Phoenix - Spring 2000

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"II', Dr CD,t"t, > > > > Poetry»» For Adam»»

Thom Young

Why I Wear My Hair Curly?»»

We are pleased to welcome a new century with such a wonderful collection of art, fiction, and poetry. As this was the fortieth year of the Phoenix Literary and Arts Magazine, we were able to reflect on what this magazine

Roses in Uniform»» Sterile Noise»»

Stephanie Rankin

Kevin Brown

Tom Prest

Assemblage of Absence»»

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Ashley Van Doorn

• (1012

Walking Souls> >>> Anthony Mascari

represents to this University. Our anniversary

Fourteen»»

Jenny Darden

issue was proof positive that we have been

Cecil's Crooked Mary> >>> Steve Sparks

celebrating in grand style. This issue is a fitting end to the year. This magazine stands, like most

The Stained-Glass Peacock Window in the Foyer of Graceland >>>> Steve Sparks

of us, looking toward the day when the world is

January 9,1979»»

Jodie Simpson

• ~J~J 1 ::: • (1021

ours, and looking back to the day when we were

Untitled Canvases> >>> Katty Hoover

children, when we had no responsibility. In most

Knoxville: January> >>> David Welch

of these pieces you can see some of that confus-

[glass], [glass#2] >>>> Leslie Wylie

ion. In others, like Anthony Mascari's "Beautiful Monotony" you can see comfort and certainty (that probably only love can bring). There is also

• (1017

For Caleb, Who Likes Mostly Dark Poetry»» Jodie Simpson Beautiful Monotony> >>> Anthony Mascari

• (1031

something comforting about Eleanor Maxwell's story. It is easier to be embarrassed, in memory, as the event recedes into the past.

I would like to say that this magazine looks unblinkingly towards the future. Better to say, on our anniversary, that we are looking ahead at a bright. world soon enough to be ours.

But that would be a postcard and, as some of

Art»» Untitled»»

Tim O'Hare

Untitled»»

Tim O'Hare

D-Composition»» 4X4»»

Ande Campbell

Jared Johnson

Father> >>> Crissy Slatton

• 0~J 11

as a group of students and as a magazine, are

Happy Feet»»

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looking forward and back, unsure of what is

Figure 2B»»

ahead but unable to retreat into the shelter of

Children at a Playground> >>> Katty Hoover

childhood. Nonetheless we are moving forward.

flush-aka Cap'n Fishsticks»»

You will see that in the maturity of all these

The Lineup> >>> Meg Perry

artists, in the command of their medium. This

Ely> >>> Crissy Slatton

world is ours now. If these pieces are any

Shirley»»

these pieces will show, we are anything but. We,

indication, then we are ready.

Sunsphere

Lindsey Crockett Jessica Stooksbury

Phoenix Literary and Arts Magazine

Mask»»

Jesse Webber .0017

Jennifer Peabody

>

Obs~ured >>>

Jen, Little Cinder-ema»» Frederick Grim Editor-in-chief

• (uJ15

Lindsey Crockett Becky Peters

Kazuka Negoro

Untitled»»

Julia Hungerford

Untitled> >>>

Julia Hungerford

• (uJ25 • (uJ29

• (1031

lirt/.n> > > > The Birthday Party> >>>

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Bleeker and Third»»

Neal Wals~

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Tim

Tim

O~Hare

O~Hare

for Allam> > >

Thom Young They called us the Boys.

We were brothers with different parents.

We were five.

There was Mark the dad of our house 22 engaged and our ticket to beer easily recognized by the way his footsteps made our windows rattle like a pawn shop drum set There was Shawne our resident artist and truly one of the great alcoholics of our age in love with Rachel with the phone-calls to Kansas to prove it he just forgot to tell Kelly and Emmy There was Brian the house model that always slept through his alarm which sounded like an air siren but no one wanted to wake him up for fear they woulc catch him in his teal bikini briefs then there was me still in love with my ex sober on

~)undays

always looKing for the next escape.

And there was Adam.

The most ~edicated partier in the houf:je on

321 Hami ton St. He never r~eeded alcohol to dance t ut ... ClAw fuckit" he used tc say.

He loved Elvis and Tupac and somet ow made sense of that.

And if he t ad written this poem he would ~ ave said Let's enjoy it boys, one day we'll all be gone.

And one d 3y he was.

D-Composition»»

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Ande Campbell

Why I Wear My Hair Curly?

for Marilyn Kallet > > > >

When I heard you slathering those smooth, silken reasons for wearing your hair long, I must admit , my hair shortened a bit by curling tighter.

Stephanie Rankin There you stood , sparkling like claret in crystal , your sleek , raven strands streaming and spi lling over the fluid flounces of your scarlet poet's blouse, the sexy sibilance sliding over your tongue that teased the backside of your clenched teeth.

Making labial sounds that hummed over flawless crimson painted lips--lips that could be used as a路 master pattern for stamping kissing mouthprints on ./::1

\lnll J

My skeptical friend that I dragged to your reading said she wore loose-fitting knits because they most mimicked her pajamas so if she got bored , she could fall asleep in comfort .. . sure, she barely breathed through that gaping mouth of hers! She always tells me, "I'm from Missouri. I have to be shown . Well, thank you, Marilyn, for paintinq her a II

picture!

gasped sultry 路 sighs that resonated through the room 's reverent stillness as if hang-gliding upon breathlessness .

When your poem climaxed with your flag unfurling and sticking to his lips, my scalp shivered as my hair tangoed into taut tendrils , then crawled into coils of curling question marks that riddled my head until, upon leaving , I asked myself why I felt so much like Shirley Temple.

The Birthday Party> > > > I am beginning to categorize the fall, the fall the day of my birthday party... .

Eleanor Maxfield The cars are pulling up in the driveway, full with the twilight of sensible parents . Bland conversation can be heard , bellowing through

ONION GIRL

the trees as the guests run and hide.

There she floats ; elegant blade in the sun. The slicing of eyelashes and burnt tears , echo forth

I engage in flight . Confetti and shoelaces, pickled onions and toothpicks scatter

some lady, this lady we are supposed to read about--the Lady of Shallot.

the lawn. Prolonged farewells and extended "thank you"s are being said. Cake is passing over

I do not understand the poem , but I am attracted to her anyway. Through the sepia

in done and dusted deals. Door slams and handshakes--everything is so near to closure.

frame of bronzed onion skin . Through to pink, tight bubbles of lemonade. Through to red

have made a mess of it all.

tresses of hair on artery skin. She changes the color of dusk to passion.

"There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colors gay."

I see her in her boat , foetus like , arms above her head - half pleasure, half tied.

Elong ated back limbs, good for leaping in the

It is in this precise moment that I remember the title of a well-known poem --the scholarly, quintessential type that I have never read . Early perceptions tell me the character likes onions. The plot is elongated like me. I arch my back in flight. She took to water with power

heather, folded in wire coat hanger shapes. Like a limp thigh in a baking dish and covered in watery stock. I know two stories. This lady

and satisfaction through drapes of flowers and s unlight. The reeds played kiss ch ase with her hair. It was slow, back then, just as my journey now. She just drifted and drifted .... It is coming to an end, my fall.

drifted downstream and Alice fell down the rabbit hole. I keep all my emotions there. Layers of skin , peeled back and dropped into stories.

There. Rabbit stew.

the plot? I can't quite remember. She had such equity-- her own boat , her own empty vessel -grace and water.

But wasn't there something sinister in

THUD! I am lying face down in a paddling pool.

THE FALL I know categories from watching Jeopardy and playing party games. They seem to match how I feel:

V-VI (Interrupted) "Down the Rabbit Hole" Stratus (below 6500 ft) It was the banana skin that did it.

First my toe crumpling up like a sandwich bag unlocks a stubborn knee joint , which hi -fis with my hip bone and passes the baton to my waist. It twists and wobbles like jelly in melted ice-cream.

The kids ' party is well and truly over.

My thighs buckle, maturity buckles up. I am descending , spreading out my arms , the tips of my fingers , trying to balance. I tipple and hiccup off the ground. Too many jam tarts and bottles labeled 'drink me ,' I think!

THE RECITAL V-I (Perfect) "The Pool of Tears" Nimbostratus Language can have cadences just as music. It is relatively obvious. The piece opens with a familiar phrase , reaches an insufficient peak, then resolves to the original with definite conclusion .. ".p,nd the silent isle embowers : The Lady of Shallot. " My party has passed the food stage.

The cake has been presented like a young lady at her first ball. It was lit for "coming out" season with the care and effort of more experienced dancers. Several mothers stand proud in the kitchen . Now, the only skip in their feet is through this edible project. Hopefully it will illuminate past experiences and force them

onwards. It is a traditional thing. The song is sung. Then, like the chime of midnight, the cake is snatched away. It is too glorious to be eaten at this stage.

"Time for some real music!", an adult

last break by the sports hall. She is dirty and unpaid for and roams in the rubbish of our shouts. Sometimes, at break-time, we pick her out for no reason at all. She is such a mystery

blunders. It causes a kerfuffle of moving chairs

with her plastic bag and her separate talks with the dinner lady. She had wanted me to help her, I

and mothers straightening their daughters'

think. Perhaps she felt as I do now.

bottoms upon them. Faint moans can be heard above dramatic claps and "ssshh"es.

"Mop her fingers with a damp cloth

I approach the keyboard like I am going to make a sacrifice. I strip my neck and grit my

before she plays!"

That is my mother, projecting her comments from a distance. I always imagine her trapped in a painting, anchored like the ship in

teeth. The stool seems smaller than before, miles away from the pedals. I think I am shrink-

the ocean on our living room coasters.

The room is a dust cavern. Someone has

beaks. I lift my fingers and place them on the cool ivory.

Suddenly, at the sound of the first note,

spent their life here, making it dense, glued to a wooden desk, etching fine details onto yellow parchment. There is a gray from too much concrete and cold European countries. Cracks sneer through the stone where fingernails have

ing. Eat me. The spectators are arched like crows with exaggerated eyes and accusing

I am struck with inadequacy. This is not a familiar feeling. I have achieved an week. My picture appeared on the fridge when I topped

scraped stories. So many veins flow to the fireplace. If I put my imagination to light, there

Monday's math exam. On Tuesday I set the challenge of forming a tower of building blocks all the way up to the coat hangers. There were

is a blaze of past inhabitants. The parchment writer strains to read from the cherry glow.

Three Elizabethan sisters, loosen their slippers

five missing and someone had put them in the wrong order so Richard Of York Vain Battle Gained In. The stress was unbearable , but by

and warm their toes. A Jewish mother spits in the embers. They pressure me to play. But here,

Friday I was strong enough to play hopscotch.

Today, however, I play the first note and it

we keep no photographs on the mantelpiece. It is like the fallow year of a field. I find it bare and disturbingly fragrant. The piano is cleared of

aches--flat and sterile. There is a hush that shuffles around the room .

paper hats. Someone shuts the doors and pulls the curtains like we are about to watch a slide show.

"What are you going to play for us, dear?"

"No, don't prompt her. Let the birthday girl choose."

One mother declares, "Baa Baa Black Sheep! Then others can have the chance to sing along!". Several parents sneer at her prodigy child .

I have clammy, disinfectant fingers. The room silences and the lid opens. It is my turn to move.

Alice's look was horrific. We laugh at her misfortune, me and the other children, 2: 15,

"Is it supposed to do that?" the technical looking man questions.

"It's just nerves," says my friend and leans forward with a look of encouragement.

I try again. An F sharp instead of a natural.

"Perhaps she doesn't want to play," chirps the winner of the pass the parcel, spiraling his water pistol around in his hand and making ~daring aims. "rdo n't be ridiculous!" You never forget how to play, it IS like riding a bike."

Who said that? I can't ride a bike. But , I don't think about that now. I don't want to be perfect, only safe. I can't explain how there is nothing special any more. I feel I have been blended into a production line. It is all about control. That F sharp is pressing me, :>:>:>:>

Had hair slick back, Button breast pocket Little artificial rose Subtracted from plastic flowers, and Rose remains.

Had jeans, black, White cotton shirt sleeve.

Had a slip of yellow paper Which was his assignment Siberia or somewhere in North Carolina, North Carolina like highschool Factory garden (graduation,1995) Where dreams are sewn by Subtraction: what I want; who I am.

Like roses subtracted from plastic Because they are fake too.

Had hair slicked back and Carried a comb like Elvis, Polished shoes, popped his zits, Had to sit down to hide his erection.

Had a dream because mirrors and names like Children can be cruel, and Never pricked a finger on plastic.

Had a name I can't remember, Called him Elvis.

sharp, against my lips. It is teaching me how to kiss.

As I succumb, it has produced brooding arms that grip me close to the struggle of the music. I play faster and harder, worse and worse until the audience crease their brows and shift nervously in their seats. One man stretches out his arm in case I fall. They will all know. They will all know that I cannot do it.

Coda: My report said there had been no clarity, style, link of thought and movement. If you had presented your argument clearly at the beginning, perhaps your points would have held stronger. It needs a stronger sense of forward progression. You will never succeed with this vague and cryptic .... somewhat clouded ...

Today I feel like a cloud, though what type I cannot tell. I keep changing shape. In the distance, I see Alice running with my secret. She becomes a wanderer on the horizon before skipping off into infinity.

Think of War And those who live in uniform I think of Elvis also who suited himself With shoes and shirt and guitar like bayonet, Who shared his blood and quiver of lip and Gave of his hair for someone Without a hairdo of his own.

And a plastic rose maybe is not A real rose, but plastic is real And red is real and fake and rose is, Like Elvis, is A name I have forgotten; Like roses, I Am also. Open in spring forever picked From backyard Taiwanese garden factory, Like those petals apart from season remain Without consequence, I am Richard Stanislovski.

Call me Elvis.

Roses in Uniform> > > >

Kevin Brown

THE LITTLE CHAT IV-I (Plagal) "Advice from a Caterpillar" Cumulus (cannot be classified solely by height) "Today is going to be a very very special day.

It's going to be lovely seeing all your friends, won't it?

And Grandma? And Grandpa? And Aunt Susan flew all the way from Mexico. That's a very long way. Yes , longer than the bus ride to school. It is seven hundred times the journey to the swimming baths. It takes a lot of effort. So very many people love you and have come to see you. Doesn't that feel special? Are you excited? You are happy, aren't you?

W~II, anyway. Let's just sit together before the party tile-g ins, shall we? Sometimes it's nice to let everything move at a slower pace. Just sitting can be fun . Adults like to just sit and be quiet. You can't imagine that as a child, can you? No, you can't. One day, you'll want to sit and talk with your friends.

Adults talk and talk and talk.

4::路::4:>:>:> :>

This is nice isn't it--this calm? You are going to be a very beautiful talker. You'll be more careful than me. I'm all bursts and explosions. I've always seen coolness in you.

You see, we know each other, you and I, don't we? And that's why when I tell you this thing, this thing I've been meaning to tell you, it won't really matter. You're still like me. I'm still like you.

But sometimes, the people we think are someone, are not really who we think.

It's just like Alice at school. Remember, we had that chat about Alice and how you should be nice to her. It's a horrible thing to have to move from household to household like she does. Only you've got me! Isn't that wonderful! I'm still your mummy really, even if.. . Oh, I knew you'd understand! You're my very special, birthday gift. One that I might not always have had, but always wished for, and one day we just went out and got you. There! It's all out in the open now and you can run along outside and prepare for your party.

Go on, run along! I'm so glad we had this little chat!"

THE GAME I-V (Imperfect) "The Queen's Croquet Ground" Altostratus It is time for a ritual. Aunt Susan brings out a very special gift from Mexico, gloriously filled with festival flowers and trimmed paper. It is , apparently, a donkey made by some villagers and stuffed full of sweets. We are to string it to a tree, hit it with a stick and wait for it to split open and fallon our heads.

"Thanks," I say.

The children are filed up and split into teams and a lar:g:e, red bandanna is produced from the kitchen.

"Right! Who's first then?" shouts Aunty Susan.

"Wait a minute. There's uneven teams! Who hasn't been picked yet!"

"It's Alice. Alice hasn't got a team ."

"Alice?" My mother questions, spinning and looking under her arms . It was her who gave out the invites. :> :>:>:>

"Where have you been hiding?"

The crowd parts and reveals a girl with sleep

"C'mon girlie! Put some oomph into it!" The water pistol boy shouts "Bang Bang!", and, suddenly,

crusted beneath her lowered eyelids. The sun of the

his friends charge at her like cowboys, spraying the

afternoon is scoured on her shoulders. She squawks like an undeveloped chick, yanking her saliva mouth to

water into her face like cats marking territory.

release a muffled and indistinguishable cry. Bones and brittle and napkins stick to her malnourished skin and her nest in the grass has left a crisscross of stains on her legs.

I feel my tongue of scorpions and spite lacerate its way towards speech.

I snatch the bat and take my own swing at it.

The head of the toy plummets against her cheek bone.

She collapses like a camel in the dessert.

"Look at the confetti on her face! Look, she's going to cry."

My mother has taken care of Alice. Alice and

"It is because she has no mother."

The words wriggle with venom.

my mother have had chats. One day, 'she was told the secret about me. Alice understands it better than I do because, as my mother explains to her, "Sometimes

"Come along Alice. C'mon now, don't be shy.

There's no problem. You can go first."

we have to grow up quicker than we like." Every day Alice has to say goodbye to my mother and takes home

They take the silky scarf and wrap it around her. The sun will now glow auburn for her through the material. They lead her, several arms at a time, to the

said a word.

clearing below the tree and begin to spin her like a rag doll. The stick is placed in her hands. They desert her. I think she can see me through the red.

"She has no mother!" they giggle.

Alice totters forward two steps. Then painfully,

my secret. She is with another family now. She never

We laugh at her misfortune and take off the bandanna. The laughter channels through to the present opening. My whole life is here underneath decorative, crumpled paper. I empty boxes and tackle bows that seem more important than the gifts

rejoice.

themselves and the off stories.

She backs up and turns to the left. Perhaps if she is quiet she will hear the target? Slowly and

THE BUBBLE

slowly.. .. then again! She launches her dreams into nothingness.

"What a scream!" shouts Aunty Susan.

I watch her nervously. The stick is too 'heavy and her elbows look limp. She flops in my direction.

"Look at Alice!! All alone in the wilderness. " Hoots like owls come from all directions. She can see me, I am sure.

uests become envelo es and send

Ic-V (When the last chord of the cadence is less strongly accented than the first it is known as a feminine ending. Was almost a hallmark of the classical period.)

"Through The Looking Glass" Cirrus (above 16 000 tt) I think my skirt was lifted when I fell and am faintly aware of my wobbling thighs, slashing against the

Has anyone ever picked up my signal and broadcast it over nostalgic masses or is it redundantly rolling by the wayside like a ball and chain attached to a penny.

Sterile Noise> > > >

10m Prest

rubber. There has never been such humiliation. When

Alice blinks and I switch off the light. Today I

the world has deserted the party scene, my mo.t her

am one step closer to becoming many women. There

scoops me oyt of the water and scoops me into bed.

are several of us, sneering at me, gripping me with our secrets and we are downstream , joining hands,

"It was a lovely day, wasn't it sweetheart?" she assures me. My forehead is happy to be sandwiched between her kiss and the pillow.

Alice twists her pigtails with a violet finger on a pink winter night. The railings crowd her like a repetitive current. Drifting downstream--black white,

forming stars, becoming clouds and rising to new levels of confidence. Slowly, we are emerging like a crayon rubbing over a coin, a limp rabbit thigh , squelching out of the batter, pulling the thread on a chewed jumper sleeve and unraveling, unraveling ...

black white, the light shines erratically through the bars--short, nipping flashes on her school knee scab and her quaking ankles. She loosens a button on her cardigan. I have one just like it, but hers is chewed around her tiny fist and hangs off her shoulder. It makes her look cooler. Fresh air tantalizes a patch of released skin where she has loosened her necktie.

Then, darker, colder. It has given her a love bite. What is it that makes me want to be her, sauntering onwards through the pink?

Fathet"':>:>:> :>

Ashley Van Boorn

Assemblage of Absence> > > > All I'm asking for is solace without blame.

Barricaded by moss fuzz & lashes, green & grinning plastic monster guards the entrance to earthquake and extremity.

The misplaced vanishing point can be located in the old tunnel of seethe.

She feeds her face to the mirror caked with wax in territorial silence, swallowing pebbles to stay rooted there.

Hieroglyphics of empathy leak from knucklebones and the soft pile of her hips.

Pines drip jagged boxes

of seed into gaping faultlines & landfill welts.

All I want is a slick gloss of smiles.

Leaving paper trails among shelves of books, refusing to sleep, promising reason, denying prosperity.

When her midseams are torn & her porcelain skin falls open over dark soil, there are spikes inside, pointing inward from the bone.

The intentional disaster we've all been, briefly, framed in, my favorite ghost ironing wrinkles out of twenty-dollar bills, her foot tapping to the beat of a wooden heart.

H.:':Ipp'::! Feet.> > > >

F= :> >>• [i~~i 12

L inclse ::! Ct-¡ocket. t. '

F:i.qut"路路~:~

2B:>:>:>:>

Jessica

~tooksbury

Feet were born to ache. They swell and blister, corn and bunion, and over time become disproportionately attached to the legs, like a Picasso painting, always colorfully bruised and halfway broken. As if life had discovered, under the Christmas trqe, a finger painting set,

...

and in wild anticipation found the soul the closest canvas.

Walkinll Souls> > > >

Anthony Mascari

insipid children

eyes away oblivious to the fourteen years of

drenched in lilacs

little girl pressed like bubblegum to your

bruises blooming on vidalia skin our play is like

mattress giving you what you want: a pretty love poem

arsenic our play is wicked blessed saturnalia boiling over

a million minds mangled and mutilated by

cruel infatuation this

bottled make-out music

crippled illusion nothing like love

the glare deflects me like a wall my spirit

nothing elusive or delicate when you open

nothing like love just made-up masks and pretty death

pop-fluff pre-teen publications

cant pass through

your mouth --- a childhood drawn in chalk

wishes

if only i could have been so lucky...

falling like snowflakes on my tongue

could have died never wanting ... innocent of sex or sarcasm

to melt when i swallow new shifts in the rosary

i am broken beyond believing

cant stop my hands

the echoes of my own screams in this burning dollhouse

nature cant rest in me blue veins of flame ... ancient , varicose chew at my lining, sever my faith

sweet like murder you take from me believe me i never wanted this posy in my pocket

cant stop my hands and momma standing in the doorway,

your sadistic confusion has me

sickness whiting out her cheeks i burn in strawberry shame while you stand

bittersweetly tongue-tied and doused in innuendo

laughing at the irony of your sterling reflection

nothing like love

still the Good Son and ilm still the Dirty Girl, Big Brother

like ashes we all fall like ashes burnt and hungry tiny constellations starving and dying in surreal slow-motion

dont ask how, but itls forever imprinted on my brain that way

--- no one can break the fall of icarus

like the cherry stains on the mattress that momma threw out

down the stairs into the deep and shallow rising

Ten years later

all around us removing ourselves forever a dream

And i still dont know if this is a love poem.

nothing like love nothing so pure or ethereal or so fucking bewitchedly lovely to close my eyes help me remember how crimson smells ... the Good Son on my back and all the people turn their

PÂť>.0014

fourteen> > > >

Jenny Dartlen

Children at a Plauqround»»

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Kattu Hoover

flush--aka

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1-_·••-::I·r t ..I~t-1

Fishsticks»»

Jesse Webber

Cecil's Crooked Mary> > > > Steve Sparks Oval, serene, saintly,

The Stained-Blass Peacock Window in the foyer of Braceland> > > > Steve Sparks

Immaculate and nicotine-stained, The ivory plastic face turns up With eyes closed and mouth A neutral furrow.

A multi-hued bouquet of see-through suckers,

Mary lists slightly,

Dimpled and goose-pimpled, Thick, transparent,

Leans Pisa-like.

Possibly from over-exposure

A Mason jar of jellybeans Set out for decoration .

To the pagan sun

On a coaster-free coffee table:

With a space heater.

Or from a close association

One can't help but wonder What each color tastes like (Maybe fried banana sandwich, Maybe seconal and Tab?) Glaring like white cotton panties, Its illumination leaks From the auras and coronas of The gawkers, the faithful and the scoffers.

And it radiates like a TV test pattern Just before the bullet breaches the screen.

Lapsed Catholic Cecil's parents Gifted it to me after Cecil was Murdered on X-mas Eve In the back of a 24-hour Doughnut and Coffee Shop In a plastic-beaded place New Orleans. He leaked death Down a drain in the middle Of the floor of a walk-in cooler Crowded with cartons of creamer While Crooked Mary sat silent On the dashboard of his Nova.

T h~? L in e t~ p :> :> :> :>

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January B, 'BIB> > > >

Jollie Simpson Rod Stewart sang back-up as mom shimmied her exaggerated Venus body, shaped like my sister's kindergarten uppercase B's dancing across dotted notebooks.

My dad, mock-afraid and good-humored, answered a humble yes to mom and Rod's inquiry, Do you think 11m sexy? and entertained mom's every request because she had been waiting not nine, I am reminded, but ten full months for me.

They were tired of Lamaze classes-useless now because, somehow, after nine months and a week, the contortionist baby had gone breach and the doctor told mom with a sigh of resignation weill have to go in and get her.

Tired of fighting over names when my older sister insisted no matter what you name her 11m calling her Jodie!

Tired of Christmas presents under a tree for a baby still in the womb, of being referred to as the elephant, even at the doctor's offic , morning sickness and maternity clothes, (although looking back there was not much difference in mom's maternity tops and my aunt's peasant blouses), especially tired of no tax deduction in 1978.

So when mom asked for tacos with green sauce from the greasy taco hut, Pancho's the night before I was delivered, even though doctor's orders said no food at all, dad didn't argue.

I hold my tongue, like him, as he tells the story now the stubborn one who laughed spiting the waiting bunch,

ev~ n

before birth

biding my time until snow blanketed the barren city and golden and blue lights gilded Graceland and I, not a day old and swaddled by the patient threesome, could wait to unfurl my laughter and change their worlds.

Elld»»

P»> =0019

Shirley»»

Jennifer Peabodu

Neal Walsh

Bleeker anti Thirtl> > > > ... tuesday...

It seems like a wicked, organic Matisse

...june ...

I am swinging on a

that is now my body. So fast and so high on my gigantic swing. I let go of

swing as she floats back to me. My hands wrapped

the ropes and soar. .. up and

my jaw grinding away the

loosely around the thick ropes that seem to go up

up. And here and there.

Falling down and around.

landscape of my teeth.

and up, having no end.

Unnaturally hot tears trickle down my cheeks, to my chin, to drop like rain.

"How have you been?" I ask her, my feet

Landing softly in a patch of fine, whispering sand.

"Christopher, the

Eyelids for wipers. Driving

blazing magnificent dirt trails on each sweeping

voice of my beautiful Christina echoes back to

automatically until

pass .

me. "I have something for you. she says, sliding her

... may...

herself. The wind blowing

hand deep into a leather

I am quitting smoking because I think I

her hair from shoulder to shoulder. .. !!i he has long hair

bag. "I cannot take this from you. I held it so close

can feel the cancer. And perhaps because there is

now. The sky is tie dyed.

Expanding endlessly

no longer anyone to smoke with. Now it is me, a shaky hand, a foul stench and a

outwards and upwards as I lean my head back to

that it came with me. I have to find it and give it back to you. Searching

flying past my window. My hands gripping the wheel,

She doesn't look like

pervasive feeling of pollution.

increase my swing. I shiver each time I descend, the cold universe tunneling through the empty chasm

II

II

II

purposefully through her sack, she removes a baseball. .. no. A rubber duck... not it. A tin star, a »».0025

Untitletl Canvases> > > >

Katty H"ver

My mother is an artist. Every six months you'll see her working, ,. tearing down spaces from room to room, before she builds again, moving in Italian-made armoires, plush couches, reframed oil canvases.

She turns old walls into new walls and new walls into old. Sponging and layering and ragging. She used to decorate me, too, painting my face beyond its youthful hues.

Sliding me into velvet, ribbons and purple. When she could do no more, she took me to professionals.

They streaked my brown curls icy blonde and colored my fingertips "Toast of New York. Drew II

aesthetic arches before they ripped the hair beneath my brows.

Removed my scars and patted my face, left it more beautiful than when they started, like the deco sun-lit dens my mother makes from ugly, closed-in attics.

Davill Welch

Knoxville: January> > > >

Stopped with a pen by the boulevard, in the dear lights, the unpreached pull- -a strange bout of vertigo.

These trucks forget where they are, that they have nowhere to go.

The skyline of broken stalagmites, cosm ic

souve~ni~~c--------------------------------------------------------~

when god

can~e

this is not a

to see the Sunsphere.

(~ity

but a coliecti(Dn of photographs pasted together like visiting VE nice and finding only the postcard Aunt Lucy sent last September. i live at the c Jrner of the gangrenous block where shirtle:is chinamen play poker edging aroune a cardboard box.

II In January When the skV stands flat, an undrawn grey When it is to) dark even At two o'cloc in the afternoon To read in my apartment Without the fluorescents, I hear my train a comin'.

pÂť>. (1 ~~122

Sunsphere Obscured»»

Lindsey Crockett

Illassl> > > >

l.sli. Wyli.

Last night you gave me hell when i broke your wine glass. [such a tragedy that such a fragile thing should shatter] but even better that i should be the cause of it.

You do playa lovely victim [applause] mourning over the broken wine glass , so keenly unaware of the broken girl who stands before you.

Illass #21 i broke another wine glass last night. i watched as it slipped through the fingers that trembled, then i watched the fury create itself in your eyes (it had been waiting) and i knew then what You would say and how You would thrash and i knew it was coming again.

Amazing how in that very same moment a thousand slivers of broken razor shredded the air that was already thin, and came to rest on the linoleum. i followed them down.

Somewhat icy beneath bare knees but nevertheless i assumed my position [usual] and gathered the little glass razors.

Your raging voice was an unpleasant distraction as i worked, gathering little pieces like mirrors that ~flected too much, like the earrings mother gave me when i turned sixteen. i would always be her little girl, i thought as i knelt and bled

PÂť>.0024

and gathered little diamonds into my broken hands.

Jen, little Cinderella»» message in a bottle ... no ...

"Having a problem

no. A telephone.

She holds the phone

with your eyes?"

Eyes? .. eyes ... no. I

in her hand, extending it towards me. It is ringing

fluorescent lights in the

and ringing and I am talking in my sleep. Saying hello without waking to pick up

am squinting severely, the examination room are hurting my pupils.

"Eyes? No, not my

the receiver.

eyes. But, is it really bright in here?"

.. .july...

"If it is I'm probably immune to it by now. he

I am Christopher and

II

I am hurting. Deep inside of

says, still peering at the

my body, there is an emptiness. In my joints, there is an ache.

chart, trying to decipher what the real cause of my visit is. I open my eyes, p$,.

"What seems to be the problem, young man?"

much as nature permits, and tell him about the ache.

Or. Weatherly asks me as soon as he steps in the

"I have this constant dull pain in my joints, an ache. 00 you think I might have arthritis or rheumat-

door, his eyes focused on my chart. I wonder if he could possibly fathom what is wrong.

itis or something? It is killing me. I saw a commer-

cial for some sort of BenGay cream, with this lady who said all of her joints were aching. You think that is what I have? Arthritis?

Thatls probably it , huh.

Arthritis.

II

The way Or. Weatherly looks at me above his bifocals alerts me to the frantic tone of my voice. I smile and roll my head on my shoulders. My hands are back and forth, rubbing sore knees. I just want to stop the hum of this fluorescent sun.

"Arthritis is rather uncommon in men of your age with no prior history.

Itls not impossible, but unlikely since yours came on so recently ... When did you say it started? April?" .1

»»

"ls it hot in here?" I

No ... Tuesday. I nod

sack to give me potency.

my head in agreement,

am sweating ... my legs now

Stretched out naked on the

electing not to tell him the whole story. Swinging

sticking to the paper, my

sofa, however, I know that is

hands sliding off of my

not the reason. She knows

my legs back and forth

knees.

as well as I do that I have no use for it anymore.

"Christopher, I'm

underneath the table, I cant help noticing the way the

sorry, but I just dont see

paper beneath me crackles.

The sound is so clear.

anything serious enough to be concerned about. The X-

My eyes pick around

rays are fine ... maybe you

the room as I wait for his

should just take some pain-

diagnosis. Stethoscope ...

Gauze ... Ointments ... Sports

killers and monitor the situation. Get some rest and

Illustrated ... Hunting and Fishing ... TIME. The cover of

call me if things dont get better.

TIME having a menacing picture of the latest bomb-

II

... march ...

Our hands are locked

... february...

She rolls over on top of me, straddling my waist and looking me straight in the eye.

"Where are you going? Are you leaving me?"

I ask.

"Yes. I am leaving you, to go to that far off land called ... the kitchen.

ing. The faces of the bombers superimposed on the

tight as we make love.

cover, the burning skyrise in the background.

onestar.

"Never leave me.

II

I begin to stare, imagining the flames ravish

"Never leave me.

II

We promise like

kiss.

the buildings' insides. Glass exploding outwards as death

prayers.

"I will miss you with every pixel of my soul. she

scampers it's way to the roof. Blue, hot, fire, thick-

Toast anyone?"

I find myself purring

II

... august ...

er than liquid, pursuing men

Frustrated at another episode of futile

and women up the stairs and fingering their feet to

fumblings with myself, I collapse onto my sofa, trying

tease them. Licking them

to recall what love felt like.

Wanting so badly to recapt-

and then swallowing them whole to digest each floor.

Elevator chords melting and snapping ... releasing boxes full of people.

Trapped in a box of flame, unable to wipe it

ure that which used to make me work. Thinking about movie stars ... the girl at the grocery... anything and ... everything ... but there is"" ,

away. Furiously trying to

nothing.

I wonder if Christina

push it to the side. Feeling the deluge of fire pour down

appears to me in my dreams to give my essence back.

into my lungs as I take my last desperate gasp for

Reaching in to that leather

oxygen.

like a kitten as she leans closer to give me a farewell

tells me.

Pixel of my soul. I watch her skip lightly out of the room, naked and smiling, hopping up to tap the top of the door frame as she leaves. Pixel of my soul.

I turn over and smile, marvelously curling into a tight fetal position, awaiting the greatest toast in the world. ... september...

I am losing weight.

Getting taller. I am a tall string bean. Sitting on my

floor. .. peeling off skin. I had

I love that tape, it is our

want to touch that strand

gotten a severe sunburn on

tape. 1I

of moonlight dangling from III am so sorry.

my walk home from work

her hair. Although she stays

sometime last week. The

Here, I have something for

seated, I can't reach her.

sun was shining high,

you. I need to give it back

As I slide closer, I achieve

bouncing off of the concrete

to you. I just have to find it. II She begins grabbing my

distance.

photos and placing them in her bag. lIyou need this.1I

head, attracting my eyes. I

pavement. The sun must be getting more powerful.

Perhaps with the ozone

I watch her closely,

layer widening ... sucking us

A seagull flies over watch it glide through the air, listening to the wind

out and pulling the sun

her movements seeming to

rush through its feathers.

inside.

overlap each other, dis-

Feeling its ability to deny

My chest and legs are becoming more sensit-

playing a beautiful disdain

gravity, becoming part of

for physics.

the atmosphere.

ive with the passage of

As I sit up, I see an

My eyes focus on

each day. I have resorted to

ocean behind her. Waves

the bird as Christina slides

applying sun block under my

crashing furiously... the sky

a cold, spectral hand into

suit before work and at

painted in day-glo. I sit on

my body removing more of

lunch. If this doesn't stop,

this beach, a giant. S tretch-

my insides to put in her

to take have, in no way,

ing along the sand, painted

leather sack, which has

been the cure. Sitting in my

in long, single strokes. A

grown no bigger.

room, I shuffle through old

human stick-bug with bones

tapes and photos, listening

and joints that pop and

body on the sand and gaze

and staring.

crack each time I move.

intently into the sky, watch-

Listening to a mixed

I feel I am so close

I relax my elongated

ing my bird dance for me.

cassette that Christina

to her. She cups her hair

Circling and soaring, flying

made for our aimless road

behind her ear and

fast and never leaving my

trips without a C. O. player,

continues searching

sight, emitting trails of

the notes of each song now

through the sack. A tiny

purple in a pulsating sky.

ring dissonantly in my ears

strand of blonde falls,

want so desperately to

like church bells. I remem-

curving to the crescent

spread my huge limbs in

ber making tapes like this.

moon over her eye. She is

release, ending the pain in

Unknowingly.

wearing a long dress that

my joints. Shedding my skin

flows over her lap as she

and flying. Flying like an

tape out, I place one of her

Taking the mixed

sits Indian style on the

eagle. Let my spirit carry

C. O. 's in the stereo. Lying

sand.

me. Fly like an eagle ,

down on the floor and

IIAngel? Angel why

Let my spirit carry me.

resting the old tape on my

don't you come here? Hold

chest, I watch it rise up and down slowly until she

me. I haven't held you in forever. II I reach my long

picks it up and puts it in

arm out to her, continuing

Fly like an eagle

her leather sack.

IIWhat are you doing?

to grow and spread. I just

Let my spirit carry me.

Fly like an eagle Let my spirit carry me.

Fly like an eagle



!" open my eyes to see

ambiguity. There was no

Dr. Weatherly walks back into the room mumbl-

my low hanging, white ceiling.

accident in the creation of

My fan spinning around,

the soul. No mixing of

attempting to take off, if

molecules in my body that

someone would just remove the screws and place them

cause a mutation from a single cell to a spirit cell.

me, pointing at black spots

in a leather sack. Hoisting myself upright on my elbows and wiping my eyes, I see the

Yet, there was an "accident" today. I heard at

on the X-rays, that it seems as if my bones are moving

least a dozen people tell me

away from each other,

counter on the CD player

that, today, Tuesday, there

probably causing the pain in

skipping back and forth,

was an "accident". It was unfortunate, it was tragic, it

my joints. He sends me away with a bottle of anti-inflam -

was shocking, it was on the

atories, an excuse for a few

corner of Bleeker and Third.

days off of work, another appointment, and knowing

Rubbing my sore shoulders and knees.

... october...

"I haven't gone

nothing that I hadn't already

... tuesday...

I arrive at home to a

Just back and forth from work. Walks around the park

flashing red light and a series of beeps on my answering

every once in a while ... with clothes on, of course.

machine. Without the slightest desire to relive

"Well, I have never seen anyone get a second

that there won't be another

what I know is going to be on it , I unplug the machine and

degree burn through a three piece suit." I think he is

appointment.

I have taken those

making me 'fly like an eagle ' time and time again. I press the button to eject the scratched disc, and yawn.

ing, "Well, this actually is rather irregular.

II

He continues to tell

figured out for myself that

anywhere out of the ordinary.

II

~------------------------------------~

Tuesday.

While walking home , I begin to feel nearly weight less. Concentrating on my feet touching the concrete, one after the other, I know

throw it in the garbage.

attempting a play on

few days off work and the

Walking into our room, laying

numbE rs. I wonder if the

rest of them off as well.

face down on our bed, I begin

fluore :Jcence of this bulb has

screaming. Releasing and releasing without any ability

finally gotten to him. He scrap ~s a Q-tip along my

Dreams and schemes leave me here, at home, ducking under door frames.

to absorb.

Now it is just my

chest popping several of the blister s that have formed.

... january...

room, my huge bed.

I feel pain, its head biting its tail, expanding

'They seem to be norma I water blisters, no infection. He hands me

endlessly like the ether.

Never before this moment have I believed so

some cream and ointment and leaves to go get the new X-raYE I asked him to take. ' '

strongly in a God. And never

II

Looking down at my

"What are you thinking?"

"Just pullover and don't ask me anymore questions. She says, slightly II

hopping up and down in the car seat, "Please hurry.

II

have I so deeply doubted its intentions.

arms, rubbing the stretch marks around my elbows, I

"Allright, whatever you say, freak. She smiles

Today, the word "accident" has become, to

think 3bout smoking for the first time since I quit. I just

and crinkles her nose at me as I pullover to the shoulder

me, the definition of

want 3nything to fill my body.

of the road.

p >>>. OC12:::

II

"Now you, Mister

joints are racked with the

As I get closer to the

Christopher, cannot look.

Close those baby blues. II

ache and the sky is pulling

door my toes lose their grip,

relentlessly on my hands and

my legs slinging up to the

feet. Christina has been

ceiling.

"Browns."

"Whatever. II

visiting me nightly now. Each

I close my eyes and

time removing the glue of my

Screaming and laughing , I

Struggling and crying.

lean back in the seat, buzzing

insides , placing them in her

strain my long neck to see a

with the possibilities of what

sack. Then searching for the

blue sky through the window!?

is to come. Click. Squeak.

one thing that she knows I

of a day-glo door.

Boom. Her door opens and

need.

shuts. Keeping my eyes

I can see leather sacks on hilltops. All things

I spend my days

closed I move my hand over

grueling over the question of

to her seat to see if she is

where she is when I am

t here, playing a trick on me.

awake. Wondering also, where I am when 11m not

noisily turning and pulling, I

sleeping.

am immediately sucked out.

I roll down the window and yell, "Hey! Are you pee-

naked and smiling.

Reaching the doorknob , my fingertips clasping,

ing?" Hoping that she is

Brilliantly unraveled by the

car, I start honking the horn,

I will go to her.

torque of th ~ universe.

Leaving nothing, I

trying to embarrass her. I

My limbs spill over

disperse infinitely into the joy

squatting on the side of the

picture her laughing.

Meanwhile her door opens and closes again.

"Allright open your eyes. II

... december...

the edges of my bed, holding

of intermingling with the

on to the ground. I sleep

pixels of my soul.

with books on my chest , anchoring my floppy arms underneath me.

I stop honking and pull my head back in the car, somewhat embarrassed for myself.

t'1ask:>:>:>:>

Today, however, I will let go.

Rolling painfully to my side , I grab onto

"Open them?"

"Yes ... here. II I open my

the carpet with both hands .. . pulling myself

eyes to see her holding out a

down. As I begin to

gigantic sunflower. Alive and

crawl, the clicking and

vibrant yet paling in compar-

popping grows loud.

ison to the person holding it.

The noise of a million

"I saw it, and I had to

men popping a million

get it for you. It reminds me of sunshine. II Inhaling the scent deep of the flower into my

knuckles.

I just need to make it outside.

•

Struggling and

body, I lean over and kiss her

crying, I pull myself

on the mouth.

through the haiL .. biting carpet ... pressing

... november...

I have given up. My

p» >. [102'3

against walls.

K azt~k

a

t·~egot-· o

For Call1lJ, Who liklls "ostly Dark POlltry> > > >

Jollill Simpson

Last night rain thunking on . metal window frames, I stretched out under Caleb, my back patterned by the foam egg crate on his unmade bed.

Shirtless, we kissed, perspiring, mimicking the Indian Summer storm, me touching the brown birthmark that feels like felt on his torso, and the blue tattoo on his shoulder blade, which I imagine I can feel.

I told him one of my favorite things is to smile while I am kissing, which made him laugh, blowing air into my stretching mouth.

He pushed up yoga-style to kiss me on the shoulder, our torsos -- sweaty and smooth stuck together and sent a sucking whoosh louder than rain on recycling bins as he pulled away from me.

Unt.it.lE'~d»»

,-' I.A ], :i..=:!

HI,,~ n q ~:~ t'" fo t-· d

Unt.:i.i:.lE~d»»

.J t~ :I. :i..:~ Hun ~~ ~:~ tH. fo tH. d

We kiss .... again. Like an old man in the late stages of Parkinsonls rises at six a. m. to eat his breakfast; two eggs over easy, lightly peppered; two slices of honey wheat toast, one coated in cinnamon and the other in a raspberry jam made fresh from the garden, I kiss you.

Because his wife rises with the sun, one half hour before him, to insure at least one more day of them being together, I kiss you.

Most importantly, because after she goes, he goes almost immediately, and 11m unsure whether we can kiss after death.

Beautiful Monotony for Christina> > > > p» >. O~:::131

Anthony Mascari

Phoenix 'tatt ..

Spring Issue

Editor·· Fred Grim Managing Editor·· Cara Polinski Graphic Designer·· Ande Campbell fiction/Non·fiction Editor·· Kevin Brown Poetry Editor·· Evie Rawlings

Supporting Statt James Cantu Lana Carnel Crystal Chirico Jenny Darden Stephanie Denny Suzan Eraslan Katty Hoover Rob Mahurin Richard Riley Cherie Sink David Welch

Statt AI/visors Jane Pope Eric Smith

© copyright 2000 by the University of Tennessee.

All rights reserved by the individual contributors .

Phoenix is prepared camera-ready by the student staff members and is published twice a year excluding special issues. Works of art, poetry, fiction , and no n-.{i.c tion are accepted throughout the academic year. , " Phoenix, Room 5 Communications Building 1345 Circle Park Drive Knoxville , TN 37996.0314 Visit Us @ http ://web. utk. edu/- phoenix 1/ E-mail phoenix 1 @utk.edu Happy Spring!

p»>. ~:::u]32

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