The Prince George Review Winter 2003/04
NY Writers Coalition Press 1
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The Prince George Review Winter 2003/04
NY Writers Coalition Press
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Copyright Š 2004 NY Writers Coalition Inc. Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Editor: Nancy Weber Layout: Aaron Zimmerman Cover Art: Ann Quintano
The Prince George Review contains writing by the members of a creative writing workshop conducted by NY Writers Coalition Inc. at The Prince George, a supportive housing residence operated by Common Ground Community. NY Writers Coalition Inc. is a not-for-profit organization that provides free creative writing workshops throughout New York City for people from groups that have been historically deprived of voice in our society. For more information about NY Writers Coalition Inc.: NY Writers Coalition Inc. 78 Eighth Avenue, #2E Brooklyn, NY 11215 (718) 783-8088 info@nywriterscoalition.org www.nywriterscoalition.org Common Ground is a non-profit housing and community development organization whose mission is to solve homelessness. Common Ground designs its buildings to be safe, affordable communities, offering on-site support services to formerly homeless, low-income and special needs individuals. For more information about Common Ground, visit www.commonground.org.
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Introduction Four years ago, a creative writing workshop began at The Prince George for the residents of this supportive housing community. Everyone involved quickly discovered the wealth of talent within these walls. The diversity of voices, the richness of the writing, and the warm supportive energy that emanated from the group at The Prince George inspired the creation of New York Writers Coalition (NYWC). In the last year NYWC led workshops at fifteen different sites around the city, but it was The Prince George workshop which set the standards through readings, publications, and the incredible enthusiasm from both the resident writers and staff. I was proud and happy to take over leading the workshop this year. Many thanks to Kathleen Crowell and the wonderful staff at the Prince George, to Ann Quintano for the beautiful cover artwork for this review, to Aaron Zimmerman for his tireless efforts for this organization, and mostly to the community of writers at The Prince George, whom I feel privileged to have the opportunity to write and share with. Nancy Weber January 2004
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INVIGORATE RAFAEL PEREZ Grasp the presence of the present Throw away your old ideologies Incorporate the new Invigorate the now Move motherfucker move The time is here Don’t bet on reincarnation The sands of time are running thin The clock is speeding up The timer is closing in on zero One life, one chance Do it now Whatever it is that you are going to do
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MUST WE BE MAD JANA LINDAN-IHRIE Must we be mad to be… A Van Gogh A Monroe A Hemingway A Plath And end that way? Must we be out of our minds… To paint To act To sing To write Great stinging truths? Must we murder our muse… In the eye of a poppy In the juice of the hops In the deep off a span Called Golden Gate? Must it ever be the Artist's fate… To go mad from our fright To snuff out our light To become one more Silent Dark Star?
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BIBLES AND ENCLYCOPEDIAS ANTHONY HANLEY In 1956 a non-wealthy American had a choice of four ways of remaining in France, as an alternative to returning to an America he did not wish to return to. Have I constructed my thought correctly? He could teach English in the Berlitz School. He could sell Bibles and/or encyclopedias and thirdly, if he already had a job with an American company. The fourth way was to associate himself with a perverted Brazilian millionaire. There was a fifth way and, what the hell. I might as well mention it. He could become a clochard, or bum, i.e., if he didn’t get picked up by the cops and discovered to be non-French. In that year I was an American, non-wealthy, nonbohemian and non-successful. I didn’t want to return to the USA but I was down to seven hundred dollars. Return to the States faced me and I got in touch with the Bible and encyclopedia guy. I am not at all a salesman. I tried selling frankfurter rolls, men’s socks and ladies perfume and stuff. I never sold one frankfurter roll, a pair of socks or perfume or lipstick. The Bible man met me one Sunday afternoon on the Champs Elysees. There was something weird or shrewd about this fellow. The time and place of 8
meeting was peculiar. But I then was a nice guy or a pushover. This man - I forget his name or perhaps never knew it - next took me to the tenth floor of a building. We entered a large room all white except for its floor. In the center of the room were two chairs. The Bible man took one, I sat in the other. Our knees almost touched. This guy I can’t describe. Well, in a statistical way I can do something. He was about thirty, of slight build, well dressed, very well I’d say, from West Virginia or Chicago or maybe Oregon. He sold his books to soldiers of the U.S. Army, at the time in various places in Europe. Me, I was confused and I hardly spoke other than to mumble answers put to me. I was angry or introspective, wondered how the hell I had gotten into this spot. The man facing me, what did he want? I can’t say but after I left him I reviewed the interview and concluded that he wanted to find out something about my sales ability or something of my nature, of the type of guy I was. In eight or ten minutes the farce had ended and I was back on the street. Within a day or two I had picked up information on Bible and encyclopedia selling. You had to be a hustler and a car would have been needed to get from one Army base to another. Sergeants were the best prospects; privates and officers went for neither encyclopedia nor Bible. 9
I boozed cautiously in the capital of France. I wondered about the movie studio and the dubbing in of English but my wonderings resulted in no action. Brazilian millionaires had no interest for me. I don’t know. I’m a guy who likes women: women and girls. That left the Berlitz School and American companies. Of the companies I did not qualify. I did apply at the Berlitz School. They gave me an interview and the school told me they would get in touch with me within two weeks. The Berlitz School contacted me. Probably because I was a bachelor, they sent me to distant places when a branch had a teacher out sick or for some other cause. I went a couple of times to Versailles, once to Lille and I spent a month or so in Luxembourg. For my first night in that city they put me up in the best hotel. There I slept in the biggest bed I have ever seen. Someone told me a top American general had slept in that bed. Might it have been Eisenhower? Anyway I felt it was the world’s biggest and it could have given Eisenhower a few nights’ sleep. And might Hitler have dozed in it?
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I REMEMBER ANN QUINTANO I remember very little. There are reaches in my mind that grow dim, sometimes outrightly black and hard. A wall is there: cold, stony as if yards of cerebellum have folded over once too often and strangled parts of my brain and everything, most everything, is lost to me. When there are meager clues here and there I fairly seize upon them as predator to prey but they elude me. Fleetingly there—then they too escape me behind the wall. I try to push past what is forgotten, lost to me, as if I believed I could force that memory back: pry it from the clawed hands that hold fast to the chest of lostness...blankness...gone. It's tiring to try over and over to piece it together. To lay out the glimpses of memory as if all on a huge floor in front of me and move them from one spot to another in a desperate attempt to make sense of them. Obstinately, they cling to unknowness, obscurity over years though tantalizing me frequently with partial breakthroughs, memory leakage in tiny troubled particles. I remember so little and don't know how I became a party to my own forgetting. How I ever dealt such a blow as to cut me off from my own continuity of life. Now I desperately write everything down on scraps of paper, in pocket-sized memo pads, larger collegeruled notebooks and hoard them side by side in different colors or one on top of another in a sad and anxious attempt to piece together my life. 11
ORCHARD BEACH ROSE OR ODE TO THE DISAPPEARING SUMMER GEORGE ZUCHOWSKI Rose and George...both of us and each, We love the Florida-like Orchard Beach. The pleasant smell of the gentle breeze, The golden sand where we lie on—with ease. We admire the slowly rising tide, That the moving water some fish will guide And the seaweed that floats like a micro-ship, Covering the swimmer's belly, legs and hip. The forest, the water and the peaceful bay Oh, how calm you can always stay! The Labor Day has already past, And the children went to school at last. The black squirrel is getting too fat, It plays, eats and looks like an overfed rat The sea birds are hungry today, Can't they see the fish in the water play Beneath the surface of the water still? Shoal of fish moves quickly like a new windmill, camouflaged at the bottom of the lagoon, Avoiding the gulls—not to be consumed too soon... The Orchard Beach is beautiful by day, That's why we sun-bathing and half-naked stay, To soak the golden rays of the bright sun, Having a healthy rest and plenty of fun. So please join us together and each On the Golden Bronx's peaceful Orchard Beach!
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MUSTANG MIKE AND THE IDEA MAN GORDON RUSSELL Mustang Mike had reached an impasse. He had just finished recording his very first rock and roll album and he was having trouble coming up with a satisfactory title for it. “This is absurd!” he would yell out. But it was Mustang Mike himself who was absurd. For he was a 45 year-old, green-eyed Puerto Rican with a paunch and yet he was still totally serious about his present foray into the world of rock and roll. He had struggled all week long to come up with an album title and still nothing came to mind. Day and night it continued until he became totally distraught. He tossed and turned in his sleep, had consulted his horoscope, and had even taken to asking people he knew for possible suggestions, but all to no avail. Finally one day in the garment district, while standing outside the building where he worked as a security guard, he threw back his head and yelled: “God damnit! I can't get an idea!” A few seconds later, an old hunch-backed dwarf appeared. He wore a rumpled raincoat and a scarf pulled up over his nose that concealed the better part of his face. He stood there, his beady eyes peering intently over the top of his scarf, staring straight at Mustang Mike who eventually said: 13
“Well, what do you want?” “It seems to me that you're the one that's wanting something.” “What are you, some kind of mind reader or something?” “No but I know a man who can give you that idea that you want.” Immediately Mustang Mike became very nervous and excited. “Where is he? Who is he? How do I find him?” “What's in it for me?” Without hesitation Mustang Mike produced a five dollar bill from his wallet. “Here's five dollars, now tell me who he is and how I find him.” “His name's Bellamy. You find him any weekday at twelve, eating the lunch special in the back of Donavan's.” Mustang Mike looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to twelve. He ran down to the basement and awaked Dennis, the young man whom he allowed to live down there, and told him to watch his post while he was gone for a little while. Donavan's was an old Irish bar just two blocks away, and to this establishment Mustang Mike headed at commendable speed. On arriving, he 14
pushed open the door and hurried past the construction workers and other blue-collar types that constituted the bar's regular customers. Though the bar was crowded, there were only a few patrons seated in the rear. He quickly looked from table to table until he saw a fat, bald-headed man wearing green goggle-type glasses with a large plate of food in front of him. The man was hideous looking. His bald head which he obviously shaved with a razor was completely spherical and was so shiny that light seemed to emanate from it rather than bounce off of it. The face was that of a bulldog with a triple chin. But it was the glasses that made the man truly hideous, as they were obviously some sort of medically prescribed protective goggle. Though such a person would inhibit many a person, Mustang Mike didn't care. He was a man on a mission. “Is your name Bellamy?” “Yes it is. Who are you? And what can I do for you?” “I'm Mustang Mike. I've just recorded a rock and roll album and I'm having trouble coming up with a title for it. A dwarf down the street said that he knew a guy that could help me so I paid him five dollars and he told me about you.” The fat man swallowed a large mouthful of mashed potatoes.
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“Well, since I've been so highly recommended I guess I should take on the case.” “How much do you charge?” “No real charge. Just keep the beers coming and eventually I'll come up with your album title.” “I've got to get back to work. I get off at three. Here's twenty dollars, that should hold you.” “That sounds about right. I should have your album title when you get back.” Mustang Mike left the bar with a smile on his face and a glow in his eyes. For some reason he had total confidence in the fat, bald-headed man with the green goggles. At ten minutes past three he returned to the bar. Bellamy was at the same table, only this time the plate of food was gone and a pitcher of beer sat in its place. He was filling an empty mug when Mustang Mike sat down next to him. “Well, did you come up with my title?” “No, but I feel very strongly that this pitcher should do it. I almost had it at the tail end of the last pitcher but it escaped me. Why don't you ask the bartender for another mug and join me.” “I guess I better,” Mustang Mike said dejectedly as 16
he shuffled off towards the bar. He got an empty mug from the bartender and was about to sit down when the fat man suddenly exploded: “I got it!” “That's great, what's the title?” “No, I haven't got the title, but I have an idea on how to get it.” “What do you mean?” “Automatic writing. Get me a pen and paper and the title for your album should come to me without any effort.” “I'll be right back, “ said Mustang Mike as he took off for the stationery store around the corner. He came back shortly with a cheap new pen and a spiral notebook. “Here you go.” Bellamy uncapped the pen and opened the notebook. He grasped the pen in his right hand, in writing position, and placed it upon the open page while with his left hand he filled both of the beer mugs. “Now we wait.”
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“How long do you think it will be?” “We're pretty close.” They sat there, nursing their beers, staring at the fat man's immobile right hand. Twenty minutes later Bellamy shook his head. “We're going to need another pitcher. You better get it because I don't want to miss the idea.” “Okay, I'll get it but I sure hope this one does it.” As he headed to the bar Mustang Mike was beginning to lose faith in the fat, bald man with those hideous green goggles. He thought to himself: “The only thing I know about this guy is that an old hunchbacked dwarf recommended him.” Reluctantly he purchased another pitcher of beer and returned to the table and filled both mugs. The fat man took a long drink and had just set his mug down on the table when it happened. His head fell to his chest, his eyes rolled up into his head and his writing hand began to shake. This quickly subsided though, much to the disappointment of Mustang Mike. “Damn! I thought you had it!” “Don't worry, we're closing in on it now,” Bellamy said. Then, with a strange look in his eye, he raised the half-filled mug and drained it in a series of 18
piggish gulps. He slapped the mug upon the table and let out a loud burp. Then his head fell to one side, his mouth dropped open and his eyelids began to flutter. The pen once again started to shake but then all movement abruptly ceased as his whole body went limp and he began to snore. His head would have hit the table but the enormous girth of his stomach pushed against its edge and propped him up. His head rested lazily on the top layer of a pronounced triple chin. The sight so disgusted Mustang Mike that he finally lost his temper. “You fat pig!” he screamed. “You bald-headed, fish-eyed, garlic-breath, green-goggled motherfucker! Do you know who I am?” As if on cue the fat man opened his eyes, took one quick look at Mustang Mike and then hurriedly scribbled something down on the open notebook. Mustang Mike's expression changed from disgust to absolute delight as he read out loud the words on the paper: “MUSTANG MIKE, THE MOTORCYCLE MESSENGER FROM MARS.”
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EVOLUTION OF THE PSYCHE RAFAEL PEREZ I cry and cry but nothing changes Shall I rise and make my destiny? Or shall I lie in my House of Sloth and Decay? I have been summoned by a spirit larger than us a presence that never ends and never begins she reaches with her long fingers and picks me up above the Heavens angels freeze as they try to reach us God hides his face in grotesque shame What is this concept of She-God? Who dare say one is higher than the Lord of Israel? Never ending evolution of the human psyche Further we climb from Greek and Egyptian myth To Mother nature who breast feeds us with her rivers Who sings us lullabies with her stars Who rocks us to sleep with her waves I have been sent to proclaim a new day A new season, a new way Blessed is the one who bleeds every month Like cyclic crucifixion Labor pains in the name of love She dies for us every day With endless make up and constant dress up Mocked is she like carrying a cross Babies abound her breast 20
Like nourishing prayer Sacred milk that flows like her never ending love Mother of Nature I declare you most high Giver of air and water Supplier of vegetation and fruits Humbled are we who eat from thee.
NIGHT SWEEPS ANN QUINTANO They ought to put a bed down here. So many women huddle along the cold tile floor of the Penn Station bathroom hoping for some clustered moments of sleep—that it would only be merciful to have a bed. No sooner does the women's breathing shift—deeper more rhythmic, a musical accompaniment to REM sleep—than the police enter on their regular rounds to rouse and disperse the women. The bathroom matrons, as sometimes do the police, rely on Virginia—former teacher, now homeless—the self-appointed matron of the space—to help ease people out. She encourages this one, nudges that one, sweeps up disarrayed belongings of another. But Margaret is too heavily and desperately asleep—too long deprived and disheartened. A cop, Kojak, as we call him, all massive bulk and 21
clean-shaven head, approaches her and slams his police baton against the wall some foot above her head. It cracks loud and fierce but there are only sounds of love grumblings, hissing from her throat and lungs and an almost imperceptible twinge of her leg. I keep one eye peeled on her and one carefully on Kojak as I slowly feign gathering my possessions in order to buy time so I can keep vigil. Kojak moves towards the other end of her body striding with a rigid military air and heaves a kick hard onto the sole of her right foot. She gasps and starts. "Move it!" he yells and swings around fast toward me feeling the heat of my eyes upon him. I dip my eyes down and heave up my bag and move edging to Margaret's side as she struggles to her feet. Kojak is moving round the room now much like a caged animal and running his bat sharply over the tile walls. "C'mon—out all of you bitches—outta here." He falls in behind us (Margaret and me, the stragglers) pounding the wall behind us and herding us like animals to the slaughter. "Line up against the wall," he shouts and some dozen women bedraggled and exhausted welcome the wall to help keep us standing. Mary teeters, her eyes half closed. Her thin calves poke out from her skirt like a blue heron's spindly legs. Her own legs are twitching tremendously. Kojak drives us on now marching us through hallways of lower Penn Station and up the escalator. We can feel the heavy drafts blowing in from the opened gates and 22
doorways—another tactic used to drive the homeless out. Blasts of cold air alternating with suffocating heat. The ram, ram, ram of his bat follows us and he strides rudely and darkly behind us snickering, then letting go a barrage of ugly comments. He drives us out onto Eighth Avenue where the cold bleakness reserved for 3 a.m. is whipping up short, hard blasts of air and dampness. I send a quick glance to Margaret again who is ill-protected in a short sleeve shirt and register a further worry for her well-being. We spread out now as he blathers at us: "STAY OUT" and we roam a short distance in various directions, our legs swollen and leaden and decidedly unable to carry us any further. After years on the street I have come to believe that one can fairly die for lack of sleep and that waking and sleeping begin to merge in some horrific limbo that is the walking night terror of people who are homeless. Not long after this incident set in the 1980's, Penn Station closed off all those areas. They redesigned a more homelessproof bathroom and so escalated vigilance that women hardly ever find sanctuary there. Where do they find it? I worry. For everyplace and nearly everyone, it seems, continues to say: "Stay out."
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LATE FALL ON BRIGHTON BEACH GEORGE ZUCHOWSKI By the end of Fall the weak Sun comes in small doses, No blooming roses It is calm on Brighton Beach No loud or quiet beach music can be heard or play Shadows of the hazy Sun proclaim a short day. The sea birds are in desperate need of any food, But for them never enough—they are screaming for more The birds are still very hungry—crying as before. I cannot feel the cold—the breeze is very gentle, Tells me of the coming chill—which is argumental, Nothing spoils the tranquility and the prolonged peace, This helps me keep praying and meditate at ease. The undisturbed mood was perfect to think and to pray, My body was here, but my mind was far away!
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ORPHAN OF THE STORM PROLOGUE: CHICAGO — WINTER 1968 JANA LINDAN-IHRIE A fierce blizzard howled down out of Canada and hit the entire Chicago area. Yale Elementary closed early. Outside of the school, cars were lined up bumper to bumper up and down the block. Some of the children didn't have rides, they traveled on foot, or rode the City Buses; Melissa lived close enough to walk home. “Go right home, children,” the seventh grade teacher calls out hurrying students down the hall. “This is a bad storm!” she warns, as they file out the door. “And no snowball fights.” As soon as the kids get outside they squeal and giggle, happy to be out of school early- but Melissa inwardly groans. She doesn't want to go home today at all, much less early. This is the first day of her father's off-duty time. He's always drunk on his days off. Sometimes he's gone for the first day, or even until the late night hours of the second day, but other times, he spends the entire time drinking at the kitchen table. She never knew if he'd be there, until she got home from school. Melissa only has five blocks to walk, but the snow is already so deep she can hardly make her way 25
through the building drifts, and the wind is gusting with such force, she can barely see but a few feet ahead. About halfway home, a tall building partially blocks the wind, and Melissa sees a stretch of snow unbroken by a single foot-print. It looks so like a big, bouncy cloud that she runs over, spins around and flops down on her back to make a snow-angel. She pumps her arms and legs back and forth just as she and her father had done when she was little. “Come on, kids,” her daddy would call. “Let's get out in the snow before it's all trampled down.” Melissa stops moving, saddened by the sure knowledge that her father no longer wanted to make snow-angels, or help build a snowman with a carrot nose. And next summer, she knew he wouldn't take her swimming in the lake either. Just thinking about how much fun they used to have made her eyes brim and her stomach ache. She wished she could understand why he had to drink now and be so mean. Pulling up her knees, she rolled onto her side and curled into a ball to ease the pain. She weeps—there in the snow’s soft hush—until her cheeks burn and smart and snowflakes hang heavy on her lashes and then fall to melt on her upturned face. By the time Melissa turns back over and gets to her feet, her snow-jacket is covered stiff with heavy, wet flakes. Shivering, she swipes at her drippy nose with the inside of her sleeve. Surprised 26
to see that the streetlamps are lit, she wonders if she had slipped off to sleep. She watches the snow swirl and sparkle in the glow from the light-poles overhead, marveling the way endless snow-flakes float like magic out of the dark sky. How she wishes she could be a snowflake and whirl away and never have to go home again. "Please, God," she murmurs aloud. "Don't let him be there." Melissa glances down and sees her snow-angel is all but gone in the drifting snow. Just like her daddy—all but gone. She sighs, yanks her wooly hat low over her ears, ducks her head against the wind, and plods on home through the storm.
GRACE RAFAEL PEREZ Grace, beauty, magnificence, allure, shine, sunbath, smiles, royalty, offspring, legacy, recapture, coconut, senses, olfactory celebration, sensual occurrences, velvet-like curves, alluring sounds, breathe in the now, open wide your eyes, soak in the forever, sit on the throne of your alluring splendor, robes that kiss the floor, crowns of jewels, staff of liquid gold, shoes of exotic skin, my queen in exuberance I shall cover you.
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THE TIME I FIRST ESCAPED JACQUELYN WILLIAMS The time that I first escaped was when I learned to read. I was five, and I read everything I could get my hands on. It meant I was never bored Reading enabled me to become and remain a free spirit. It extended the lifelong privilege of being taken from my room, the backyard, or the front steps to wherever I was reading about. My older sister Dodie was on babysitting duty and took me to the library for the very first time. “What is this place?” I asked. In a matter of minutes, at the tender age of seven, I got a library card, and realized even then that the little plastic card was a lifetime passage to the world. I became a regular at the Cleveland Public Library. I took out several books at a time, and treated them like gold. They were always returned, on time, in perfect condition. I carried a bag with me everywhere. In it was a mirror, lip gloss, Trident gum, and my wallet— which held my library card, a commodity more valuable to me than a driver’s license. Truth is, that library card turned me into somewhat of an exaggerator, if not a downright liar. As the years passed, I would bump into friends. 28
“It’s been such a long time since I have seen you. What have you been up to?” The answers always varied, depending on what I was reading at the time. Sometimes it was about China, Turkey, Greece or Thailand. A favorite answer was “I have been to Rio for Carnivale. What a time I had. The locals were dressed in colorful costumes and spectacular masks, and everyone parties for seven days. All the watering holes are filled with revelers letting their hair down. They are beautiful people, and love Americans. And the men!!!! They really know how to appreciate women. You must go yourself, but don’t pack too much. You will want to shop, shop and shop more.” Reading has allowed me to experience a world of beauty, culture, and spirituality I might never have gotten otherwise. The words are like magic; they lift me off my favorite chair and transform me to palaces, ski slopes and beautiful beaches. Some people cherish their platinum American Express Card. I cherish my library card.
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PRAY FOR US RAFAEL PEREZ Pray for us Pray for us Pray for us Father, Holy spirit, have mercy on us God, the holy trinity, one God, have mercy on us Holy Mary, pray for us Holy mother of God, pray for us Holy Virgin of virgins, pray for us St. Michael, pray for us St. Gabriel, pray for us St. Raphael, pray for us All the angels and archangels, pray for us All holy orders of blessed spirits, pray for us St. John the Baptist, pray for us St. Joseph, pray for us Invoke your sincerest lamentations Instill a higher power Preen away your fatal doubts Cascade the True Belief Your hair, scent of rain Footsteps Your perfume follows you 30
Like an ectoplasmatic apparition Like a desperate fan Like a man possessed Blood lust and all of its complexities Waning faith and all its consequences Autumn tree branches reach for the sky in utter despair Arms outstretched for the arrival of the one that never comes How should we comfort our children who cry in the night? Awakened by the nearness of the one that burns Promises and pacts made with the innocent and young Deals of candy and souls Bargains of no more school and mortality O’ Lucifer why do you taunt our youth? with your illustrious speech your impeccable knowledge your refined/bestial manner don’t you know that we are weak and feeble? but lambs with no Sheperd lost puppies on a rainy, bloody night wandering Muse weeping like Mary, virgin a torrent of blood laced tears a shower of holy water a drop of incense 31
liquid smoke spiritual cleansing sacred pool disgraced firm, detrimental beliefs
LIKE HORSES JANA LINDAN-IHRIE Like horses we will not be saved. We rear up, wrench free And run back to the barn Into the flames. Oh, we shriek, And keen And worry each new wound But when the flames again leap high, Like horses we will not be saved. We refuse to be led Into the Dark unknown. Like horses Back to the flames We go The only home 32
We know.
FALSIES NANCY WEBER It is after nine and the lights are dim .No one under fourteen is permitted in the intensive care unit. I am ten years old and feeling nearly blind peering through the lenses of my older girl cousin's prescription eyeglasses. The thin wire frames sit awkwardly on my nose, and the strain on my vision makes both eyes cry and my head ache. Through the darkness and distortion I see my mother, a vague outline of a body and buried under a white blanket. I move towards the blurred edge of the bed, carefully stepping in my older girl cousin's brown suede platform sandals. I also wear her beige corduroy mini skirt, her powder blue eye shadow, and her pink flowered B-cup bra, which my older girl cousin stuffed with the tissue paper from shirt boxes - presents from Christmas still lying under the tree. My older girl cousin showed me how to coat my lashes with mascara, and how to use the tiniest teeth of a rat tail comb to smooth out the clumps. I am ten years old and learning fast, walking steady in high shoes and setting my long hair in hot metal rollers. This is the rouse every night, and I have learned to love to primp and pretend. My older girl cousin gives me her clothes, her shoes, her makeup, her shiny silver bracelets, her 33
messy handbag and other bits of her life. I am no longer nervous when I walk past the security guard who glances at my blue ICU pass and waves me on. I feel confident and cared for. I look pretty. In the cold clean twilight of a hospital room I follow the course of the green pulse of light on the heart monitor with confusion and fear, like it's hooked up to me, and every beat of my own heart drains me. I am terrified of my loneliness. My older girl cousin tells me that in high shoes I look too old to be an orphan.
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$5.00
Anthony Hanley Jana Lindan-Ihrie Rafael Perez Ann Quintano Gordon Russell Nancy Weber Jacquelyn Williams George Zuchowski
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