Kiosk 46

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Kiosk 46

Spring 2012

Kiosk 46

Spring 2012

Untitled 1

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Untitled 3

digital photos

Shannon Kloiber

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Making

& Breaking

Kiosk 46 is a semi-annual,

featuring undergraduate

award-winning magazine

student art and literature

from the University of Kansas.

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Kiosk 46

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Design

Lit

Jessica Marak

Savannah Windham

Danielle Aldrich

Katie Longofono

Maggie Hirschi

Sydney Rayl

Erin Zingre

Ellen Goodrich

Caitlin Workman

Robin Smith Nick Heldman

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Staff

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Max

Sally

Mikulecky

CarMichael

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17

Liz

Sarah

Adcock

Sims

49 Art

Channing Taylor

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29

25

Tyler

Justin

Roste

Bell

Claire

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Dooley

Jill Kilgore

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27

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Daniel

Sarah

Erin

Schmeidler

Terranova

Dvorak

15 Wes Landis

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49 Ball Python Will Jenkins

29 Therianthropy Keegan Cole

17 Lit

Cartography of Being Sara Pyle

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Bonetree Ian Cook

Ghosts of North

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Lawrence Sara Pyle

Plants Joel Bonner

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A.S.L.

Shaggy Dog

Brett Salsbury

Young Han Lester

31 The Dogs Would Have It For Desert Joey Shopmaker

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Demo Building digital photo Max Mikuleckly

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Pole digital photo Max Mikuleckly

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Facial Reconstruction digital photo Liz Adcock

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Rothko Sighting No. 2 Hill City, KS digital photo Wes Landis

Rothko Sighting No. 1 Hill City, KS digital photo Wes Landis

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Rothko Sighting No. 5 Auburn, NE digital photo Wes Landis

Seeking Direction

photo collage

Sarah Sims

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Cartography of Being

Sarah Pyle

1/3 of all the world’s languages rely on cardinal directions that means they don’t have words for “left” and “right” they say things like “there is a caterpillar on my southwest leg” they know at all times which way is north, south, east, west their position in this world is inherent to their existence i wish i was so sure of where exactly i am and where i am going.

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Begin

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Sad Pumpkin #1 (top) Sad Pumpkin #3 (right) digital photos Erin Dvorak

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Brett Salsbury

A.

My pop tart package is coffee-stained and there are broomsticks outside my window.

S.

My book on logical thinking has been feathered and tarred and goose-pimples line my esophagus tract.

My heart is restless and there’s an imaginary coke trail leading to a gingerbread house in the woods.

I’m not a redhead.

L.

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Rainbow

digital photo

Erin Dovrak

Garden of the Gods

digital photo

Justin Bell

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drawing & quote Anthony Schmiedeler

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Brandenburg Gate

Special Ops

digital photos

Tyler Roste

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Theranthropy

Keegan Cole

I’ll wrap you in things that distinguish you most.

I’ll wrap you in fools-gold, and fools-cold of cubic zirconia and stylized lines you wear on your sleeves of tattoos staining your figure, like crushed berries on chins. Fox muzzles like blood on chains. Gun muzzles like blood on white sheets.

Like cloud shapes shifting on sheets of blue oceans reversed.

Transformation of fish.

Grow feathers clogging gills and drown when they fly, and melt in Icarus at the oxygen and fall.

Condensation sinking like salt.

Dissolved into rain for hollow husks in a scarecrow-corpse cornfield that needs drowning.

Inari brings the rain in.

Kitsune Nine-Tails hunts the vermin and exoskeletal skeletons from their hollow hollows hollowed from pumpkin skulls.

Bent grass, parched husks, and cement earth hunts.

Haystack stacks that were mine.

“They were…”

Mine the stones worth stone.

Hunt the berries that stain flesh balloons, popping like aneurysms shrapnel splashing into birthmarks and wine stains.

The rivers flow wine and the man shoots a gun into heaven telling Jesus he doesn’t drink anymore.

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The Dogs Would Have It For Desert

Joey

Shopmaker

I slept most of the cab ride to Jersey. So long to the

ways, I explained to Evie, though I hesitated with the

big city, for now. I left a note on the refrigerator for

romanticism, as I tend to do with her, that the motions

Evie. It was actually more of a letter. Somehow I can

were becoming a strain, the nights alone, she drawing

still write about her. But I see the rest of this city,

blood and I buried in my own arms, above the keys of

racing by like time moving with no shutter, up and

my typewriter. We had grown apart, and I was not sure

down the streets it all goes, the rows upon rows of

how long I’d be in Kansas. So naturally, I set her free.

buildings, and in the midst of it all, I lose sight of my creative conscience, my ability to pluck from the

This was a decision I have been pondering for some

chasms a whimsical manifestation of my existential

time now. But I slept instead of crying. Sam was not

anxiety. Some things are just too suffocating. Any-

far, and my dreams would get me to Hoboken. In a

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specific dream which I now remember, I saw myself a

mirror is about as tarnished and frayed as its aging sil-

character in Willard’s play, and as the play went on, I

ver frame. Nonetheless, I can see my unshaven cheek,

seemed to become aware of it, of my dream, and in

my listless eyes. Sometimes when I am alone, I think,

my lucidity I drew a sword from my scabbard and cut

is this where I am supposed to be? And in this case, I

through the background, which split with the flimsi-

think it’s not. For a moment I think I see Evelyn sitting,

ness of cardboard. And on the other side, beyond the

cross-legged on the bed, beckoning me, revealing the

set, I found myself wandering through a thick fog, one

hem of her stockings peaking out from under her baby

so dense I could almost part it with my hands, and

blue skirt, I can almost feel the friction of her touch

eventually I came upon a dimly lit chamber, torches

against my back, the alcohol swimming in our veins,

aflame in the corners of the room, shadows plastered

the sheets tangling with the edges of the bed. I can

upon the dingy stone walls, a loud whisper buzz-

feel the chill pulsating between the goosebumps on

ing in my ear, and there in the center was my father,

her inner thigh, her muffled cries of passion snuffed

laying at his deathbed, my family grieving beside it,

in the crease of my neck, the shiver and buckle of her

my mother writhing with uncontrollable terror while

knees as I explore her garden, but when I awaken from

my brother wrapped his arms around her, burying his

this momentary trance, from the wonderful illusion my

head in her neck. And as I approached my father, I

lack of sleep has provided, I’ll recognize that I’m re-

realized it was not, in fact, him… It was me.

ally just tired. And let’s face it, there’s nothing there, but a cold pillow, and a phone that still hasn’t brought

The cab driver woke me from my sleep, informing me

me the whereabouts of my friend. For a moment, I

that we had arrived. Our flight was not until tomor-

imagine myself in Sam’s shoes, and I imagine it is my

row so I checked into the rooms above the bar Sam

dad, and briefly, my eyes well, and my heart contracts.

had told me about. And here I am, sitting alone in this

This is something I do all too often. I still remember

one-bed room, awaiting the return of my fatherless

nights, sitting alone above the covers of my child-

friend. The atmosphere of the room reminds me of

hood bed, everyone else asleep, but not me, no, I was

something out of a Sartre play, Second Empire furni-

too busy imagining the world after I die. And I would

ture, the walls covered in that tacky paper with stripes

start to cry, practically every time. The funny thing is,

and stripes of purple, orange, red, and white. Even

it really wasn’t that uncommon of me to do. Perhaps

the desk is drab; nothing special about this room at

I’ve been pondering the tales of melancholy and the

all, except for the grand mirror above the desk at

infinite sadness since I was a boy.

which I sit. I can see my reflection clearly, though the

Zombie #3

digital photo

Max Mikulecky

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Waiting for Walle (left) Frozen Fish (right) digital photos Max Mikuleckly

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Plants

Sarah Pyle Plants don’t move like people do.

They are plants.

I don’t know if they have a soul, or conscience, or feelings, but I’d rather not take the chance at upsetting one.

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Shaggy Dogg

Shaggy Dogg gnaws on a mouthful of rawhide and wonders where all of this is going. The air is stinky with exhaust fumes. It offers a piquant

Young

bouquet, like sizzling Serrano peppers or a

Han Lester

rabbit that’s been split open top-to-bottom by some blunt force trauma.

Shaggy Dogg likes

Shaggy Dogg is both

Shaggy Dogg knows

chasing cars because

Man and Dog. Like a

he is what he eats.

it is dangerous and

werewolf, like a Jesus.

Shaggy Dogg knows

futile.

Like a wereJesus.

that he is mostly table scraps and the wet leavings of cold tin cans.

Shaggy Dogg is not

Shaggy Dogg is not

a werewolf. Shaggy

a wereJesus.

Dogg is not a Jesus.

Shaggy Dogg is both Man and Dog.

Shaggy Dogg chews

Somebody with a newspaper comes by and

on the grass until he

swats Shaggy Dogg on the nose and Shaggy

pukes everything and

Dogg tries to open a dialogue but they don’t

then he tries to relax.

listen so he sinks his teeth into their arm and they lock him up in a tiny parody of a house, really almost an igloo. Shaggy Dogg knows he should worry about the cultural appropriation of Inuit winter housing and he tries to remind himself he’s just a Dog but he can’t escape the notion that that’s even more directly racist.

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Tivoli Lazio

digital photo

Sally Carmichael

Shaggy Dogg huddles in a pile of rags and listens to the WereJesuses as they howl at the moon. “Your other cheek looks like a bunny rabbit!” “That is pretty neat!” The WereJesuses can sure get riled up.

Hoppin’ on

Thinkin’ they’re

the furniture.

people.

Shaggy Dogg tries to howl along and the wereJesuses get really awkward for a moment before saying “Yeah, that’s really nice, Shuggy Digg. You should be an Olympic moon-howler!”

Shaggy Dogg dreams and wonders. He wonders about the wereJesuses and their big smiles and tired eyes. Something bigger than him passes above his dream-senses.

Shaggy Dogg yelps and opens his paws. To the floor flutters a flurry of the hairs of the son of man that bit him. Stigmata blossom on his arms. “Oh god!” he howls. “Oh god oh god what have I become?”

The other wereJesuses come with big stupid faces and ask if he wants to play fetch. Shaggy Dogg yelps as the chokechain tightens.

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Allow events to

Forget about good.

Process is more im-

Love your experiments

change you. You have

Good is a known

portant than outcome.

(as you would an ugly

to be willing to grow.

quantity. Good is

Go deep.

Capture accidents.

Begin anywhere.

Slow down.

Don’t be cool.

Desynchronize.

Cool is conservative

child).

Study.

Drift.

A studio is a

Allow yourself to

place of study.

wander aimlessly.

Harvest ideas.

Keep moving.

Ask stupid questions.

Collaborate.

Work the metaphor.

Be careful to take risks.

fear dressed in black.

Everyone is a leader.

Stay up late.

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Don’t clean your desk.

Think with your mind.

Don’t enter awards

Read only left-hand

competitions.

pages.

Organization =

Don’t borrow money.

Listen carefully.

Make new words.

Liberty.

Take field trips.

Make mistakes faster.

Imitate.

Scat.

Break it, stretch it,

Explore the

Coffee breaks, cab

Avoid fields.

bend it, crush it,

other edge.

rides, green rooms.

Jump fences.

Remember.

Power to the people.

Avoid software.

crack it, fold it.

Laugh.

Arthur Dodge

digital photo

Claire Dooley

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Bonetree

Ian Cook

standing on the ends of branches and falling feet first from the bonetree bringing down the clouds after plucking the moon’s thin grin pulling the corners of the night sky to fashion a new hide lucid and everywhere until I become that grand vista forever stretching my arms out moving all further apart defining an edge of existence for the dead to walk upon in the hopes that they’ll leave me alone and maybe then I’ll enjoy the quiet Gathering sticks behind grandmother’s house to kindle my pyre

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Meditation Chair plywood & aluminum plating Sarah Terranova

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Ghosts of North Lawrence

Sarah Pyle

on bicycles, red hooded elliots in alienating darkness, we ride there, the distant haze of smokestacks puff puff puffing out all their cancerous secrets until dawn, there, the cantina forever flickering OPEN, pouring out its JosĂŠ Cuervo mambos into deserted lamplit streets, there, the mosquitos stirring and conferencing in lazy circles around the riverbed and back around again,

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there, the porchsitters of each crooked house, talking, cigaretting, jazzing, tomorrowing: Ms. Louanna made gingersnaps and the neighbor kids made a trashcan fire to burn up their cares and Old Widower Johnson made a makeshift wife because he had forgotten how to sleep alone,

there, the coyotes in the fields howling for loss, for forever chasing and never catching, there, the junk piles, the great once-treasured tragedies, chairsandtablesandbooksandlamps stretching up and up forever into skyscrapers of forgotten memories, and here and there, and always, ten times an hour every hour, the Lyon trains roaring past, each crooked house becoming a rocking chair of boxcar vibrations, and here, now, forever, we feel the train’s hot engine breath on our sleeves, so close, and still so distant,

because it is going somewhere we are not.

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J.R.C. oil & acrylic on canvas Jill Kilgore

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Will

Ball Python

Jenkins

Under the light of a heat lamp her scales gleam. She slides slithering but a tap of the glass and she quickly coils as if the eye of the Lord were upon her. Then moving again ever so slightly, her long body tight in one place, lurching in another is always so smooth.

Always contained in a smooth glass terrarium, her scales feel the artificial world tight, contained, safe. Slithering there, she is never filled with fear, just anxiously moving.

Restful at night under warm rays she coils.

When daylight peaks through the curtains the coils of herself aren’t enough. She has to slide against the smooth glass again. She sees him outside moving, even leaving his terrarium he calls “Room”. He has no scales on which to slide, slithering from place to place, just sticks he calls “Legs”. At night he gets tight in the Reptile Bark he calls “Bed”. His eyes get tight like his knuckles as he coils.

Nightmares perhaps? Then she wonders what fears are slithering beneath his skull. When dreaming the blankets are smooth, less interesting for her with scales.

She would like to see him moving,

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always locked in panic, moving the sheets like a struggling rat tight in her grip. Without scales he must be a rat, bred to be wrapped in coils.

He is a prisoner bound in arms and legs, not smooth at all but hairy. He can’t own the earth, slithering from place to place. Not like her kind, capable of slithering to the sky through thick trees, moving against the dust, or swimming in silky smooth streams. But neither is she, tight in her terrarium she coils, simply counting her scales.

Those colorful scales go against the glass slithering, then constricting into coils, never really moving.

Her body gets tight in one place, lurching in another but always so smooth.

Lucanidae bronze, brass & square a crystal Channing Taylor

The Garden

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digital photo

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by Justin Bell

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Precision Printing

Thank You

Andrea

Michael

Herstowski

Selby

Lauren Rachel

Schimming

Gray

Student Senate

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