Phoenix - Fall 2000 by UT Media Center

literary university of tennessee

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This image-started was more made than produc ~ d. I have piece is £he first in a series I' ve~ beguO I people, a~jvities, places-~that I'm aroun~ photographers, both professlonal and othe ~

e orne interested in form vs. pattern, -an~this a' nly dr~aw my insp~ration from the everyday--things, _ ~ also inspired by the- work of other ents.

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I1'r,iv~ive

is a junior in of Dreamscmg 45 and Asnropshire Lad's coda, the ~6em~SQ1 r/eri t ,s. ~might be said tQ .reside ~?,:, ~c~rtajn rhythmical force an..,9 the contribution 'diSU~i.l'lt;6:.e.• ~ . , '' .j,a ter~' that resists, suc{ essfully , definition though not comprehension. .~ --~is q senior creative writing. He plans to be a novelist and short story writer. We write in order to taste life twice. ~ __. ___~ --Anais Nin

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born and raised i~ s~Btheastern Pennsylvanra (in tge land of the Dutch . ~e- wn01e story~ -my li~ill be available in bo ~ k form-some , day , that's how meandering and eclectic it has been. I ' m- 45 gOifig G]:l. 25 L have two school age children (one boy, one girl) and I am an active listening authorit~tively based parent. My kids are happy.

t~derrhwi th drawing, paint'ing, and art history emphases. unique ah&~nerent creative process. Copying an image • isn't eno:ugh fo me I belie ~ the m e . in which I paint is au. to~iOgraPhiCal in describing .. " rl . ~ ~. . ".u;.:. .{ .ti ''1/'''' my pe f sonal sellse. Sens~ ~ any of the acu tie ' of sight, hearing ~~le ~Jl"J t ~;t~1'/ o Il touch by which man and amimals ul pri ginat'ng, If~m outside o$M~ ide ~ he boqy. • • ! ,. 't r ~7 f1M'~ d I'l4V

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s ppn ' , the counseling psychol?gy program ~ere as UT. My p~essional interests include worKing , with chi~ ~~f~~ e is~~t ,

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ol1&IJtrate on my work.

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. I' is a creative writingShe gains i 'Wi?\-" ~ 1or m,r p cre try th lb"gh bi(Q(.tV~:h her super rat boyfr->ends. Her favoril.:J :eoe.~~r.:ljf J GaJ..-way Kt.~ll .and Marilyn Kallet 'l'~vfter grad}lation Jodie plan,s to continVM i1:'l'II'g (fuWe obta;/ning,1 aeI

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is a junior maj"!k l tlrOXViit: native / who . loves poetry, ethnicity, and beauty- in those thai I ' surrouh and ~. those that choose to surround me. Some

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forest ave.

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reception 1

jesse

henley st.

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coeverly

johnnie greene

go to the desert 3

rex 2

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cipvi~V\ ~ coV\&e~~s

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W\~~ew ~. este.s

finished and alone

W\iclA~el ~lleV\

the death of pynchon

c1Ar-i~~e~ SW\i~

david byrne and a tuna biscuit

17-20

j~W\es "Z4~~~is

messages hidden in disco

22-23

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bass fishing

jOJie siW\psOV\

gay st.

Jeese

after hearing elie wiesel

for brooke,

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in memory of your

sister ansley

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makeup man

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anneke

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inspiration #2

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In . the fall of the year 2000,

the staff of the Our so~ution . was th~s semester's designscfieine " the creative pro'cess. We asked the artis'ts and writers, to, submit to us samples of - their personal journeys toward th~ finished product. From sketches to rough drafts, our hop'e is that you, the reader, receive a taste of the arts as works in progress. We also wanted. ,the uni ve~si ty community to get more of a feeling of who our contributers are, so we in~lude~, ~or ~he first time; biosk~tches whicp also allowed room for artist comm~ntary.The · goal for this issue is to bring you closer tc?'., -the work and to the authors, - p'oets, and .artist$ of the ' Qniversityof , Tennessee. ' Ph?enix ~ wanted something different.

- ,

v"~VlliV\~>

editor-in-chief

evie

managing editor

ev"\{>~l e",",iv"ieO

poetry editor

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art editor ~>",",ley V~V\ J.OOv"V\ graphic designer ~Me e~Mpbell assistant graphic designer >eleV\~ bi>~p fiction editor J.~viJ. Viele",",

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supporting staff

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uv"ello

staff advisors

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li~>ey

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COPYRIGHT 2000 BY THE UNIVERSITY OF TENNES S EE, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY THE INDIVIDUAL CONTRIBU TORS , PHOENIX IS PREPARED CAMERA - READY BY THE STUDENT STAFF MEMBERS AND IS PUBLISHED TWICE A YEAR EXCLUDING SPECIAL ISSUES , WORK S OF ART . FICTION . AND NON-FICTION ARE ACCEPTED POETRY. THROUGHOUT THE ACADEMIC YEAR .

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PHOENIX LITERARY AND ART MAGAZINE ROOM 5 COMMUNICATIONS BUILD I NG 1345 CIRCLE PARK DRIVE KNOXVI LLE. TN 37996.0314 VISIT Us @ HTTP: // WEB. UT K . ED U/ - P H0 EN I X1 /

PHOENIX1@UTK . EDU

Ansley

to tell me. Instead, I beam you a smile--my battle face, link your arm and say, Look at this line--your sister is like Elvis! You laugh with the Tupelo Honey and toughness formerly reserved for Ansley and the King, glad and guilty for some joy.

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uay otreet After Hearing Elie Wiesel

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • It . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

..............................................................

ICaleb remarks, walking down Gay Street,

......... ·c·o·rCfliro5iecraiid..

coiieglate: ·iiands·~ii{~·, ···

.. ·· .... ·............................................................. .

........... Xhat :s•.tb.@•.kJJJ.d.of.ojg. .lI1-B,;J. J. ·W8iB..fi ·-S O' &6; .... •.. •.. •• .. •• .. •••• .. •••• .. •.. •.•.. •.. •••••• ....................... . after hearing the wise words of Elie Wiesel. .

··· .. ·.. ·..

.. ·.. ···· .. ·............................................................................. .

f·gfa·n·ce·a,'t·iiim··q·{li·~z·i~·~iiy,

...........walk.~IJ..g..w.~tn. .g, .sw{HeEJ. .spr-i·fl·g..i·fi..my ·high·-n'ee-h~d · Etep: ····"······"··"······"······"··"············ as he continues -- He is /a storyteller.

·....·..

· · TaJr·eE;dy· have · so· ·m~~y ·~·t·~~j~·;~ ·

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. .. .... ... .JJ.J],r;j••J. [j,m.-8o ·y~;U{lfJ: .. · .. •••·••• .. •··••··••• .. •···· .................................................................... ..

I pause mid-bounce and wonder

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My stories consist only

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But how can I tolerate the arrogance in Caleb's voice, ..........in· hi &·ett&y· 1:1 ~QN"e 8' 'e>'f 'd-ri nki ng ·a.waY·E Ur~p t3.,.. ..... .. ....................... ............................ .... .

Elie...Wiesel suffered it . ... .. .. ... ... ............. ........................ ...... ........... .. .... ..... .... .... ........ . .. ...... ...when ............. ............ ...... .... ............

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Drinking away high school, ..........a<Rd·oE)·I·I-eg&, .. ·· .... · .. · .. · .. •··· ...... ·· .... · .. ······· ............................................................ ,.. ......... and me. ................................................ ..... . ........................................ .... .. . ..................... ......... .. ...... . ..... ............ . But now the familiar silence .~._____s_n_a_tc_h_e_s_m~y __c_ou_r_a.5_e________________________________________________~_. '

to tell him what I think of his stories that made me love and resent him. We walk to campus, arm in arm, crunching the first dead leaves.

some of his stuff. It was good, ya know? An I figured, this guy's gonna be somebody big. An everybody wants to , f~c}:t someone famous at least once, ya know? II

The Death of Pynchon I fucked up old Pynchon' s grave. I stompea on it and raked up the grass 'and turned ~ver the headstone. I tied the headstone to a truck and drug it down the ' road, automatic pistols blazing into the air. Half in sorrow, half at sorrow of envy lost. Pynchon would have loved it. Poor old Pynchon, everybody ,said. ",Good old Pynchon, sucking on some poor girl' s h~at. r..ash, everybody would say when Pynchon wasn 't around. They'd say that in the dark; drinking beers and laughing and saying poor old Pynchon, sucking o~n a heat rash, or eating out of a dust pan. Ground beef a la dust, they'd say, for old Pynchon. Then they'd go home and eat their meals out of dust pans, too, and wish they were sucking on a heat rash, or at least the broom that goes with their dust pans. II

Pynchon was coughing and rolling around in there, on' the bed, hacking and singing stuff in a raspy voice. Not' singing dog-food commercial lyrics over. trance beats. Singing the Coughing-all-night-till-yer-hair-turnswhite blues. We had the door to the bedroom closed, cigarette smoke not meshing well with respirator equipment, and all. And we smoked Cigarettes all night while Pynchon hacked and sputtered like some broken motor, even though he didn't like people smoking in his house. We raced his slot cars and called dibs on his stuff and drank all his beers. Some people tried on his clothes, cause just about everybody had some weird shit rolling around in his ~r her .head, says he good doctor. Poor old Pynchon, ~verybody said. Poor 'old Pyrichon sucking on the wrong end of the water hose. Poor old Pynchon,. sucked the wrong something, and got fucked through the lungs. And we'd sit there in the dark, laughing about sucking on the w:rong things. II

Four turn-tables, roaring at once. Spinning on autopilot. Spinning on guest-autopilot. Pyp.chon working ~ the crowd. Rolling with the trance fans. Rolling with Roll out the beats! Everybody yell~d. Them everybody. I think I'll lick every single thing I find. I turn-tables flying, spinning. Pynchon doin' a cut-up at a think I'll salt and lick everything I can wrap my tongue rave. Pynchon trippin them beats on X. Samples from ' -around. Turn the autopilot to the redi Ba-ba-ba-ba-bumeverything. Pynchon laying out the mad-trance-groove ' baboom-ba-ba-da at two hundred and fifty. beats a while shouting the words to dog food commercials. minute. ,Pynqhon rolling into tHe red, a ~illion lights a Bum-ba-bum-ba-bum-bum-ba-da-da-da-da at 180 beats second burning around him, a, hundred and fifty degrees a minute and straight onto every lady he sees. Pynchon tripping into Healthy dog's a happy dog! Don't eat cha dog, just feed the back room to salt and suck pn the heat rash of ya dog! some girl rolling right along with him. Dripping and slidPeople passing out from drugs and exhaustion, while ing onto the floor and right back onto the mic. Pynchon Pynchon wonders why no one understands his art. sticking vacuum cleaner attachments into his mouth, to Pynchon spinnin three turn-tables at once, wishing he the delight of the ' crowd. was at home, playing the blues on a slide guitar. II

Oh Jesus. Oh-Jesus oh sweet lord on God I'm gonna be sick oh Clarist. Poor old pYnchon' s been bust and torn out across half a mile of railroad tracks. Pynchon' s broke and gone man. Fuckin torn outta his shoes and smeared out across iron rails and gravel and wood and dryin in the sun: Poor bastard. Hope it was quick. But "Pynchon's writing gave me wrinkles. I read the lyrics 's weet Jesus ,that's the awfullest damn mess I ever seen, to his Song of Things I Don It do Anymore, and it caused , swear to God. You see that? They ain't even gonna me to age 43 years. Like getting bit by the Age-Devil. stitch him up enough for an open casket. I don't even see no 'face, or head for that matter. Do you? And he I hated Pynchon more everytime I .read , must have been walking a dog, or something, cause I something he wrote. He was too effluvial, if that's a see a tail over there, and there's a whole lotta hide and word. He reunderoverstated all his clauses. Ahd I hated fur and .. shit, that's all dog, him for it. I had sex with Pynchon after r~ading ~in't it? II

Old Pynchon wrote a bad-ass metered stanza. Iambic pentameter from hell, man, Let me tell ya. He revealed The Poetic Truths like nobody' s business. S' what I heard, anyway. II

Py~ew>~: Iro~eW~~ ~ $"~et o~

Da~tkbacl.

"It IS small, you know? I guess I alw8J7s thought that it was king-size mattresses all around for this sort of thing. At least it IS acljustable. This forty-five degree angle it has is very conducive to doubling over when you Ire hit with a wracking fit of coughs. That Is something. You gotta make do with what you got, man. You It sit around wishing for other things know. think W\~i.:t.Me.W ~. e.~s. And...

"Poor old Pynchon, S8J7. "Poor, dead Pynchon," we could S8J7. We could say that with a smirk, or with a sad, sad tone. I think someone in the back said ,,~-..--~ old Pynchon, we shouldn It have waterhose so far QO'wn~]~~D&1~::.waJ;.~ help anything." I think r.nl:I'r~~ .g ment. We could all say that. vve''illO'wa about how funny it was that that"W~~.~ ""Rl.l(m We could all S8J7 mean things about lirr~A;r:lt''''4f''1 home and secretly wish we were him, eXIC'et:m:.JtllQ~~"""J prone to be alive longer. We could take what Is left of his stuff. He won It need it. He Is too busy writing the Coughing-My-Way-rught-Under-The-Table-Of-D8J7s-Gone-By Blues. Undercutting that melody with The Trance Beat of The Wrong End of Pipes Sucked. Man, old Pynchon Is got the work that Is cut out for him. Poor Pynchon, sucking on the biggest heat rash in the world: the one that takes you out of it. I say we eulogize a fine man, whom every7

finished and alone

"Man. Man oh man. Do I Man oh man. Some UJ..UJ.J.6'~ Some things ya just man oh man I got me running into something tmffejrm~~~Lda~UG! behind the supermarket a~ter its CII

the dumpster to get the meat out before it's totally spoiled. Just pourin with a bad feeling about this. I mean, the gUy's sorta our friend, you know? I mean, sure, no one really knows the guy. But just about everyone's tangled in love with him. Every girl I know. Your sister, my sister. Both our moms. Even a bunch of the guys. They don't say it, but ya know they do. So I got a bad feeling about this. It ain't right. Not till he's dead, anyways. Wish half as many people wanted to fuck me. Bastard. Never mind what I-said, hand me one of his beers."

~",~c~i\.\ ~~Me..,.~

recepti o n 1

Everybody, a"",~~~a.st,url)~fI\g: '!t~~ beds, while Pynchon sang

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BASS

FISHING

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gr andf a the r' s ne i ghbo r' s pond aki.n..g clouds of j s;wi s her Sweet smoke r stalk bass, which Donnie says

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a ken over "fl c roaching on his good crappy fishing and wishes to have gone. r feel immortal, alive in the fiberglass boat, in Levi's jeans, in clouds of tobacco smoke in fading summe f j'sunlight ca ~ching bass. My wrist flicks impaled minnow and yards of glinting line into the sweet spot near blackened dead wood jutting up f r om mosquito bree d ing grounds where , water stagna t~ s ' deep and still, where' bass strike at min.I)j~s tha:t ' . ,

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stray toO' ' . . ' , , ' fro~. ' _?r e , " " ", / '1 t h :o:tihe, false ,secu:r:tt;y ," " ,of sw~"Yin<j' " t~'eds' . .

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Upon Rethinking

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I used to awaken in the middle of the night, just before my dream-self embedded into topsoil among the lilies, falling from heights of airplane exhaust. I used to be so scared of death I could not bring myself to look out a window at midnight-could not bring myself to touch the dead hand of my great-grandmother laid out in her pearl-crust dress. Nowadays, I keep the nightshade at bay with trick mirrors and sleights of hand, using prisms to reflect light into every darkened corner. Sometimes, however, when I m lying on a bank of fresh cut grass, pressing my face into the musty realms of pink earthworms, I think about death and being laid out in the ground. Perhaps it would not be so bad. To be laid out in dark red clay, to feel the gentle tickle of a snail s measured wake, nestled in oak and willow roots, mummified by the vines that would surround me, enfold me, like a pouch of spider s eggs waiting to burst open with tiny exoskeletons animated, crawling up through the loose earth, towards the sunlight that pierces the ground. Perhaps I would feel as I do when sunbathing, soaking up the warmth of summer. Perhaps I could be naked at last under a rainstorm, pelted and moistened, until I swore I was about to coalesce, mingle into tiny pools of saline self, until I slowly evaporated one particle at a time, drifting up into an ocean of silver lining, growing heavy, and then falling back again to the earth below. bV'-a~O~ ~. tAc~

= ~---

we l.l.ve 1.n a '-V1Il1-lt::''-...lt:1.ve wor ..la.. If yOU aon' t have a strong »sense » > of self: you may experience feelings of inadequacy. insecurity and

2:1

rejection. You may not get what you want today- You may not be chosen for that position. You may not win someone's heart. You » may not hear that "YES" YOu've been waiting for. Your progress » may seem slow. You may feel too tired, too used, too old, » too late or too impa,t ient. Don' t give up so soon. Maintain » your self-worth and sense of enthusiasm and determination. » Don" tallow fee,l ings of jealousy revenge or resentment to block » > your blessing and opportunities. » > When it's your timet nothing or no one can keep you from »your » > success. Remain confIdent and proactive . Continue on each day » > knowing that you are enough. You are qualified, You are blessed. > > > > > > >

> >

You are worthy. No one can take from you what God has set aside for you.-Jewel Diamond Taylor, Motivational Speaker/Author

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Again, I dream of Momma's Lemon-scented laugh Silky hair pulled back Shucking shoe-peg corn Piggly Wiggly bag Sprouting husks and silks On the back brick steps Where she scrapes Bloody her heels, Barefoot in the summer. I wake in the stark morning So like the last time I went To church with Momma Same as the numb morning I rose and pulled on Black nylon socks only For weddings and this. Old church pants too tight Slide into pants bought new Wesley at burgers Hadn't heard (How's your mom?) Iron white oxford Use the right starch Niagra Falls Perched high above Ironing board (Don't touch. Burn.) Dig black church shoes Out of closet Spit polish buff Somber navy tie Tied noose tight Heavy woolen burden Jacket dumped onto Slumped shoulders Find three year old Easter announcements ~ Hiding in the pocket ~~ Right over my he r t.

UNTITLED

One day When your eyelids Turn to shadows And that rattling window pane of a life Falls from its old worn hinges Flapping free in its wind That s when you 11 see those old faded faces Saved on old dying shelves, Your former selves Falling inward, searching for a center. And you, You will just stand there under sunset and streetlight that turns to headlight on the dark stone tablet of your eye. The same shadow place you hid bloody noses and bycicle rides, and fast food wrappers. The same place you conquered your corners and jagged edges through ink scribblings that seemed to whisper: We will also fall inward, OJ

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Anneke Here she brushed her hair. Here she read. here she

WROTE.

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ate. slept. laughed. dreamed. breathed. Here Behind this bookcase she lived.

What? Remember this? I stood up. Chewbacca! I yelled. Get us out of here! Armando, without even questioning the absurdity (in the eyes of some of the others at the party) of what I was saying, roared like a Wookie in response. Take us into hyperdrive, Chewie! I demanded. A splash of stars shot past us (in reality, it wasn't stars splashing but Armando and I splashing water into the air) Tie fighters, get us out of here, Chewie! Chad, Aaron, and James were complaining of a dull ache in their jaws from laughing so hard. As our star filled adventure took place, I caught a glance of Aunt Brian and Uncle Rob snickering at us. Brian, look at them, Rob said. You boys OK? He laughed a hearty and loud roar. Oh, I see them, Rob. What have you done to them? asked Brian. He looked at my friends and I in the pool, shaking his head with a wrinkled forehead and surprised, open eyes. He had his hand on his chin. "Now see, what if you boys waited to you were at your first college party to get stoned like this? Disaster little ones, disaster. He laughed again, I believe because the weed was affecting him more so than our Star Wars fantasy. A mid-thirties year old man walked in from the house and out onto the patio. He was short with blonde hair and wearing a tank top, bathing suit, and flip-flops. Hah! It's Steve! Yelled Rob. Hi, Steve, moaned Brian. Hello, Hello, Hello, Steve said in a whiny, exaggerated, and southern effeminate tone before he looked down at my II

the pipe and were like little chicks chirping to mom for more marijuana. The smell, usually considered disgustingly potent by my friends and I, no longer invoked from us the same reaction. Instead, as I exhaled through my nose, I realized that it smelled more like what it really was: a dried herb, like cloves without the sweetness. I looked at Armando as I passed the rectangular wooden pipe to him. We made eye contact and said the same thing to each other with our eyes: I can't believe we are doing this. We stopped smoking after the pipe went around the circle a few times and leaned back in our chairs. Contrary to what people say about the first time, we did get high; our giggles began within the hour. My friends and I decided to move it to the hot tub. As I sat in the hot tub, I could feel the hot water adding to the numbing effect of the marjjuana. My heart beat in my head and my thoughts drifted, not more than usual, but since I was high, I was able to keep track of all my mind's wanderings. I giggled, I don't know if it was out loud or to myself, thinking about how my friends called my station wagon the Millennium Falcon. It was easy to see why: big, gray, a fast piece of junk. When Armando rode with me in the Falcon, we would always .oke around, acting out our roles as Chewbacca and Han Solo. I laughed again, this time out loud. "Huh, what are you laughin at, dude? asked James, snorting a laugh before questioning me. Hey, Armando ... Armando. I said . I

friends and I in the hot tub and grinned. Then he sat down at the patio table with Rob and Brian and kissed Brian on the cheek and lips and rubbed his head. I could feel my own cheeks burning red. It wasn't so much that I was embarrassed or surprised, or even shocked, but I was worried that my other friends saw the kiss. I mean, they were obviously gay and my friends knew it--Armando knew it even before I did--but they never had any concrete evidence of this fact. And without any concrete evidence, my friends had always been able to avoid admitting that they for sure knew Aunt Brian and Uncle Rob were gay--and to them, that was an acceptable oversight of reality, something that allowed them to party with Brian and Rob in the first place. No straight man is ever fully comfortable seeing two men kiss, and if my friends saw Steve kiss Brian, I felt, their stoned and happy thoughts would be replaced by the sobering paranoia of what each would have to admit to themselves. I looked at my friends--none of them seemed to have noticed. I smiled and again looked at the people sitting at the table; Brian was staring at me. I mouthed what? wondering if something was wrong and forced an exaggerated smile by clenching my teeth and opening my mouth. Steve was standing over Brian with his hands on Brian's shoulders and his face turned towards the side, talking to Rob. He leaned over to kiss Brian again, this time on his forehead. I turned away for lack of knowing what else to do. I sat back down, splashed hot tub water on my face and rubbed my hands across my eyes. Aaron began a dramatic monologue about a Viet Nam Veteran who keeps having flashbacks. My friends and I were familiar with it. It was about this poor sap who upon setting his eyes on anything, it II

could be a beer or a rock, would break out into violent ramblings about being shot at in the jungle of Viet Nam. Shit, Aaron started in a Martin Sheenesque voice. I remember sitting in that hell hole of a jungle, waiting ... waiting for charley to walk by our path ... What I would've given to have a fuckin beer while I sat in that hell hole ... Just one damn--Oh, God, it's an ambush! They ve surrounded us! Ahhhhh! He shot at them with his imaginary rifle. We laughed. Without thinking, I looked over at the patio table. Steve and Rob were entranced by Aaron s character, roaring in amusement. Brian caught my eyes and smiled at me. I turned to Aaron and decided to help him out. Split up, Sergeant! I said. I meet you at the river! CMy friends were making machine gun and exploding sound effects to add to the realism, gibing at us to look Running through the eleout! phant grass and infested/ crawling floor of the jungle, I made it to the river. I stopped to rest and I smelled the wetness of the 路ungle: dead leaves, slow, warm water, and my own sweat. Not long after I stopped, charley caught up with me and began shooting large caliber bullets at me in an attempt to rip my body apart. I dove underwater for cover and listened to the bullets seer past me. A helicopter flew above my sunken body. I wasn t going back up there with all that II

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fire coming down on me, I proclaimed to myself with my eyes closed and body submerged at the bottom of the hot tub. Aiding my proclamation was the feeling that I could stay under water forever. To tell you the truth, it felt so comfortable at the bottom of the hot tub, and I had no longing to return to the surface for air because I didn t need any. Don t get me wrong, it wasn t like I was on some sort of drug induced suicide attempt, but rather, quite the opposite: I felt so warm and weightless under water, and my lungs weren t stinging from their unnoticed lack of oxygen. Basically, I saw nothing wrong with just staying underwater and relaxing, letting my Viet Nam adventure be replaced by calmness. Unfortun-ately, my friends didn t see it that way because somebody kept pulling me out of the water while someone else kept saying, let him drown, in a whiny, lispy voice. Let him drown! Ha ha ha, Chad laughed. Did you here Steve? He said let him drown. Everybody laughed, except me: I was annoyed. I was so very high, and I wanted to enjoy my underwater calmness, and it felt so cold to be pulled out of the water by my hair. I stood up in the water without anybody s help. I m hungry. A roar of laughter from everyone was the response to this statement. I

Brian asked me what I wanted to eat. All I have is some bread, he said in a relaxed southern accent. That sounds really good. We walked into his condo and searched the kitchen. It was freezing inside Chis air being at sixty), and the water that dripped down my body felt like ice rolling down my skin. Let s see ... Here s some bread--Oh, What s this? Tuna. "Oh, Shit. Give me some of that. My eyes popped open. I hated tuna, but I was starving. I grabbed the can from Brian and shoved it under the electric can opener. I giggled. "Man, 11m fucking hungry. I took the tuna off the can opener' opened the roll, and plopped the tuna on top of it. I smushed it to-gether and took a bite. Oh, God that good. I took another bite. My mental disgust about what I was eating was blinded by my un-sympathetic appetite. As I ate the tuna, I forgot about the smell, the texture, and the taste that would normally abhor me, and relied only on my feelings of absolute hunger to guide me in eating such an otherwise unappealing meal. Oh, that s so good. Brian and I walked back outside to the hot tub. What s that smell? Rob asked, nosed scrunched and in the air, with his back facing me. He turned around. Oh dear God, whatis that! It S a tuna biscuit, man. I took a bite. II

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No, I said. I was just,' 'yourself, my'-dOd, whatiiave I , ' . My friends bec~me hysgoing to sleep 'on the couch: II r · • done? II I ohuckled' agai;;:Cnd \. ~ical ynth laughter; in the hot .', -tub, tpeir bodies shook and their stood up, grabbed my towel off closed my eyes. The last thing I one of the patiO chairs, wrapped heard before I fell asleep was mouths stretched the limits of it around my body, and walked Brian telling Rob that I coul their faces. nit sleep on the leather cq inside into the arctic air. I colI . slipped in the hot tub after I firtished my ' tuna biscuit, lapsed onto the couch. The with wet clothes. closed my' eyes, and leaned my leather couch moaned as my body fell into it. The Talking head against ·t he edge. My c-~~\s+op~e...~ SVY\\+~ Heads were playing on tpe friends had since exited the hot stereo-- Once in a Lifetime II was tub and were smoking at the patio table. Aunt Brian sat the song. I saw David B ne on the television; it must be a video across from me. I saw him look, . i:rig at me, very seriously. He ran collection, I thought~ watched :,~.!:,:. his leg across my leg and I froze the talking head whirl around in with a slightly opened mouth. .' . his white suit with an expresI 'My stomach was warming and sion of concern, his face squint!. • , my \ ead rang. I pulled my legs ed in concentration. He frowned ~ : 'qlose to my body, acting like I and put his hand to his forehead .·was c d, shivering and looking to aid him in his concerned r\ ,. . -down i 'a n attempt to play it glare--he was staring at me. All I off. M n, it IS getting COld, I could do was chuckle at the ·said. 1. looked up to see him still strangeness of a staring at rile and I smiled an man dancing and unconfident and wasted smile at being concerned him. Did he really mean to rub at the same time. r»,is leg against mine? I felt sick When you dance, ~d ·embarrassed. Worst of all, I you aren It confelt sober. When Brian rubbed cerned about anyhis leg against mine, it triggered thing or anyone; you Ire just danca t ensor in my mind that made ing and having a me see clearly what I had got myself into, the gut turning real- good time. lIyou don It know me ... ity of my situation: My teenage friends and I were high and sitsheesh, what the hell is your probting around in 9ltIr bathing suits with three thirty-something year lem, Dave? I old gay guys in a hot tub. Come mumbled. The video jolted to an .to think of it, I thought, there ..were no girls anywhere to be image of a moving roadway in seen at this so-called party. I . , . was paranoid. I realized I had the dark being '. no way of getting home, and I illuminated by <: ':'. , was s.t uck at Brianls house until headlights. His face appear-ed in '. :morrung. I swiveled my head around to see if any of my frithe road, and it ends .,were ' coming to the same was still staring ..conciusion. Nobody seemed to at me with its '. :riotice: They,.were all involved in concerned countebeing stoned' and drunk: staring nance. I yawned '. with openro.ouths and heavy as he mouthed the lyrics: Ilyou 'eyes at the patiO table. I was ni~ed~ I Im going to bed, I said. ", . >a~ yours eli.,. . -",Only Brian said anything. ·am I ri~t" ' , :: . Do you want me to a:ql I wrong'(T'A nd , ~' you m8.y ·~·say t6 " shGw-Y0u were. ~ou can sleep. ~

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wires, and gas lines I want a house in the country-with nonstop traffic grass blackened by bitter exhaust cars and trucks topped by airplanes underneath crisscrossed pipes, wires, and gas lines. How do we justify millions of years worth of fertile soil planted with dead seeds? Do you think there are cavemen in heaven?

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MOTHER'S

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If I were to praise you, I would speak of that time in the kitchen, when the window shades threw bars of late afternoon light across the linoleum floor, like a lattice of black-painted ironworks enclosing a garden of shadow roses-- still in bud-- each sealed with a secret wrapped around organs of senses. If I were to praise you, I should speak of the space created by each tiny square of linoleum, counted like a distance of kilometers, and how you looked across a distance of scuffed and dirty floors to a child still in wonder-- afraid to speak for fear of wilting all the roses. How harsh the words in that light-- gay, queer, homosexual. How discordant with the songs of kitchen spaces-- like a scum upon the counter tops, worms amongst the meal. Since I couldn't bring myself to speak in such a position, you spoke for me, filling in the spaces, opening all the doors, sweeping out the petals in the shadowed corners, until I stood clean and new-made as when i stepped forth from your womb. If I were to praise you, I could speak of how I wanted you to see me. Lying at your breast as I did when we first looked into each other's eyes. To see me as I was, when there were no doors sealed behind shadowed lashes. When there were no fences closing up gardens of savage and exotic flora. To see me as this-- with all shades open, and tell me that the light through the window is no longer fading, and that there is even a space for me in the cupboards and cabinets. An unusual extract, to be put between the cinnamon and bay leaves on the spice rack.

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