WRITER’S BLOC: WORDS FROM THE KITCHEN TABLE compiled and edited by Yael Horowitz Text Copyright © 2015 by Yael Horowitz and St. Vincent’s Soup Kitchen. Illustration Copyright © 2015 by Haenah Kwon and St. Vincent’s Soup Kitchen. All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the authors. The following text has been printed as a part of the Gorilla Publishing Collective 20142015 Series. The Gorilla Publishing Collective is a small group of writers that produces individual books through a collaborative editing process over the course of an academic year. Our series is written, illustrated, edited, and designed by students at Wesleyan University (Middletown, CT). Electronic access to our series via Issuu.com: https://issuu.com/gorillapublishingcollective Books in the 2014-2015 series: And Then Who Knows? by Marissa Castrigno Sea Salt and Sandalwood by Karmenife Paulino Words From The Kitchen Table compiled by Yael Horowitz Women I Have Disappointed by Raphael Linden Today I Am Allergic to Tangerines and It’s True, I Am Relieved by Kai Wilson Managing Editor: Marissa Castrigno Head Designer: Giorgia Sage Special thanks to Kate Weiner. This year’s series was funded by the Wesleyan Writing Program and by private donors through a grassroots fundraising campaign. A very sincere thank you to all those who contributed. Special Donor’s Circle: Tony Castrigno Stacia Cronin Julie Glantz Lisa Korn Mina Seeman David Wilson Heather Woodward
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.
– Maya Angelou
In this volume you will find the voices that bring warmth and life to our weekly Writer’s Bloc at the Soup Kitchen – St. Vincent DePaul in Middletown, CT. These vivid poems, stories and reflections have been collected over time with the help of everyone in the group. They are powerful glimpses at a huge diversity of voices you may not hear everyday. I hope you find inspiration, love, and warmth from our writings.
WRITER’S BLOC:
Words from the Kitchen Table
Table of Contents WINTER Untitled by Louis Palmieri Inprisoned by Moondog Ode to Moondog by Althea Turner My life on the streets by M. Ziedwell In This World Is Ignored by Louis Palmieri
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SPRING For Me by Louis Palmieri I’d Rather Be Selfish by Haenah Kwon Oh River by Yael Horowitz The Fence of Fear by Al Knous About Lemons and My Eighth Grade Girlfriend by Ari Ebstein Music by David Daley Signs by Carla Woodruff Witmer Dual Perception by Joe Fuentes
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SUMMER Hall of Curiosities by Shawn Drabert Rebuttal by Louis Palmieri Forsooth, Forsythia by Carla Woodruff Witmer Valentine by Carla Woodruff Witmer Starwars by Sean Grabert Birthday Bonanza! by Louis Palmieri One of Those Nights by Brittany “Lil Brit” Byram
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FALL A Letter to my Ten Year Old Self by Sean Grabert The Chaplain by Ari Ebstein Miss Fleo by Ali Knous Wonderland Cake by Susannah Greenblatt The City of Untold Testimonies by Minister Denise Thomas The Cemetery by Carla Witmer Experience by Sean Drabert The Funeral by Lydia Brewster The Community Potluck by Yael Horowitz
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Winter
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Louis Palmieri Two jet planes With their stark-white dress trains in tow Scissor the sky into quadrants. The sun flees to the west. It flees to escape the exhausting cold Which bites at skin in fits. Soon the sun will take a running jump And dive over the edge Leaving nothing but an orange stain on the horizon. Bony trees shiver Rattling a few stubborn leaves Which refused to let go And now grip the branches in rigor mortis. An aroma of burning wood fills the gaps in the wind. Somewhere nearby an alluring path of smoke Leads to a delightfully warm and glowing hearth. Though warmth is absent in this spot. Here the ground crunches and puddles shatter Patches of crusty grass emerge like lesions From under a thin skin of snow Below stinging eyes cheeks glow pink A cute side effect of the detestable whipping abuse of the air. Numb fingertips curl into palms And nest into pockets. Hardened water-shurikens Are angrily thrown at the earth. Car’s tires pop salt crystals And toss sand under their fiber-glass skirts A happy memory of summer fails to deter The unavoidable presence Of winter’s blight.
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Inprisoned Moondog
I once took for granted the simple pleasures in life. The feeling of raindrops falling upon my skin, the smell of snow falls crisp clean air. The sound of waves crashing against the shore. Warmth of the sun upon my skin. Making all the decisions for myself in this life. Locked within a cell behind the face of eighteen inch thick reinforced cement walls. Made to walk a yellow line where ever I’d roam. Within those dark cold lifeless empty halls. Yes a prison inside a place that did not give one a feeling of or the sense of the slightest bit of hope. Felt so alone and didn’t know if I could deal with the lack of freedom. How could I cope? Each day and night to hear the ominous sounds of those doors slamming. Its a sound you never forget or wish to hear again. At night I now still wake up from that nightmarish state and spring straight up in my bed wondering just where it is that I am and is it back in that place that some call the can? The way the ones who watch over you stare at me with their beady little eyes. Distant disgust and loathing: those feelings could not be disguised. The way they spoke to us, the tone they used to degrade us, to break us down, to take our dignity. The food was trash I missed my home. I longed to be free. Now behind those walls was imprisoned the body the skin. But they couldn’t lock up the person who I am My spirit and what lies deep within My mind, my hear, my spirit, my love soard somewhere far away. I would not let them have that part of me and though they tried they couldn’t take it away. For when you let them inprison your mind, heart and spirit. Truly inprisoned you will be and inprisoned you are destined to stay.
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Ode to Moondog Althea Turner
Drum de dum dum. His fingers, worn with age, drummed on the linoleum table. Two thick silver rings hugged his middle and ring finger, and his skin bulged at the sides of the metal. A worn blue sweatshirt covered his torso, a subtly torn jeans barely warmed his legs. He sat, hooded, breathing heavily, as if his body was thanking him for a moments relief. His skin was wrinkled by time, time he said, which was spent in and out of prison. It was only a month ago when we wrote about death. We wrote about love ones, religion, and spirit and wondered how long we had left in this place. We thought about heaven, we thought about hell, but we never thought the time would come so soon, for you to be taken as well. I remember thinking, it must be awfully lonely being dead, all down in the ground. Well now I can’t bare the thought, since you’re not around. Its in times like these that I have to believe: there’s a place where you go, after the pain, which relieves you of suffering and all your strife. Its like the warmth of the sun that can’t be reached. I see you with children and a lover too, they’re all there to play, love and admire you. I hope that you’re warm and surrounded with food. I hope that you get to watch any movie you choose. I didn’t know you for long, but I felt like I did. You touched my soul and gave me a gift of which I’ll never be rid. You wrote and you lived, you lived and you wrote. You touched more people than you knew and people like you- well there are few. May you fly in paradise, Moondog. Be in peace.
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My life on the streets
M. Ziedwell
Days start out hard and cold. I am Blessed to have found a place to call home. The Warming Center is all I have while my addiction clings on my back - searching and reaching within my soul. I used to weigh 175. My clothes fitted me and my hair done right. I walked with my head held up cause I knew I had class. Now I’m skin and Bones. Eyes held low. I have no where to go. I’m scared, alone and wandering. Wondering where I’m gonna go. The corners are calling out, yelling come to me. I’ll take you in. I’m all you need. Then I know its wrong. So I stay in hopes of being freed. One day is all I need. The streets live in me, yet I don’t have to live on them.
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In This World is Ignored
Louis Palmieri
In this world is ignored The tragic murder of ambition By an obese reality Bloated with fat, gross responsibility Fueled by ragin, fiery expectation. In this world is ignored The sprawling fields of toxic ideas stamped with the footprints of desire, spiked with the jutting bones of the longing and spotted with shiny pools of the blood of innovations. In this world is ignored The somber parade of conformity Sprinkled with the confetti of shredded joy And a quiet stampede of assembly line floats Despite its omnipresent march Through every littered, gray street At the tip of the nose of the woefully blind. In this world is ignored That single missing brick Or the single rusty nail One from a building storing memories Which crumbles and is forgotten And one which lies in a road Puncturing the tire of the car filled with hopefuls On their way to the non-existent promise-land In this world is ignored A crying, newborn opportunity By a weathered and decrepit parent Adopted by ignorant, stagnant faith And grows up to be a strong, proud inevitability.
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Spring
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For Me
Louis Palmieri I recently discovered a small book that I wrote things in case I wanted to look back Because everything back then was a little more whack All distorted and amorphous like that test by Rorschach. I tried to reconnect with that part of the old me That was fresh and alive and a bit less moldy To a random page I flipped and what did I see A story about me, for me, written by me Of course I began to read it Just the inspiration I needed Until I reached a single line, solitary blank line Followed by a sentence that put a shiver in my spine “Dear future me, in case you ever read this, Because who knows, one day you might need this, The preceding space was intentionally left empty So put something there about me, for me, written by me” My mind just couldn’t comprehend it How old was I when I penned it? A story left open ended So that future me could end it. Past me knew I’d need inspiration When filled with such illiteration And knew I’d turn to this specific page When worn down by that bitch called age. The limitless imagination on which I had relied Felt as though it had all but died Past me knew I would feel withered and dried And then I grew flush, shaky, and cried.
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My hand began to move toward the drawer with my pen Guided by my own ghost from way back when I filled in that space intentionally left empty. With something about me, for me, written by me.
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I’d Rather Be Selfish Haenah Kwon
I used to think “selfish” meant “bad.” Shaming and despising people when they do something for themselves, as if I don’t do that. Praising people for giving, serving, volunteering… idealizing “being selfless,” as if that is possible. But the more I think, the more impossible is it for me to ever not be selfish. Even when I try to “help,” it comes down to personal, self-centered motives—whether that is a material reward or internal satisfaction. Perhaps, instead of avoiding selfishness, we should embrace it. Expand the definition of “self,” put your family in it. Or your dog. Or your friend. Your plant cactus. Maybe take a step further, include your neighbor who you talked to once last week, or that guy who you really don’t know yet, or a baby waiting to be born tomorrow. Maybe, eventually, you even can include someone you hate, someone who has hurt you deeply. Little by little, the self becomes bigger. And the bigger it is, the more peaceful you are, like a serene ocean no thrown rock can disturb. You are everywhere. We all share selfishness anyways, so why not make it something that connects us instead of divides us? And eventually, we will remain selfish, but we will be selfish for others, selfish for the world, selfish for all of us. I’d rather be selfish than selfless.
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Oh River
Yael Horowitz I am the river And you are the earth Time is the river and I am the earth A human is 70 percent water, the earth is 70 percent water Time can go slowly, trickling down a silent hill where ever spot the water touches turns a soft and mossy green and silence is only broken by a pebble shifting to a droplet. I am a waterfall crashing over boulders and eroding the face of the mountain creating a mist so thick that people yell fire. Rippling. A man sits under a tree at the spot on the river where its flow lines up with his heart beat. He has already forgotten about the pebble moved by the droplet. He never knew about the point in the river where the ripple was created. One second has past. A clock in a kitchen that used to smell like home but now smells like water ticks. You are the earth You stay in one place and are moved by the water. The moss that grows on your back abandons you when the last trickle has left. Overtime, the waterfall you provided the leap for pushes you back even further. You carry the shallow indentation of a man’s boot. A millennium has passed. The sun sets over the forest that once was a mountain.
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The Fence of Fear Al Knous
Rol the Rabbit lived near a long, big old fence. He never once tried to cross it even though there is a hole in the fence and everyone he knows has crossed it, but Rol always has his reasons for not jumping over, most of all there was a strand of barbed wire going across the bottom of the hole. It was easy to jump over but you just had to be careful. His friends all tried to convince him to go. They told him about all the good food, the lake and all the other good things that were happening over there. Rol wanted to go with all his heart but still would not take that jump. One day he was with a friend, Rocko. They were at the hole in the fence and Rocko was showing Rol how easy it was to jump through the fence. “It’s easy, you can do it. Just jump between those two bars and be careful.” Rol said he wanted to try but couldn’t right now. Rocko sighed and was about to leave, when Rol said, “Wait I must know: Has anyone ever jumped through there and not made it?” Rocko looked down to the ground, shook his head and said, “I can’t lie. I know of an older rabbit that jumped through and got caught on one of the barbs and a hunter came along and took him... look, just be careful, its easy” and Rocko left. Rol, now alone sat down and cried. Cried because he was scared and because he knew he could do it. And yet, at the same time could not do it and therefore could not prove it. Certainly not to himself. As time went on it got harder for him to even think anymore. Till one day…. Rocko found Rol and told him that his son was hurt and needed help. Rol said he wanted to but couldn’t. Rocko got mad and yelled, “You will never do it! I’m going to help” and stomped out. By now, Rol was alone and he couldn’t live with himself anymore. And in one big rage and emotion just ran and tried to fly through that fence. But in his fit he forgot everything about being careful and ended up caught on the barbed wired by his foot and hung there for hours alone but yet not scared. “I did it. I took that leap. It didn’t work our but in a way I’m free of the fear...Now if I can only get free of the fence.” Then without warning loomed a shadow out of the woods. I twas a person 31
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holding something long. Could this be a Hunter? Now Rol had to ask himself if he was about to be taken by this hunter, was jumping the fence worth it? Into this heart understood that it was. I did it for love. I did it for care and for that split second I was making the jump, I felt alive like I never felt before. So yeah, it’s worth it. He then started to cry for his life and all of a sudden he saw that the figure out of the woods and it wasn’t a hunter at all, it was a young girl carrying a stick. When she saw Rol she took the stick and used it to free Rol’s foot. He fell to the other side of the fence and she ran away. He was finally on the other side and was about to go find his son to help. But first, he landed and carefully jumped back over the fence the right way and without hesitation back down again and scurried off to find his son. Now Rol was truly free.
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About Lemons and My Eighth Grade Girlfriend Ari Ebstein Up the escalators in the Harvard Square mall just as the second floor eclipses a view of the first, I spy thru the glass divider none other than Hannah, my eight-grade girlfriend, dressed in a perrywinkle Ben and Jerry’s outfit scooping ice cream with her bright, lemony smile. “Hannah!” I shout, and then run downstairs to meet her across the plastic counter. Her hair is done in a ponytail pulled thru the back of her black baseball hat, and her smile, which I always adored, beams a sash of yellow admist that ice cream store flourescence. “My teacher tells me,” she says, “that the best thing you can do for yourself is start each day with a glass of hot water and a lemons slice.” In eighth grade, we were lovers. Well, at least dance partners. That and landline addicts, up until absurd hours talking about things I have forgotten. When the phone bill came in December, my parents were astounded. The next week I went over to her house and ate cheese tortellini with her younger sister, and then we sang High School Musical karaoke. Then we danced in her room, and throughout all this there must have been some lemon--it seems improbable there wouldn’t have been some lemon, what with our mutual appreciation of life’s tangy vibrance. This is how she inhabits Ben and Jerry’s. A customer tells her she’s amazing. I almost manage to say I’m still in love with her, because after all we grew up together, plus the phone bill. I do not remember our anniversary, but she does. I do remember that she broke up w/ me while I lay under a comforter, and that a few weeks later she gave my good friend half a handjob. Just a few strokes, really. There was no completion like the segment of a lemon wedge, or like our future together, but this is all water beneath the yellow rind, and after I invite her with knowing resignation to Shabbos dinner at my house that night, she smiles, laughs, is flattered but busy, I suppose, and this is all alright, of course, no one is broken, the chance encounter an unequivocal highlight of my sopohmore spring break, but still, in Berkeley years from now when we are both homeless, we’ll look back and think lemon stir-fry at the Ebstein’s was a missed opportunity, the twist we never made.
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Music
David Daley My music was so very special to me and still is. As a child I was in a foster home, actually many homes. Every chance I got I would listen to music. Mainly music from the 60s. Groups like Gary Lewis and the playboys, the Turtles, just to name a few. The words in the songs had to me a lot of meaning. It enabled me to have something to grasp on to. The beat of the music was actually all together something else. So, you got the words and the beat. It allowed me to grow. I remember living with a Hungarian family. For whom I will always have a special place in my heart. Papa used to take me in the truch to my real family to spend some time (bad idea) and on the way sometimes with the radio and on the way get lost in the music like without a care in the world. Some of my favorite song were: “I think we’re alone now” by Tommy Lee and the Shondells. Also many 5th Dimension songs like “Won’t ya marry me Bill” and One less bell to answer. So real, the words. Every word, every beat dif a little deeper. Music is just so deep, I head some music last night, a real sound and there was no one around but it was there. So for all you believers in music: every song has not been sung, every poem has not been written. There’s more to come.
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Signs
Carla Woodruff Witmer Sometimes the universe is overtly generous with her signs and specifically to me if you will, Carla Woodruff Witmer- alias Chimney Dolkar, alias Sonam Cho Tso, alias Makti. There almost seems to be a continuum, but for fear of scaring the good spirits and farces before me, I will respect their work. Yesterday for instance was a “holy trinity� day. I found 3 pennies in plain view on my path. Significant to me for many reasons: pennies from heaven, the father, son, and holy ghost, the song Pennies from Heaven and more. Then today salvation army had a coat drive when they finally let us in, I found a handsome black coat with the label Gordon. Gordon was a boyfriend of mine in my late teens in Manhattan. Thirty years ago, on Dalancey Street. He was a tortured, albeit beautiful soul who ended his life via suicide. It seems that I always have a prayer for him in mind and in soul, he whose travail with the world at large ultimately did him in.
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Dual Perception Joe Fuentes
All my life I have been riding a hypomanic roller coaster. It has been a blessing and a curse. I have reached exhilarating heights of brilliant clarity and inventive insights and I screamed/cried during the down slopes to disparity. It was served me well within many challenging career choices then turned on me when I needed it most. These episodes come at me like waves on the ocean. Sometimes like placid waves then crashing on me till I cried uncle. I dream of relaxing on inviting sandy beaches only to awake dreading whats next in store for me. I want to be free to fly like a seagull on the uplifiting currents to reach a happy balance in this scale of duality I live in. Maybe a child can teach me to wonder again of the possibilities I forgot about! Kalidascopes remind me of my childhood and the unexpected possibilities of reality.
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Summer
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Hall of Curiosities Shawn Drabert
“Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages: Step right up. Have we got a mesmerizingly brilliant extravaganza! An array of arcane items from the nebulous past, we have occult items, the profundity of which will pique the imagination of even the most literal minded nay-sayer. Witness the loquacious, talking , disembodied head of Imhotep. Who after being caught in a tumultuous affair with the courtesan of his pharaoh, was laid upon a grievous curse by the curate of his callous liege. See also the Chimera, a beast whose fervor rivaled that of Cerberus, champion of the gates of Hades. Other carnival house horrors present are…” The carnival sideshow barker voice echoes in my ears. His capricious word pictures have already drawn me to him like a bug to a florescent light. I hand my two dollars to the gatekeeper and enter the labyrinth. Soon I realized that I wouldn’t need to be prescient to understand I was to be let down. The lights were set almost low enough to disguise the fact that the mysterious artifacts were paltry junk and cheaply fabricated frauds. I’ve seen more believable droids in hip-hop headshops. The mummies head was done better by Ed Wood. But my umbrage was raised by the Chimera. In reality, the animal was a mangy cur dressed in what appeared to be a forage of disparate creatures. The base torso was alligator with the hind of a small hippo and a rattlesnake for a tail. Attached to either side of its living head were the heads of a badger on one side and a vulture on the other. The poor thing looked like a stiff breeze could blow it over. This has been the WORST Hall of Curiosities ever…but…Okay, the chimera was kinda cool. You expect me to shut my moth but I couldn’t shut a portal to such unimpeachable wisdom. I, in fact, will defeat your preconceptions with a 41
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Rebuttal
Louis Palmieri mere sample. After all, I keep my most meaningful words locked in a prison of rationale where desire and necessity lust for conjugal visits. My common words are an exquisitely forged sword drawn from its birthing embers to slice out dissenting tongues. Forgive this weaponized lexicon but not its wielder, for with it I cauterize open minds prone to suggestive infections. If you wish to bathe in the acidic torrent coming at you in waves simple stand still. It will all be over in an instantaneous infantile remark. “NO… you’re stupid!”
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Forsooth, Forsythia
Carla Woodruff Witmer Forsooth, forsythia You’re a beautiful bush When my rear was on the line You covered my Tush Sweet hanging Blossoms of a Light yellow
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Valentine
Carla Woodruff Witmer V aliantly A ddressing L ove E ngenders N ascient T ransit In N ew territories E ncountered
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Star wars
Sean Grabert S pectacular Silverscreen Sensation with Sith Lords T ensions, Targeting, Tie fighters A rmed Amoral Agents of Evil R econnaissance for Rebel Redoubt W ookies A rlderron’s Annihilation, Armored Antagonist R eproduced Ranks of Regular Regiments S tar Wars
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Birthday Bonanza! Louis Palmieri
I had a pretty awesome night the day before my birthday and it left me very tired and mostly silent on this Friday. I wasn’t drinking or smoking or getting into trouble. My day was just long. So after I left the library and started walking down the street I decided on a coffee. One block away, at the coffee shop I frequent, I wait in line. Ahead of me a guy is waiting for his coffee. Behind me, a girls walks in. Me and the guy turn to see who it might be. Clearly they know each other. Then the weirdness started. The guy points right at the girl and with a huge smile on his face shouts, “Happy Birthday!” With almost no hesitation she points back at him and shouts, “Happy Birthday to you too!” Then they both sidestep me and give each other a high-five. Clearly they knew ahead of time that they shared a birthday but it was also obvious they didn’t know either of them would be there at that moment. I was smiling slightly deviously with the secret knowledge that it was my birthday too. The three of us at that moment converging in line on the day of our birth. Then it gets stranger. The barista girl, on that I’m not used to seeing, pops from around the corner where she was making the guy’s coffee. “Its both of your’s birthday?” She asks. “Yeah” Yep” The two say. “Its my birthday too!” The barista shours. Somehow their smiles got wider and mire high-fives are exchanged. But then an older black man, that I’ve seen around but never really talked too, takes the headphones off his head. “Excuse me, guys…” he says “did you all just say that today is your birthdays?” To which the three birthday people reply, “Yeah.” “Today is my birthday too.” 46
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My devious grin slouched away in disbelief. So did the smile of the girl who had walked in and triggered this whole thing. She held out her hand and said, “I don’t believe you. Let’s see some ID.” Apparently 4 people was too much of a happenstance. He obliged and sure enough it was his too. More high-fives. Before, I was willing to remain silent and keep my creepily satisfying secret but my statistical brain over wrote that desire and needed to share. I opened my wallet, took out my ID, and showed it to the girl. I said, “Its about to get weirder.” She freaked out and held my ID yelling, “Its his birthday too! Its his birthday too!” High-fives and handshakes were flying everywhere. Questions were being asked. And when the excitement lowered a bit the barista said anyone whose birthday it was gets a free coffee. So I did. And I left. Amazed. Envigorated.
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One of Those Nights
Brittany ‘Lil Brit” Byram Verse 1: It’s one of those nights. Where I just wanna get out of my apartment. Starvin, to get it started, so I get to departin, and head to the bar, man. I hear they got karaoke goin on. I’m in the mood to put on a killer performance, time to get my scary on. Game face, Fame taste, Just itchin to be noticed, rich just like the great Gates. Imma go hap and live it up. I’m young and I be, damned if I be growing up. Chorus: Grab your family, grab your friends, Imma make it one of those nights you’ll never forget. I’m takin it high like a mountain with my Dew in hand. It’s time to go cray cray, to the DJs, like it’s your last chance. Verse 2: The crowds got it poppin and I just got it started. Ain’t no stopping once I take the mic and rock it, you take it far, but I’m takin it the farthest. It’s one of those nights, so just hit me with the light. Tell the bartender I’ll take a patron over ice. Damn, do I feel nice. It’s the best when you feel so good. It’s indescribable. Like the bible holds love I’m lovin this night, wish we could go over it again and again like a recital. Better check my vitals. I’m makin it hot. Ain’t no fakin how I tear up the spot. Verse 3: Applause. All I hear after goin strong. Along with Lil’ Brit bein chanted after every song. My thought. That was one hella good night. Then I went to writer’s bloc with something I could write.
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Fall
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A Letter to my Ten Year Old Self Sean Grabert
I know you’re afraid. A lot is changing in your life and you’re beginning to become aware of your feelings and yearnings. Mom and Dad have split up and will never get back together, but they, both, will always be there for you. I know that you’re beginning to sense that you’re attractions are different that those around you. This is an illusion. There is nothing wrong with you. You can’t choose who you are attracted to. Remember, you are not alone, and those that share your feelings will come into your life in due time. And really remember…Even though its not really evident and sometimes it seems like they’d be totally against it, mom and dad will understand you and accept you. Be true to yourself and don’t try to live up to what you think others expect you to be. That way will only lead to pain for yourself and for others. Stay in line Not a toe out of line Look straight ahead No talking No thinking You will be told what and how to think. Everyone must play their part. That’s how it must be. This is the start You must follow the rule of the law. To do otherwise is to admit a flaw. The flawed will be weeded out. Reprogramed.
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The Chaplain Ari Ebstein
the chaplain and his tote bag of yellow paper, a muffin, and loose ecclesiastes, stands bewildered before the threatre as before the zipcar space like he fell asleep last century and woke confused before a TV screen. wheels of fortune, Vanna white spinning cards of light on the incandescent shrine . . . a world afall w/ irridiscent glow. I watch him and think: Here is a man who in another time was revered. Now he walks superfluous, sifting the May fog for a flock to take him in. The students, secular vegetarian, sitting in the chapel claimed for concerts of Balkan music, old Slavic farmers picking peppers in the feudal heat. The methodist institution abuzz w/ methodology. How can we know the rail in India? Do we need a counterfactual? What does Jstor say about soul? Lest the bible sway of love . . . The chaplain is not a baptist, as his totebag not a fold of bread. I see him breaking triskets for the pigeons, these grey and fragile bodies that still need him as he needs them. Meanwhile, the students, fed on feeling usefyl, fortified on quinoa, hiding tapeworms in their boogbags clockwork cycles of classowork & excremement. Each Sunday comes, a brunch of sugary forgetting, while the chaplain in his office closes the door, shades the window facing the unfilled pews clicks off the blue TV 54
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and kneels before the portrait of the man upon the cross. He kneels before the portrait of the man upon the cross and thinks, vindictively, involuntary spite searing up his tweed jacket to fall upon his lips: “What do these kids know about sacrifice?�
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Miss Fleo Al Knous
This is a story about the greatest cat that ever lived. Before I met her I was homeless. I went to a friends one day and they asked me if I wanted a cat. I laughed, “I don’t have a home” I said (you know that). But my friend said if I take this cat I would have a home soon. Why do people do this to me, I said to myself. This house had 50-60 cats in it, and then she says I can own the cat and it’ll be here until I get my new home. What the *&*^%&*. I haven’t had a home in years, its ben longer than that since I cared about anything. So I laughed as I’m looking at all the cats. LOL. Did they pick one out for me? I go to sit on the couch and this cat moves over a makes room for me. I sit down and she moves back over and snuggles up to me. Michelle walks in and says “I see you found your cat.” I liked this cat instantly so I said “Ok, lets try.” About a week later my lover called and my settlement came in. After that I had a place to live, for 15 years I wasn’t homeless. Miss Fleo died in 2011, I left my home, been homeless since. All that for the love of a cat. I was devastated by this loss.
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Wonderland Cake
Susannah Greenblatt You taught me triangles were most geometrically sound. We found them everywhere-Here they are in roofs, in pyramids, in elbows, shark teeth, sails, volcanoes, diamonds, our gaping jaws. I hadn’t seen your whiskers in a while, hadn’t realized how they’d greyed. Or maybe they decided to be grey for the first time then. And you got gaunt. Marching for miles on the Stairmaster-Uphill only sort of and also very much so. The lost calories left trails of salt in the collar Of your track jacket, soaked in sweat. Track jacket soaked in sweat, You were left with trails of salt when You burned off the cake she made you-the one with the flowers. It was a Wonderland cake, because she painted fresh rose petals thick with white chocolate for you. She hid them from you to harden in the back of the fridge. Then she licked her fingers and peeled each petal off like skin. You’ve outdone yourself this time, really. And you both forgot the flowers Whose veiny cells were once the mold-Frozen, splintering, next to ancient pizza in the back of the refrigerator. 57
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The City of Untold Testimonies Minister Denise Thomas
Who made it to this city, that quiet place Was it just another name To fill a space? When did they do while they were alive? Did they have a great time of just live to survive? How many unknowns have been put to rest? Did anyone search for them, or were they considered to be the less. So many stories have gone to the grave. Many of those lives once helped to save The city of untold testimonies is growing every day. So, what will happen to your story? What will your stone say? Don’t let your story leave earth and pass away Speak up in the city while you are still alive today.
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The Cemetery
Carla Witmer
Every single time I pass by the cemetery on Liberty Street and come to the grave stones of Elizabeth and Esther Magill I am halted. It feels as though there’s an intersecting energy or force of being that makes me want to pause and reflect, however briefly. My father, Eugene Gilbert Witmer, was a jazz musician (piano and drums). He passed just before my first son was born, in the spring of ‘89. One of his first musical excursions was with the John MaGill Quintet. All four of the member, including Dad, did a photo shoot at the Conn College campus for an album that never quite happened. They wore dark sunglasses and long leather coats and looked like really cool, hip, jazz cats (like crazy man). Needless to say or dare I forget to mention, I was around 10 or 11 at the time and very enamored of all them hip cats. And of course, I was a “daddy’s girl” so it stands no mystery why I should cherish such a mystery. And the beat goes on…
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Experience
Sean Drabert I’ve never been the religious sort, but I’ve always found a profound beauty in the art of the church. The graceful arch of the ceiling, the gold inlay in just about everything, the statues carved to near perfection, I’ve always found it so wondrous. This is where I now find myself, standing just before the altar looking up at the magnificent crucifix. I turn around, enrapt at the splendor above me when my attention is drawn to a single sob for below the lofty heights. I’m surprised to find that all of the pews are full with people. All are dressed somberly and I notice that there is a definite air of mourning in the room. Seeming them, I suddenly feel underdressed. I recognize my casual dress, but notice that my closed are ripped and torn and smeared with… I look back at the crowd and realize how many people I know among it. My mom, my dad, sister and brother all are in attendance along with ex-girlfriends, ex-boyfriends, best friends, good friends and some people that I remember meant something to me in the past, but I just can’t place their names. What are they doing here? What am I doing here? I turn back to the alter and notice the casket for the first time. It’s a simple cypress coffin with a natural grain showing, decorated with an American flag draped across the lower half. The flowers are magnolia and jasmine and I can see the profile of a face looking out seemingly at the rest. My eyes know what they see but my mind doesn’t want to believe. It’s me.
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The Funeral
Lydia Brewster Jim, who had the shotgun seat, began the trip by mentioning the superiority of the Aryan race. His mind moved to this subject after observing Richard, a black man, climb into the other car in our two-car convoy that was enroute to the funeral that our group of eight was to attend. A hand extended between the two front seats from the back seat that gave a quick clobber to the left side of Jim’s head. Jake, it seems, was offended not by Jim’s racist comment but by his choice of music on the radio. Coughing ensued from the back seat followed quickly by the sound of gagging…then retching. Ralph assured us that Judith was okay, just drunk and presently suffering from an asthma attack. Jim now removed his seat belt and turned backwards in his seat on his knees and reached into the back to punch Jake in the head for not knowing to clap Judith on the back to encourage her to breathe. While this skirmish was taking place Judith began to turn a bluish shade and all hands encouraged me to stop the car in fear she was going to die. Then, miraculously she began to breathe and fished in her pocket for a cigarette which Ralph promptly confiscated to the instant response of “fuck you’s” coming from Judith and various others in the car who were weighing in on both sides on the issue of whether smoking was allowed in my car. It wasn’t. Insults continued to be hurled along with a punch or two, accompanied by the Animals singing The House of the Rising Sun at full volume on the radio while Jim regaled us with his inside knowledge of the music business as we motored through bucolic scenery on the way to Rosie’s Roadside Bar and Grill, the site of the funeral to which we were going to celebrate the life of Charlie who had recently been found dead in a snowbank. Upon exiting our two cars the arguments grew to include the others who had been travelling in the second car. Harsh words were exchanged amid pleas for peace and quiet and respect for the dead from myself and the other driver were center stage in the parking lot as members of the funeral party including men, women and children who were presumably friends of the deceased filed by the well-oiled group and into the bar giving us a wide berth and disapproving stares. Once inside most ordered more alcohol at the bar and continued to 61
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squabble while mingling with the other guests. Finally the minister arrived and delivered her remarks and Biblical readings and then, unwisely, at least from my perspective, offered guests a chance to share their memories of Charlie. My car mates came forward eagerly, anxious to share their thoughts, their tongues loosed by many hours of alcoholic preparations prior to the event. Judith fell off her bar stool and tottered forward, the stool itelf clattering loudly to the floor. Ralph held her up as she slurred that “Charlie was not perfect” three or four times until being led off stage by Ralph. The other driver and I, both colleagues at the social service agency that was connected to Charlie and our car mates decided without any need to confer that today might not be the day to remind the assembled group of the good works accomplished by our agency on behalf of the poor. That we had delivered this particular group of mourners might not generate much goodwill. I eyed a glass of cold dark beer that sat in front of Jake greedily and, with difficulty, resisted the temptation to visit the bar myself. The ride home produced more in the way of raucous fighting, laughter, mention and fear of a need to vomit and music that penetrated my skull like a knife. Charlie would have loved every minute of this and would have approved wholeheartedly. Jim, on the other hand, spent the rest of the week in the ER.
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The Community Potluck
Yael Horowitz
Gina brought the sweet potato muffins her mother had taught her to bake so many years ago. As she was preparing them she had started to cry at the memory of their one room apartment. A tear fell into the sweet potatoes she was mashing, and she had to balance out the saltiness with another pinch of sugar. Elise brought roasted vegetables from her garden and her zucchinis were impeccable. She started gardening after she left her husband and needing something to do to pass the time. Maurice brought rice and beans. He had burnt the bottom of the rice and the brown crunchiness was still stuck to the bottom of the pot that he had left on top of the stove. Now that he lived alone he always dreaded going home to the mess he had made. Lucas and Lily were too young to have brought anything but they came into the room clutching each other’s hands. They all sat down around the table filled with countless other dishes and stories. Each kept to their own chair, too nervous to reach across the table and take another dish. There was an imprisoning silence around each person. Lily took a bite of Gina’s sweet potato muffins and exclaimed, “Oh! Where did you learn how to make these?!” Gina’s face lit up into relieved joy. Her heart warmed at the prospect of teaching someone young about apartments, oven temperatures, and balancing tears with sugar. As more people and more dishes were tasted and tried something began happening in the room. The bread that was broken together released something into the air. A warmth crept up from the stomach and towards their hearts. Their eyes no longer focused on traits of each person, they no longer dissected their judged stories. Instead they all grew hearts in the 63
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pupil of their eyes. If they had cried their tears would have tasted sweet. Laughter ran through their ears. It only stopped ringing when a story poignantly pierced through. A single experience became a thread woven into a tapestry; people saw gold in different places. The room smelled strange. A mix of bitterness, a pungent, sweet smell and something fresh, like the first rain after a long drought. Gina was the first to leave. The bitter cold bit her face as she stepped out the door. She smiled, a heart shone in the pupil of her eyes. Elise gave Lucas and Lily a ride home. The kids watched the car windows fog up. They looked in the rearview mirror to try and catch the heart left in Elise’s eye. Maurice took the long way home, past the bay to the dimly lit lighthouse on the rocks. The light created patterns in the mist that rose and fell with his breath. The heart in his eyes caught the wind in its grasp. He looked forward to going home and cleaning the rice pot.
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