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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»»
. 001(1
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»»
.mH2
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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Untitled»»
Untitled»» P}}}.0002
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»»
P»).0004
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»»
P}}}.0015
Kattu Hoover
flush--aka
P}}}.0016
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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