust of wind rattled the door. The boy woke up. He couldn't see well in the dim light, but he heard a man. It was Wednesday. His mother fried fish in a frying pan on a small stove burner. A cold draft came from under the door. She looked at the floor and turned the fish over with a fork, and then uncovered a pot of steaming rice. In front of her feet was a bundle of cash. The draft blew a few bills around. On Wednesday, the boy walked past a pool hall not a block from his home. The door was open. Inside, the shadows of men moved and there was the cracking of balls like the sound of shots being fired. There was a clamor of voices, but all the boy heard was:" ... Charlie's women!" In the haze of cigarette smoke, he saw the familiar face of a man. A man who wore green. On his lap sat a pretty woman. The man stroked her with his hands. This Wednesday, the boy ran home. He opened the door to the apartment. "Phoung, close the door. It will rain soon. It's Monsoon season!" All Wednesdays were like that. The apartment was dark. The boy was asleep, but noises woke him up. He was curious, and opened a bamboo door into the front room. He could make out two forms, one on top of the other. The door creaked. There was a hush of voices. In the darkness, he heard his mother's voice. "Go back to sleep Phoung. You need your rest!" The boy began to cry. Later that day, a bread boy clapped his teak sticks. The mother bought two baguettes. The boy was awake from his nap. She brought him a loaf. "You need a bath. I should give you one." She poured water into a tub and then took off the boy's clothing. He climbed into the tub and his legs were submerged under clear water. She washed his feet. Wednesdays were always like that. 21

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You're like A Good Book Baby "What book is that You're reading?" "Is it scary, grotesque And bloody?", 1ask You tell me it's About half like That. "Have you read it Before?" "Three times", You say You say it's Good. I can't understand Why you'd want to Read a book you've alreadY Read. You smile at Me. I say, "Let's make Love." "Why would you want To do that", you say, "You've already Done it before?" Cheryl Cotter 24

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sz "lj1noW lnoti uI l,npns E SEM I

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Crown of Color View One: Kaleidescope I drench myself with color. Wild and wet, I shampoo henna highlights in my hair And scrub with burnt sienna till my fair Skin's burnished. I trace my silhouette with gay vermillion, spray a sparkling jet Of powdered autumn goldenrod and wear Lavish lengths of crimson draped to flare And billow in a supple minuet. Rose and pearl and layers of plum enfold Me as I wrap the spectrum tightly around My loneliness and bind the seams to stay Securely joined against the crystal cold Of solitude. After you left, I found desire for color to dispel the gray. View Two: Monochromatic Desire for color to dispel the gray Shadows brings me back again to dance Across this heather-shrouded field. Some chance Encounter with a periwinkle stray Petal or fallen scarlet feather may Replenish missing pigment to enhance My monochromatic memories. This trance Of somber tones will yield to a bright display of tangerine and violet and azure blue. I'd like to waltz through waves of aquamarine And splash in scarlet satin shoes. I think I'll gather lime and lemon skins to strew Along the path and buff them to a sheen With remnant visions of gold and fabric of pink. 26-

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View Three: After Church Remnant visions of gold and fabric of pink Recall a distant afternoon that's bright With August sun. Then, in the perfect light Of noon, we gathered outdoors, We touched the brink Of September and stood suspended in a blink Which was neither summer nor fall. With both in sight, We hovered and chirped like birds before the flight, Politely seeking words or ways to link Ourselves in flocks which blaze the sky with black Across its indigo and violet dome. In echoes from the organ chimes, a knell Chilled the air around our fragile pack. Afraid of changing tones, we hurried home. I was there when all the colors fell. View Four: Despair I was there when all the colors fell, Gouging craters in the tear-softened ground And pelting frightened children. I ran, but found No shelter, no relief; I heard that knell And saw the ruby juice from my veins swell The craters. I gathered pieces and tried to pound The colors together, but they scattered around, So I held them against my skin, which warmed them well And fused them into one crayon. It made A rainbow to draw the lines again and show A path. I filled the sallow spots with blush And coral and shaded quiet places with jade. Time became an iridescent glow With a stroke that left the earth alive and lush. 27

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View Five: Phantasmagoria With a stroke that left the earth alive and lush, You appeared, flamingo on your arm and turquois in your eyes. We thought no harm Could come from one more waltz; we soaked the brush And drew a brilliant scene in such a rush That minutes moved fast forward. Your charm Was silver in a pallet dark with alarm. You dazzled, burning bright in a high flush Which sparkled with an effervescent glow Awash with optimistic tones. But time Slows down; your charms and magic cease to reach Me. In shadows on the steps we used to know, I turn from blaring orange as I climb And seek instead a hush of golden peach. View Six: Healing Today I seek a hush of golden peach And cherish mauve to salve and heal. Caressing cranberry silken scarves, I'll feel Cascades of velvet umber as I reach Into this prism for a balm. I'll teach Myself to trust the world again and seal The past away. Pastels of sage and teal And coral threads of dawn across the beach Crescendo on a rising passion tide. I'll sing! I'll walk on salmon sands and be A troubadour in solo serenade, Or I'll conduct a symphony with pride And set the tempo so everyone will see That I control my future, unafraid. I 28

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View Seven: Box of 64 I control my future! Unafraid, I crack a box of crayons open wide To dump a million choices out beside My coloring book. I herald a parade of possibilities. From shade to shade, I march and never lose my stride Because I am the majorette. I glide on sapphire-studded strings, or promenade, Or tango. And when cerise is on my mind, I soar to royal heights. In my ballet, Cobalt blue and bronze will pirouette On a russet stage, and lavender will find welcome. Awash with confidence today, I drench myself with color, wild and wet. Linda Loomis 29

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Robert E. Lee Indeed! Yes, Robert E. Lee is alive today and living in New Orleans. Yes, he is! I've seen him standing there erect, 50 ft. High above the city. Vet he blends into the concrete like highway hobos Who share a similar past. Yes he stands there; frozen, white and guilty Like a dead man before trial. And the shadows surround him: Proud shadows! Martin Luther King Shadows! Mad Memphis Morning Shadows! Yes, Robert E. Lee is alive today and living in New Orleans, but standing alone in his dirty cotton past! There are no colors lighting him Though the sun has bleached his blackness. Yes, he is perched there rotting on a Confederate limb Awaiting sentence from a jury of crows. Ron Throop Tienanmen Square Halos fall from eternal heaven to mortal earth. uncrowned angels, dead, litter crowded city streets. Paradise has been found and lost again. Dying children cry at weeping poet's feet. Crows rise in flocks to blot out the sun. maiden moon has been carried away in the wake of a dove. I was sleeping in the square dreaming of love when the bombs burst through the sky. Birds take wing and hide in fear from worlds that are stained with blood. The politicians cast their futile stones into a flood of polluted tears. Death dances on marionettes' strings in front of dreamers' hollowed eyes. They are cut down before the poisoned sword of Mother's decreed lies. The flowers that once filled the square are crushed under the weight of the young, and freedom floats through the muggy air 'round the heads of heroes unsung. Davey 30

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Mark Childs Out of Many One People When asked where I'm from I reply "New York City" If someone however picks up my accent, I elaborate I could have been born in England, Africa, Spain or Ireland Or, Icould have been an Arawak born in "Jamaica", land of wood and water I guess my people started out as Arawaks living on an isle in the caribbean Years after, blacks were stolen secretly from their homeland in Africa Robbed of their golden heritage, brought to this isle to replace the Arawaks as slaves Here our blood mixed I was no longer Black or Indian, but west indian But, my people did not stop here My blood was again mixed with a W.A.S.P. I then became an outcast, being ridiculed by both whites and blacks But my people did not stop here Blood mixed again with Irish Who am I? I realize I fit more into the Jamaican society, I am not the only one in this predicament Blood mixes again, this time with black I am born, free from slavery I am Jamaican I am black My language is mixed with that of Spanish, English, African and Arawak This distinguishes me from the rest of the world Because I am Jamaican Out of many came one people including me -K. Walker 31

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The Widow's Walk Standing there, against the rail Spirit loyal, body frail Gazing out to,ards the sea, Eyes set complacently Despite the terror in her heart With every sound she'll jump or start; No one else can ever talk Of lives lost on Widow's Walk Discounting those lost to the sea, Speaking more importantly Of mourning souls within the wives, Crooning dirges to lost lives ... Restlessness the ocean weaves With every storm she will bereave, And wonder, which is harder still Imagining a life unfilled Until at last the ship will dock Harmed by neither wave or rock The wife will return to her groom, Wary of impending doom. Lisa Waterman Mark Childs 32

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Back From The Docks n Wondering At What I am Plied Peg n I n Hope were there. Bodies fell, pell mell from a man's callous sand. He walked on They remained wide-eyed n lifeless. Peg n I n Hope sighed. Some bled from the mouth One An older one-eyed thought Looked alone in deadpan relief Giving unto belief It tiredly took the hook. Peg n I n Hope wondered Watching its pregnant belly Borne open n plainly spilling out before us Was it for us? (I'd thought) As one sprung By miraculous spasm N threw itself from the slew Into air Hope caught it n thought Peg n I unaware That one was alive after all N flopped wildly n freely. Though wit was still strung to the rest Through the head It was from them n still madly struggling When the wanton whim of an angler Brought him upon it N laid it Dead. Peg n I rose from Hope As only Hope would stay. -Sass 33

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Blood Is there blood on your hands? Have you looked? Every day Someone Somewhere Dies for something right What have you done to help? Is their blood on your hands? Have you looked? Robert Larocque Dream Dead Men and Murderers face each other, stashing behind trees. "Vampires" a voice says. Which? I look. Fuck that! Vamoose. They chase me as I run. backyardfrontyardstreetfrontyardbackyardfence climb backyardfrontyardstreetfrontyardbackyardfence climb over to a field run through to a meadow run through thicker to forest thicker to meadow to field to fence climb to backyardfrontyardstreetand Smash! into a kid who lived next door to me when I was a kid, who falls back and lies motionless, dead. I tower over. 34

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I hear behind me, turn around and Dead Men and Murderers are. See a Vampire bite a Dead Man who writhes into a Vampire and bites a next Vampire who slugs into a Dead who is bitten by a next Vampire Man I hear behind me, turn around and the dead kid grows into a vampire I run to my house, bolt the door and hide in the big kitchen pantry. In the dark, My heart pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds pounds I breathe easier now and I turn on the light Jars and cans of food are neatly stacked. Smells are fresh and full of wood and bread. And smells are fresh of bread and I'm hungry and I look on the low shelf and see the white paper bag of Italian Bread and I break off pieces one after another and chew on them and chew on them for a while until I feel the chewing in my jaw and then I think that there could be Ice Cream stashed in the freezer. I go out of the pantry to check and I open the freezer and over half of a half-gallon of Chocolate Ice Cream is there. I take it, open the drawer for a spoon and begin eating away. I eat spoon after spoon of Ice Cream and feel nothing but spoon after spoon, cold and mocha spoon after spoon, chocolate soft spoon after spoon boldly flows spoon after spoon after awesome spoon ... Footsteps! Could be Dad! I go to put the Ice Cream back in the freezer, but I'm too short to reach it. I throw it and the spoon in the garbage, close my eyes and see forests, meadows and fields. Martin Steinberg 35

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I bought the Car Because it was Orange I took the Class Because it was In the Afternoon I slept with You Because of your Brown Hat Cheryl Cotter G Judd VetroneWhy We Don't Sell Bubbles to Elephants 36

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r there's no school today my sister and 1 are squirming as Mom wraps us in swaddling clothes she prepares us for war against the cold hats with big bright tassles mittens that don't match boots with too many laces and that black ugly snowsuit the one Dad got at work once set loose in the unyellowed snow we make our mark snowballs are smashed against the garage door angels array the patio and storybook characters are lined up frozen down by the swing Mom shakes her head smiling as we stand with red raw noses and chattering teeth in the doorway dripping on the carpet hot cocoa thaws our insides and chases away our sniffles 1 hear Mom sigh heavily in the kitchen as 1 exclaim with a mouthful of marshmallow "I hope there's no school again tomorrow!" -judy schempf 37

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by Justin Golterman I had met him outside New York City, strolling his happy way along the Taconic Parkway, pumping out a nameless tune on a harmonica, peering over his rather full backpack regularly to watch for cars. He certainly was an odd sight! A pillow bulged from between his back and pack, while a black sleeping bag hung from straps beneath the pack. A leather satchel was strapped across his front, the cap of a water bottle just peeking out from a flap on it. His dusty brown hair blew forwards as cars sped by him to unpredictable destinations, crawling forth into the anonymity of a thick traffic jam. every few minutes, he would turn back to the traffic and jerk out his thumb, searching for the one unliscenced cabbie who would carry him to the city. I drove alongside him. "Hopin, friend," I called tohim. He looked atme briefly and smiled, pulling the door wide. "Is it okay if I throw my pack in back?" he asked in a voice that hinted at recently gained manhood. "Sure thing." He opened the back door, and clunk! went his pack, sleeping bag, and pillow, and all the travel of however many days in the country. He got in the front. "Hi, my name's Jeoffrey Scott," I said. "Mine's William, but I'd prefer you call me WiL" We shook hands. "Going somewhere?" I inquired. "Not yet. I'm just wandering. By the way, is there somewhere we can stop so I can grab myself a meal? I'm starved." I smiled. "You look it. Wandering is great for that. I know of a great subshop where we can get the best subs this side of New York. In fact, I was going there when I picked you up. Or, how about a pizzeria?" He shook his head. "No need to trouble over me. The sub shop sounds fine." I regarded the man. From my judgements, he appeared to be in his early twenties. His dusty Reeboks and Levi's jeans told of a few leisurely days of travel along the highway. A thick gray sweatshirt covered his broad frame, and I looked back to all the other hitchikers I passed countless times, trudging their hopeful, yet tired and realist ways along the same path to New York, holding out for fame and glory. Conditions for those people were uncertain. And yet, Wil's path held unhidden certainty, almost as if he had been nominated by his senior class in high school to be the most likely to succeed. I felt like Wil was my best friend. "The subshop it is, then." We waited ten minutes before traffic finally started picking up, shortly after which, it stopped. Like all the other drivers about me, I banged the horn in fury, cursing under my breath. Exhaling in annoyance, I decided to find out something about Wi\. "So, Wil," I started. "What are you doing? I mean, hitchhiking?" "Oh, I'm seeing the sights of America. I plan to write a book about it." "Really? I'm a writer myself. I could recommend a few publishers to you." "Nah, I'll find the first one that comes along. I'll be successfuL" "Inside, I was laughing and yelling with the sarcasm of those who have failed and seen others fail. I nodded to him. "What makes you so sure of yourself?" "My senior class in high school nominated me the most likely to be successful among my peers." I looked back at the condition of the jam, and nodded. "That is always a prerequisite. We arrived at the subshop after half an hour of obnoxious cabbies, strung out traffic cops, aimless bums, and plenty of tired white and blue collar workers, all going somewhere for some peace, before continuing the same habitual circuit the next day. Wil ate in an odd manner, but I guess at the time I couldn't really blame him. He would take huge wolfing bites, then chew slowly, as if tasting each separate cold cut, each leaf of lettuce, each drop of mayo. He seemed to have conflicting priorities. On one hand, his body was yearning for nourishment, on the other, his tongue swished for flavor. Eventually, his tongue won out, and he relaxed, finishing his sub and then moving on to his soft drink, which he sipped from sparingly. 'THAT," Wil indicated the wax paper wrappings on which there was a shred or two of lettuce, "was the best sub I have ever eaten." "I'm, glad you liked it," I replied. "Aren't you going to finish your drink?" He shook his head. "After a sub like that, everything else pales by comparison." "If the same thing happened to me, I'd rather be thin." He smiled with some humor. "Good point," he remarked, and took a long pull from the cup. 38

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"Listen, where are you going to stay?" "I hadn't really thought about it," he said, stirring the ice inside the cup with his straw. "How about staying at my place?" He regarded the ice and Pepsi in his cup thoughtfully. "I couldn't do that." I tried reasoning with him, but he would have none of it. Eventually, I asked him how much money he had for a hotel, and the conversation ended there. We pulled into my drive, and were approaching the house, when he grabbed my shoulder lightly. "How long am I going to stay?" he asked. "You leave when you can afford something less humble than what I can offer," I replied. "Sound good?" I watched him as he knocked this back and forth through his mind. He started to nod imperceptibly, and with some amount of regret, it seemed. It was rather obvious that he would not like to impose on my home. "Yeah. Don't think twice if you want me out, though." "I hope nothing comes to that." From that day, Wil and I started what is probably the most mutual friendship ever. Our friendship swayed, though, when some neighbors called on me to complain about ... "Loud music??!!" I roared incredulously. "I don't even have a stereo that works in this place!!" I told Mrs. Gruber. Mrs. Gruber was a snotty, dishonest, hateful old hag, and it is a wonder Mr. Gruber did not have a heart attack during their marriage, but certainly not why he was out late getting gassed at the local bars. "Well, I still say you and that, that ... I don't know who ... were playing that sinful rock and roll ." I cut her off, partly because I had something to say, but mainly because Mrs. Gruber was one of those people you like to interrupt when they open their mouths. "FIRST of all, Mrs. Gruber, I am a writer, and loud music disturbs me as much as it does you, and SECONDLY, Wil doesn't either. Now leave me to my writing and go away!" I shouted at her, slamming the door in her face. "Wil!" I called. He muffled out something I couldn't discern. "Wil?" I called again. I heard some noise that sounded like choking. I ran upstairs, and found him, gargling in front of the mirror in my bathroom. He turned his head and regarded me with question in his eyes. He bent to the sink and spit out his mouthwash. Looking to me, he asked, "Yeah?" "Have you been playing loud music at night?" I asked. "Errr," he started. He seemed worried. "Yeah, I have. I meant to keep it a secret from you until tomorrow afternoon. I fixed your stereo." I was rather astonished. "Really?" He nodded, white foam from his newly brushed teeth in a ring about his mouth. "Why?" "Well, I figured that tomorrow, as part of mystay here, I would cook up a meal, chill some beers, and surprise you with a fixed stereo." "You didn't have to do that," I said. He nodded with embarrassment. Later that night, we were listening to some news on my stereo, when Wi! asked me something. "Jeff? Are you really happy with this city?" I thought about this. "In New York? Well, yeah. I like the FEEL of New York ..." "No, I mean happy! The two can be mutually exclusive. Do you like running about in the crowds?" "Huh?" "Imean, does the mundaneness of itthrill you?" I wondered what he was getting at. "What are you ..." "Just think about the question," he ordered, cutting me off. I thought about this. "Well, I'm not really happy, no. But I like where I'm living. Why?" "Just wondering." He got up. "I'll clear the table. You go ahead and work on getting your next story sold." He left the room. Wit's question had really sparked a flame in me, the flame of impatience, the impatience that sparks when we reach the age when we can become independent of our parents, live on our own. Was I really happy in New York? Would I be happier in, say a smaller and quieter town? And then, I wondered why Wil had asked if I was 39

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happy where I was. His behavior recently had become strange, and I was forced to review what I had learned of him. From what I knew at the time, he had no parents, no family. Perhaps he did, and they wished not to acknowledge him for whatever reason. Or maybe they had all died. Whatever the reason, he heard not a word from anyone, and he did not make any calls to any family members. He also did not mention his family. Wil also had no friends, other than me. He had an excuse; he did not like to make too many friends, because he liked wandering, and did not want anything to tie him to one area. Or was that really the reason? At any rate, he called no friends on the telephone. Wil had no work record, no pieces of writing that he was able to have published. So how did he survive on the road? I was to find out soon I decided. Just then, Wil returned from the kitchen. "Everything's in the dishwasher ..." I looked up at him. He seemed to see right through me, as if he knew I was wondering about him. "What's the matter? Got a minor case of writer's block?" "Something like that. Maybe Ijust need something to get me thinking, let me loose." "Iknow the feeling. I need something like that every otherday. And every otherday it gets stronger." "What do you do?" He stepped over to the window sill and leaned against the frame, looking out upon the summer sunset over the city. He did not answer. "You leave, don't you?" He looked at me, as if to ask "Do I?" then looked out at the sunset, and nodded. "Say, do you mind if I use your word processor?" he asked with a whiff of spontaneity. "Yeah," I said, still in my own world, searching for answers that would become apparent to me over time. "Think I'll go for a drive." As I drove my car down the bustling city streets, I looked about, trying to feel my place in the animosity of traffic and people. I saw busy executives walking into large apartment buildings, and I saw so many people above me. I saw street bums, staggering down steps into cellar bars, and saw so many people below me. I saw myself, smack in the middle, still wondering where I was amongst the crowd. It had seemed over the past nine years, I was noticing more and more, how old I was getting, and how dissatisfied I was with where I lived. And not liking it. Seeing my lifeflash past me, telling myself there was nothing I could do. I was still young atthe time, but I had a staggering blow, brought on by the entrance of Wi) into my life. I didn't blame him, how could I? I didn't know him. It was then I had decided to ask Wil who he was. I returned home to find a note typed out on my keyboard: Wil was gone. He was going to take the Staten Island Ferry to see Lady Liberty, and then he was leaving. I jumped into my car and found him at the busy launch, leaning against the railing of the walkway that led to an awaitng ferry. I leaned against the railing next to him. We stood there, each mentally regarding the other. Finally, Wil spoke. "God, the moon is so beautiful tonight!" "Wil, we've got to talk." "I know what you're going to ask, so I might as well tell you. Join me on the ferry? I paused. "Sure." We found a deserted deck, and stood near the front, watching the moon drift through transparent clouds. "You know, when you travel as much and as long as I have, you reach a point where you just have to stop," he began. "You have to look at that mountain or that wheat fieldandsay'God, how beautiful!' That'swhy I travel. Tonot spoil the effect bygetting used to the same breathtaking thing." "I don't wish to be rude, but who are you?" It's me, Wil! You know me, Jeff!" "No, no. Who are you?" "Who I am, does not matter. I'm happy, that's al1." He fell quiet for a moment. "Quiet ... and old." "You look terribly young." "I'm not. You were wondering earlier, about my family?" I nodded. 40

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"My parents died in oh ..." he pinched the bridge of his nose in concentration. "I'd say they died in 1938. Car accident. I was only nine. The accident did irreparable damage to me, in that I aged seven years. When I saw this, I eventually figured out why. It was simple. I was terribly unhappy, and the stress caused, aged me." I didn't understand. He must have noticed this on my face. "It is a little known fact that the secret to life is happiness. Human moods are much misunderstood. Rage deforms people, causing them to become hateful, mindless, much like that emotion. Envy makes theives, third degree murderers, adulterers out of people who are ususally honest. Jealousy does likewise. Greed make criminals, killers, and misers at the drop of a brief case loaded with money. "And happiness," he continued, "creates a magical effect that can spread like wildfire to the masses, making the mindless, hateful peple loving and caring! It makes the envious more happy with what they've got. It makes the greedy abandon what little they have grabbed for themselves, or at the least, share it amongst the needy! "And," here he leaned his head sideways to me. "Happiness nullifies age," he hissed in an almost imperceptible whisper. We reached the other end of our destination. "I want to show you something before I leave," he said to me. In a deserted parking lot, he pulled out a small compact disc player from his satchel, and pulled out two sets of headphones. "Here, put this on your temples." "My temples?" "Yeah. Imade some modifications and adjustments to this CD player." He plugged the phones into the CD player and looked at me. "You ready? 'Cause you're gonna," he said something else, but I couldn't hear it as he pressed the play switch. Icursed as the parking lot around us blanked out and we sped down a set of rails in ... "My God!!! This is a roller coaster!!!" I screamed. "Isn't this great?!!!" Wil yelled back. "Where'sNew York?!! Where'sthe parking lot?!!!" Wil was laughing like crazy. I felt giddy and ready to throw up. "Don't worry, New York's still here. This is an illusion." "ThisisrealifIeversawit! WhooaaaaaaaaaAAAHHHHHHHHggg!!!!" Iscreamed, as we shot down two hundred feet with twenty other people. "Can they hear us?" I yelled to wi!. "No. They just react to whatever happens on this disc." Suddenly, Wil reached down to something at his side, and POOF! came New York. Why did you stop?" I asked. "I have more to show you," he said, putting a new disc into the player. He pressed a button. "Wow." I was on a wind glider, two miles up, gliding about some mountains. Someone yelled to me. "Hey, Jeff! Let's land!" Wil called. The glider dipped confidently, almost as if it knew where it was going. The wind blew into my face, making me squint. "Fall" yelled wil. "Are you crazy?" "Chances are, you'll lie flat when you land, and the headphones will be pulled from your head as you pull away! New York will arrive then!" Wil said. "Aw, what the heck," I muttered, and pulled myself from the glider, which dipped forward, dumping me off. I was falling. Suddenly, I heard a click! and I was skydiving over great rolling fields of variable green! Wil was sliding down next to me. "Beautiful, eh?" "So beautiful I could puke. I feel safe, though." "How about something less reactive?" Click! went the fields, and click! came a mountain road. We were standing at the edge, watching clouds of grey crawl past breathtakingly striking mountains. "What's that over there?" I pointed. "That's Pike's Peak," Wi! told me. "You've seen all this?" "Yeah." "Why?" Wil reached down into his satchel and clicked the stop button on the CD player. 41

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"To be happy, Jeff. With these, 1can be happy," he said, holding up some compa, discs. "That's why you travel, right? To collect more of these moments, capture their feE to make you stay young." "Well, that and the fact that people begin to notice that Idon't age very well. Als, you get depressed if you stay too many years in an area, get to know people and SE them age, then die. "With you, it was different. You were like a best friend to me, right from the stal You seemed unhappy with your life. And now that you know just about all there is' know about me, I have a question for you. Would you like to join me?" I couldn't decide. He was offering happiness, a free life, the sights of the wor!, eternal youth, maybe even eternal life. What could New York offer me? llooked at wondering. It offered me shelter, security, a relatively certain future. It offered me sights and sounds of the dirty subways, the pizzerias, the subshops, H traffic cops, the obnoxious cabbies, the executives in their apartment buildings, tr bums in their bars. it offered me a place amongst society. A place. "I can't Wi!. I've got a life here. It may not be the best, but I've got one." "I've got one, too ..." "No you don't, Wil," I said. "Think about it. if you never die naturally, and are nevI killed, that's NOT life. Death and age are a part of life ..." "But unhappiness is, too," Wi! warned. "Unhappiness will ruin what you've got! "That may be true, BUT there is usually enough happiness to offset its effects, I even the two sides." "You're staying with them." Wil seemed dejected. "Aren't you? "Yes," I said. "You're not happy?" "I don't think so. I'm not sure," I said, watching the moon. "Then ..." "No, Wi!." Wil grabbed my shoulder. "Good luck, Jeff," he said, and was gone. I eventually left Staten Island, and was walking back to my car, when I found mYSl whistling. The tune seemed foreign to me, then I realized I was whistling "New Yorl New York!" and drove back into the city streets, back into the life of New York. Bac into my place. Aaron McDowe' 42

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Our World Winter wind; Billowy tresses of thinning trees. And we walk, Hand in hand; By stagnant waters ... Already beginning to freeze. Once cool, blue and rippling ... Now slug rolling under smooth ice. An animal lolls across the ice. It's bluish-grey tongue Hanging out of a slack mouth. "You shouldn't have drunk the water," I think. It collapses on the ice. We continue to walk ... The proprietor and I. He keeps looking straight ahead, His eyes carefully averted, from anything too disturbing. While I look over ... The rest of our dying world. Olivia McCullough David Cooper 43

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We Sit In Circles We sit in circles looking outside one another (around each other) Furtive glances bouncing back (ricochet quick) off emotionless walls into slow motion stares outside these walls-We are never smiling when we're laughing -in politeness -and Never touching eye to frightened eye only face to stoney face -and (sometimes) -Hand to frightened elbow -and Never knowing What we're scared of always too scared to ask -if anyone else -is frightened too -and Of course we are Robert LaRocque 44

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Courthouse Meltdown Corey B. Swerlfager

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COD uD 00 F# 2) Todd Williams