Phoenix - Spring 2008 by UT Media Center

Phoenix, Spring 2008, Volume 49, Issue 2

Table of Contents FEATURE

ART/PHOTOGRAPHY

Jessica Neal – The Image and The Maker: Benjamin Wooten’s Pinhole Photography and Cameras – pg. 17

Rachel Clark – Fertility Figure – pg. 6 Rachel Clark – Pink and Brown Mound – pg. 7

FICTION

Suzanne Devan – Clown – pg. 3 Suzanne Devan – Parking Lot – pg. 15 Suzanne Devan – Swim Cap – pg. 35

Jessica Easto – Wax Paper – pg. 9 Phil Hopkins – Den of Vipers – pg. 25 John M. Moore – The Man in the Pink Polo – pg. 31

POETRY Rachael Ainsworth– Aubade – pg. 2 Rachael Ainsworth– Cosmology – pg. 5

Asmaa Ferdjalleh – Blue – pg. 22 Asmaa Ferdjalleh – Sunday Night – pg. 29 Devon Goodspeed – Jefferson City lightning storm – pg. 5 Devon Goodspeed – Bygone era – pg. 13 Devon Goodspeed – Where’s the heart? – pg. 30 Jessica Hentchel – The Denial of Line – pg. 8

Brandon Barnes – wedding in spain – pg. 14 Brandon Barnes – Mortars – pg. 16

Nuzhat Moinuddin – Desolated Beach – pg. 11 Nuzhat Moinuddin – Palm Courtyard – pg. 14

Will Barnes – Eighteen Year Feast– pg. 12 Hunter Patterson – Untitled – pg. 4 Amien Essif – Wrong again – pg. 36 Shannon Petrie– Wedding Dress – pg. 36 David Lindeman – If a Window is the Poet’s Oven – pg. 21 David Lindeman – Haiku – pg. 21 Chris Martin – o patient night – pg. 4 Chris Martin – Honey shitless – pg. 7 Chris Martin – our daughter – pg. 12 Chris Martin – death and abstraction – pg. 29

Jason Raby – Untitled – pg. 2 Jacob Stanley – Floating Chairs – pg. 16 Jacob Stanley – Canoe Paddles Reflected – pg. 34 Benjamin Wooten– Images and Cameras – pgs. 17-20

KaTosha O’Daniel – Parts of a Heartbeat – pg. 8 Allen S. Thomas – Asheley – pg. 22 – Atalaya – Mi Mujer de la Nieva – Oread and Alum Cave Bluff Trail Allen S. Thomas – Sesteana – pg. 34

On the cover: Where’s the Heart? (detail) Devon Goodspeed

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Aubade Rachael Ainsworth Sunlight blossoms like a daisy outside the windowpane. I stretch long, lanky like a cat. As I awake, glimpses of my most recent dream scintillate and it was of you. The sheets rustle as you shudder next to me, and I bid the version of you that was in my dream farewell, the specifics already beginning to deteriorate. You have always said how you thought it was strange that memories of dreams erode by the hour, how it seems that we are not meant to remember them. We’re not. Our dreams reveal our unsound wishes and desires, carried out in the unconscious because we cannot handle them in our waking life. They can get a girl’s hopes up. Compelled to go back to sleep, I realize that you aren’t that unlike the you in my dream. It’s just that he had more romantic notions and longer hair.

Jason Raby Untitled photograph

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Suzanne Devan Clown drawing

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o patient night chris martin

the conversation flowed like silk should flow over a ballustrade made of ghost deep marble which glows as smoke will glow from within and in muscular motion when we touch two twigs as long as our hands under the drowsing flames and place firepoints beneath each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s teeth and tongues and smile, and chew, and swallow.

Hunter Patterson Untitled photograph

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Cosmology Rachael Ainsworth

i. A friend and I sit on a blanket, the tent of stars staked into the four corners of the field. I point out the constellations that my father had pointed out to me. Ptolemy did this two-thousand years ago.

Devon Goodspeed Jefferson City lightning storm photograph

ii. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been taught that the initial explosion birthed infinite temperatures, where in the first three minutes, elements formed. Do they remember how it felt to cool down? I am learning to speculate. iii. Humanity thirsts for explanations, often associating a photographic moment of realization with God. Where Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m headed, I will discredit Him. We are atoms recombined.

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Rachel Clark Fertility Figure oil on canvas

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Rachel Clark Pink and Brown Mound oil on canvas

Honey shitless Chris Martin

Honey, how many times do I have to tell you that fascist rag is full of shit? Just put your mask on, go back to sleep. We'll worry about it all in the morning.

Honey, the kids are scared shitless and they don't trust us to protect them. They've fashioned weapons out of the dinette set and they don't take shit from no one.

Dear, the baby cut her lip trying to suckle the tip of the knife at your hip. I think we should send for an ambulance before they disconnect the phonelines.

Dear, they never learned how to fire a gun and I'm afraid that if you don't teach them, then they may never learn how to fire a gun, and then where will they be?

Honey, just feel for the wall with your hand and stay close no matter what. I'm hearing noises down in the basement and I think we should check it out.

Honey, don't worry, I flushed all the bullets and talked to the guy who sells them, he says he's melting the stockroom down and opening a beauty parlor.

Dear, remind me what your cat's name was when you were growing up in paradise? It won't be long before this home is a house and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve forgotten the childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s faces.

Dear, did you remember to lock the windows? I can see my reflection over the candles and the local newspaper says this safe neighborhood should expect scattered showers in the morning.

Honey, the kids are scared shitless and they don't trust us to protect them. They've fashioned weapons out of the dinette set and they don't take shit from no one.

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Jessica Hentchel The Denial of Line watercolor and collage

Parts of a Heartbeat (After Stone) KaTosha O’Daniel Flow of arteries outstretched, aortic pulsation. Yet, no more than cardiovascular disease or pacemakers, up from a myocardial infarction, irregular rhythms. Odds against flatlining. It’s a dirty, self-cleaning system. Our problem is: Are we living or waiting to die? Every diastole has systole. It’s a lub-dub. It’s a valve. It’s our existence. 8

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Wax Paper by Jessica Easto

A girl rested on her luggage, waiting. It was dusk and the Midwestern wind was indecisive, teasing her hair from somewhere between winter and summer. Her fingertips were barely rubbing that place just above the eyebrow, that place somewhere between pain and thought. A car pulled up in front of her and a boy stepped out. The girl stood up so that he could hug her. “How are you?” he asked quickly and paused, the girl’s head fitting perfectly into his shoulder. “How did your finals go?” “They were fine.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Although, I may not be going back next year, regardless.” “Don’t talk like that.” As he drove the girl home, the boy told her how his first year of college had impregnated his brain with the grand plans and marvelous ideas indicative, she assumed, of someone with a future frothing with hope and anticipation. He spoke confidently and at length, not completely unlike, the girl imagined, herself a year before. He just knew they were going to be successful someday quite soon. Summer, he said, couldn’t end soon enough, didn’t she agree? She looked up from her lap and told him she was happy to be home now, and that she had missed him. Someone opened and closed the door to the cafe. Undulations of air, somehow preserved from February or March, teased the back of her dangling calves, even through the leggings. The hairs on the back of her neck reacted like dominos in reverse and he smiled at something in the travel magazine between them. When they were older, he said, they would journey around the world and do glorious sorts of things and then die happy knowing they made a difference. Or something along those lines. The girl nodded slowly. She watched his smile linger and eventually fade, his eyebrows knot and relax at slow intervals, his eyes widen with a vague excitement every few paragraphs.

“Do you know what’s wrong with people today?” “Everything,” the girl said. “No one goes on adventures anymore.” “I do.” “You can’t. There’s nothing left to explore.” “You can go on an adventure anywhere.” “No you can’t. There’re highways. You can’t walk on the highway.” “That doesn’t matter. Let’s go on one.” “We can’t.” The door opened again and the girl shivered. “Is it May or November? I think I’ve forgotten when spring begins up here.” The boy looked up at her. She smiled and sipped her coffee. “I mean, it’s not usually this cold. It seems as if it might never warm up.” The boy was staring at her. “It’s not winter until it snows,” he said, and the girl, still smiling, broke his glance. She watched indistinguishable reflections move across the surface of the dark varnished tabletop. They echoed everything and nothing at once. She politely muffled a series of coughs with her shoulder and rested her head on the polished surface, her hair disappearing with utmost grace into the mahogany. A few weeks later the boy and girl went to the beach. She had wanted to climb the sand dunes, but the boy did not think that would be such a good idea at that particular point in time. He said they had all summer to do that because the sand dunes were not going anywhere. In fact, they were growing bigger everyday, did she know? He was certain there was no rush. So they sat on top of their shadows with blankets and watched the lake steal sand from the shore. They were alone and it was quiet and still, but the rhythm of the waves reminded the girl that the world was still breathing. “Let’s go swimming,” she said, helping herself up with the boy’s shoulder. “The water is freezing.”

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“So? It will be an adventure.” “No.” “But I’ve never been in Lake Michigan in the winter.” “It’s June. It’s not winter.” “Feels like winter.” She eased herself back to the sand. She was still too pale for it to be summer. “Let’s wait a bit,” the boy said. “Things will turn around, eventually. Then we will go swimming.” It was a blustery sort of day in July when the girl suddenly made the boy pull over to the side of the road. They both got out of the car and the girl walked a few feet away. The boy filled his lungs with the wind and allowed it to linger there a bit longer, perhaps, than normal. He exhaled a bit regretfully, staring ahead into a field of corn and leaning against the passenger side door. He took a package of gum from his pocket and mechanically unwrapped it from its plastic sheath. “Do you have any gum?” the girl asked quietly a few moments later. The boy gave her the piece he was already holding. “Knee high by the Fourth of July,” the girl said, chewing quickly. “It’s almost August,” he said. “Let’s run through it, like we used to do.” The boy thought of two summers ago, when the girl made him stop the car on the way home from the hospital. She wanted to pick a few ears of corn. The girl said she had never liked corn on the cob, that it was more about the thrill of stealing it. She didn’t know when she would have another chance. The boy told her to stop being irrational, the doctor didn’t say she was dying. The girl looked up and told him yes, in fact, he did. They did not end up stealing any corn, but wandered through the field instead, running at times and resting at others. The sun wrapped their bodies in a dull humidity as it filtered through the stalks above their heads. “It’s barely to my waist,” he said. “Let’s crawl then. I don’t think I can run anyway.” She lowered herself to the ground and touched his pant leg. “Tag, you’re it.” The girl crawled and the boy walked until they couldn’t see the road or the car anymore. The sky was crisp and white and the half-wilted stalks clawed at her wool coat. For a long time the two did not speak and listened only to the raspy secrets a cornfield whispers when it thinks it is alone. “I can’t go any farther,” the girl said and cleared her throat. They sat facing each other, a wall of withering vege-

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tation between them. “Remember hiding in clothes racks when you were a kid shopping with your mom?” she asked. The girl tried to breathe in very deep. The boy looked away. The little birds that usually watch the world from telephone wires were circling overhead. “Why have you never told me that you love me?” the girl asked. “What?” “Well, isn’t there usually a ceiling to these platonic things?” “Marriage kills ambition, you know that,” he said. The girl giggled. “I’m not asking you to get married. You’re a freshman in college. I might not even -” “Why did you wait until now to ask this?” he said, skinning the brittle leaves from the stalk in front of him. “I thought I better ought to,” she said pretending to hide her smile in the spaces between the leaves, “just in case.” The boy looked at her through the browning foliage. A leaf crumbled in his hand. “In case of what?” The persistent wind coaxed the voices of the field in her silence. “How tall do you think the ceiling is?” she said. “How tall are you?” “Five, four.” “That sounds about right,” he said. The girl glanced at the dead leaves scattered around the boy. She blinked suddenly and reached for her forehead, hesitated, and vaguely adjusted her hair. “I think I need to go home now.” The girl was still in bed the afternoon he came over to say goodbye. His classes started the next week and he was anxious to get back. He sat at the foot of her bed while she made faces and took Polaroids of herself so the boy, she said, would never forget about her when he was off being glorious, whenever that might be. “Why don’t you use your real camera?” “This is a real camera.” “You know what I mean.” “I like these pictures. They’re instant,” she said, shaking the photo in the space between them. “You don’t have to wait. Your life is here - it’s something tangible, see?” The boy took the photograph from the girl. In the picture her eyes were closed, pretending to be asleep, expressionless, but her lips refused. She was smiling. He looked up at her. “Let’s go swimming,” he said. “I can’t,” the girl said, her eyes widening.

“But it’s August and we haven’t been swimming all summer.” “Where will we go?” “The white and brick house on Court Street.” “I don’t know if I should. Besides, we don’t even know those people.” “Come on, I thought you liked adventures,” he said. His smile barely faltered. That night they shuffled slowly to the center of the pool, the girl latched at the boy’s elbow for support. The sky above was an unblemished black, but the lights beneath the surface of the pool illuminated the ice under their feet like the moon wrapped in wax paper. It was almost comforting. They lay down on the ice, a sheet of glass hovering six feet above the ground. If they wanted, they could look straight down, the girl was sure, as far as anyone would ever wish to

see into the Earth. A breeze quietly stoked her hair and the boy shivered. “This is nice,” the girl said. They lay side by side in a muffled sort of stillness, silently watching the temperature drop through the white clouds of her shallow breathing. Neither of them dared to stir for a long time, even after their toes surrendered to the night air, fleeing to that throbbingly latent place just beyond the recognition of pain. It was a pleasant place to linger, the girl thought, if one had somewhere else to be going. After awhile she smiled and slowly turned her head towards the boy. “I don’t believe,” the girl said, gently brushing snowflakes from the boy’s hair, “I would like to die like this anymore.”

Nuzhat Moinuddin Desolated Beach photograph

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Eighteen Year Feast Will Barnes The Mid-August Saturday looms through four living room windows, As a river of six o’clock sunlight exhuming rocky nerves that lay somewhere underneath my mother’s Old potted orchids, chipped commissioned oil paintings, and oriental rugs. I stand alone as the eleventh hour chimes – two miles north my parents sip alongside other parents reveling in a related light, sharing wine and sympathies. So I cook, now, my own meal and sit between myself at the kitchen table. Shaded at one head and bright at the other. Savoring this supper, and this day, the last bite of an eighteen year feast. What to do at the end? Stomach the final piece or lay it out for Spike? It’s not the last time, but it is.

our daughter chris martin

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I wanted a portrait of our daughter but she wouldn’t sit still on the red stool so I tried to snap her picture but she kept on blinking (so on purpose) she ran around so much that her little shoes fell apart beyond what bronze could embalm and when the tailor tried to measure her foot to see if it fit (the new shoe) our daughter kept curling her toes in I had our daughter dip her hand in green paint to preserve her palm and fingerprints on a sheet of oilcloth but she slapped her cheeks and shoulders

Devon Goodspeed Bygone era photograph

until all the paint was gone and nearly everywhere else dried until our daughter stretched and sent green flakes and powder swirling in the dust and dead leaves out the door out of doors outdoors into so much sunlight that I had to turn my eyes and flush them with the darkness that is free from sunny death, staring out the window at slow motion imaginings unheard through the glass I put my fingers on the pane of in response to her distant waving

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wedding in spain Brandon Barnes

spain— me, valarie, and nathan don our sinday best: nice button-up shirts and pajama bottoms complete with thong sandals that irk no one. the three of us sip white wine, spain’s best, but we don’t taste the good life on this beach. if this is it, i don’t want it. nathan points to a girl. she’d be good for you. she haunts in a sunflower dress. being beautiful and alone is curse enough for both of us. i take her a glass. she agrees. its not worth the price. she speaks her name softly lauren lauren lauren in tune with the band as we dance. i ask her why she’s at this wedding scene. weddings, she answers, soft. romantic. pause. are misery’s business and misery loves company, don’t you?

Nuzhat Moinuddin Palm Courtyard photograph

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Suzanne Devan Parking Lot oil on canvas

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Mortars Brandon Barnes

Mortars rang like church bells across sky. They brought the stars down from the heavens colliding with the earth in swirls of van Gogh. The smell of sulfur reeked as Technicolor shockwaves pulsed through my gut. I lost my head in the explosions. Mortars fell and people died. Blow after final blow and still death rained. Decaying flesh flowed for miles. I breathed it in.

Stanley Jacob Floating Chairs sculpture

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The Image and The Maker Benjamin Wootenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Pinhole Photography and Cameras by Jessica Neal

Barely recognizable fingers hover frame-like at the top of the photo. A long path ahead leads to a softly blurred

image of a decidedly foreign building. The black and white picture is timeless and mystical. The artist, Benjamin Wooten, has just started to work with photography in earnest. He is currently an adjunct professor of photography at Roane State Community College, and exhibit preparator at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville.

T he image, A Tourist #4: I Took A Trip To India, as such as used and discarded cameras. Wooten uses old matedescribed above, was taken with an old leather traveling rials, such as used and discarded cameras to create his new camera case the artist reworked to create a pinhole camera art. [see page 19 camera A., P inhole photograthe Uncamera (Tourist phy is done with a camera Camera)]. Previously, that does not have a lens. Wooten worked as a It is a primitive form of wood-shop supervisor at photography, using funthe University of damental technology. A Wisconsinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Department tiny hole replaces what of Art, where he earned his would now be a lens. Light MFA in 2007. This fascipasses through the hole nation with materials Training For Combat Photography: WWII and an image is formed in inspired Wooten to build pinhole photograph, 2008 the camera. the technology he utilizes image taken with the Brownie 2C pinhole conversion camera to create his own pinhole P hotography was first documented as early as the cameras. While his cameras vary in function and form they all have something in common- old, reworked materials 5th century BC by the Chinese. In the tenth Century AD an PHOENIX

the thousands, comparable Arabian advanced phototo disposable cameras now. graphic knowledge by Today, photography is observing how candle light, becoming digital. However, when shining trough a small there are still photographers, hole, produced an image on like Wooten, who choose to the opposing wall. Initially, practice the antique art form photography was used for with its low technology. scientific purposes and as tools for drawers and painters. The fist man to Wooten recognizes that publish a pinhole photohe has a “romantic fondness” graph was Sir David for the technology of the Brewster, in the 1850s. He past, but it is not necessarily also coined the term “pinthe connection to history hole” (then spelled with a that drives him. Rather, it is hyphen). The Impressionist his feeling that “there is movement advanced the something humanizing Through Screen Windows #1 popularity of pinhole photoabout obsolete and discarded pinhole photograph, 2007 graphs. These artists appretechnology, a reminder that image taken with the large format mahogany pinhole camera ciated the fuzzy atmosphere our cleverest mechanical and created by the camera. As the material achievements have a pinhole camera’s popularity increased, so did its marlifespan”. For Wooten it is not so much the lack of lens that ketability. The cameras were mass-produced and sold by brings him close to his art, but the physicality of it.

A Tourist #1: I Took A Trip To India pinhole photograph, 2007 image taken with the Uncamera (Tourist Camera)

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A Tourist #2: I’ve Visited The Great Wall Of China pinhole photograph, 2007 image taken with the Uncamera (Tourist Camera)

“Pinhole is the technology level I am most happy with,” Wooten says. “It allows me to operate and create mechanisms with my own hands.”

I n 2007 Wooten shared his joy for pinhole photography by teaming up with the New Orleans Kids Camera project. The project sets up workshops for kids affected by Hurricane Katrina. He spent three weeks in New Orleans, meeting with groups from different parts of the city. Wooten designed kits with which the kids could make cameras. During the workshop the kids put together their cameras, painted them and took photos. Wooten believes it was the physical construction of the cameras that kids connected to most. Creating something functional with their hands allowed their photography to be that much more personal. The kids were not professionals, but their photos were laden with depth and information.

A. Uncamera (Tourist Camera) B. Brownie 2C pinhole conversion camera A

A Tourist #3: I’ve Visited France pinhole photograph, 2007 image taken with the Uncamera (Tourist Camera)

C. Crown Graphic pinhole conversion camera

A Tourist #4: I Saw Stonehenge pinhole photograph, 2007 image taken with the Uncamera (Tourist Camera)

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innocent investigation.

The children’s photography directly relates to another theme in Wooten’s work – the amateur. “It is a self consciously chosen position from which I operate,” he says. “All of these cameras and photographs result from an engagement with notions of the amateur.” His A Tourist #4: I Took A Trip To India speaks to this. The fingers at the top (a common amateur photographer mistake, though in this case a visual necessity due to the way the camera is operated) show the awkwardness of the photographer. The subject matter attempts to communicate both the tourist appeal of the foreign monuments and the unease of American self-image in the contemporary international community. The craft and camera itself, the brown, worn leather of uncamera, represents a sense of honest and

Wooten’s most recent project involves a vending machine art exhibit held at the 1010 gallery in downtown Knoxville. The usual vending machine candy was removed and spread out on tables for visitors to enjoy. In the empty spaces, Wooten and other artists placed their art. Viewers lined up for the chance to purchase the work. Wooten’s pieces were medium format preloaded pinhole cameras. He designed D the cameras in AutoCAD and cut them out with laser on mat board. After the purchasers take their photos, the cameras will be sent back to Wooten by mail (postage is included on their body). Wooten is currently waiting to receive the cameras so he can process the digital positives and return them to the photographers.

G F

D. Ammunition box zoom camera E. Floating cork camera F. Five drawer cabinet pinhole camera (open detail) G. Underwater pinhole camera (rear detail) H. Underwater pinhole camera

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Cameras pictured on page 17. Left to right: Large format mahogany pinhole camera, Five drawer cabinet pinhole camera, Plywood camera kit, assembled (designed for the New Orleans Kid Camera Project), Crown Graphic pinhole conversion camera (closed).

If a Window is the Poet’s Oven David Lindeman “By now, it should go without saying/ that what the oven is to the baker/ and the berry-stained blouse to the dry cleaner,/ so the window is to the poet.” Billy Collins If a window is the poet’s oven, a metaphor is his heat; and if a metaphor is all it takes to make the goods, I’ll turn this poem into a widening river. I’ll turn my pen into a paddle to navigate these words, and hand it over to you when I am done.

I wouldn’t want you to get hung up too long, after all, on what I’ve already said.

Haiku David Lindeman

the old man dying in his bed blinks

And having fancied your mind a canoe, I’ll leave as quickly as I came – but not before having made the canoe’s bottom of glass.

without you i find the bench with our initials has been replaced

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Atalaya

Asheley Allen S. Thomas

Standing in the ruins of a Castilian castle/villa sunk by a Spanish sculptress into the sands of South Carolina, ear-watching the Atlantic and picking palmetto foliage, we are winded from the west past screaming steadiness of brick. She walks with careful feet over time-worn paths of sea-oats, and kicks away the sandals which a kindly passer-by will remove from reach of tide (though I confess I thought her thief). We play with gulls, and suffer in silence all that the sea may do. Searching for shells once inhabited by lesser creatures, I think about the way she looked against the bear cage and in the oyster-shucking room.

Asmaa Ferdjalleh Blue watercolor

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Reflected ghosts of sunset wavedance down my eyelids, and she coaxes me to water that numbs but does not freeze,

and I blink back salt and terror as the undertow of childhood releases me to swim baptismal to the safety of her side, and we leave the days of questions to the beach of lower tides stranded high and dry and dying like the sacrificial souvenirs clinking shirt-pocket accompaniment to a heart too scared to beat. A white and sandy bottle dripping perspiration and two plastic wrapped hotel cups free us to ignore the things we both like left unsaid, and dawn displays a beach of ruins— washed out castles made of sand.

Mi Mujer de la Nieva Sodium, burnt-orange and vibrant, excites the frozen soap-bubble fountain that flashes celluloid color into Christmas-present camera which can f-stop the freezing streamlet that flows like sluggish reason through the woods below the patio where green-and-white brail bushes speak silent harmonic eloquence— discoursing on the pertinence of surfaces and time. Pinked-pale cheeks are phosphorescent with a halo in my mind. A snow-bound visitation, she crunch-floats here beside me wandering wondrous through the world in a shiny-squeaking cadence of new snow boots, twig, and leaf. Snow-blind self-awareness consumes her in a fire too fierce to fuel—responding to and transformed by quarter-inch thick crystal cloud. She smiles the world open before me, and I stretch my lens to claim it, but the world is pure white canvas: she refuses to be framed. She steals my gloves and hands me mittens wet from crafting missiles, And the cold is ashen moon-beams that long for creature comfort,

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And a tangy taste of cedar sounds a bass-note in my nostrils, And our steps impart our presence to a world that knows no stain, And we drip indoors to warming softly lit by glowing candles, And the soft caress of fleece in blankets too small for our bodies, And as the snow melt whispers secrets of the manic march of seconds She stops time.

Oread and Alum Cave Bluff Trail I am being followed down the foot-bruising, stone and root spiked spine of the mountain by joyous blue eyes. Their wonder holds nothing of me, but I bask in warmth sufficient to infuse a final mile. Ascending through magnolia and cedar to pine, awakening to melting masterpiece and ancient engraving, woodcuts and mountain masterworks, sculpted symphonies of earth, water, and time clutched the eye, stole size and perspective, drained us down into stream and stone that grew slowly louder than highway static. Sucking scenery with hungry eyes (sometimes to cover resting), boring through limestone, ascending on slab and wire, riding ridges and balancing bridges we submitted to summits of sulfur cliffs overhung with waterfalls slowed to epochs and tripping over bluff edge in prism.Oread and Alum Cave Bluff Trail Baking there, yellow-dusted and sensually reptilian in the sun, She warmed. Descending through stream-chilled valleys racing cold and night, twirling nymph-light over hazards less treacherous than my touch, weighted by time and significant gravity in my arms, my Oread bounds timeless and light-footed over rock-slide rhododendronâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Artemis retraces trackless steps with youthful eyes Sparkling ancient sight. The light she has absorbed is somehow amplified, refracted, and emitted; mists of primal magic burn from her in wheels. One kiss. We tire, she cools, we trudge to transport. Second serving second growth cannot sustain such life. Coasting a slide down tourist-trap highways, we wind home. The next night, sore and solemn, we cling, tight and quiet, to something in the other: her refreshment, my rebirth, and the mountain.

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Den of Vipers by Philip Hopkins

Tom sat on the toilet with the lid down and his face in his hands. It was a small bathroom, made for one person, with one bare light hanging overhead, and a deadbolt. He found himself there for the third time that night, not due to stomach pains or a weak bladder, but because people made him tired. He lifted his face and stared at a small crack on the wall: a gap snaked like a lightning bolt from the ceiling down to just above the mirror. He stood and fingered the crack. White paint flaked off at the edges and underneath he saw dirty gray. Tom imagined the crack opening wider and wider until the wall split like eggshell. A knock on the door. Tom ignored it. Couldn’t they see it was occupied? Then a voice. “Tom?” Tom glanced at the door, his attention still on the crack in the wall. “Yes.” “Are you alright? Your mom’s looking for you.” “Come in here and look at this.” Tom worked the deadbolt. The sound of old metal on metal reminded him of a drawer opening in a dusty backroom. The door opened and a small Indian boy craned his head around it. Tom returned to the wall and studied it with face slack and lips parted, as though trying to sip air. “What are you doing? Are you sick?” “I haven’t seen this before. Have you?” “I don’t use this one. I use the one everybody else uses.” Tom took the hand that touched the wall and put it into his pocket. “It’s been there for awhile. It’s just now showing, ‘cause someone painted over it.” “Don’t worry about it. Let’s get back with the others before someone gets mad.” “This will get worse. People don’t think.” The boy smiled at Tom and punched him in the

shoulder. “That’s your problem. You think too much.” Tom smirked. “There’s no such thing.” The two boys walked down the dark hallway. It was silent except for the soft clicking of dress shoes on wood. They rounded a corner to the left, and came to a door. Light shined around the edges. Beyond the door Tom heard the murmur of voices, some adult, some not, punctuated by laughter, running footsteps, and a piano playing a misguided tune. Tom stopped. “Sunil.” “What?” “I, I …” “You’re going to start stuttering again. Calm down.” A pause. Then a deep breath. “Never mind.” The door opened upon a group of small children playing tag among row after row of church pews. As Tom walked into the light he noticed another child-- a girl just a couple years older than the ones in the pews-- brushing up on her Chopin. Further back, near the entrance, the adults stood in four or five smaller groups. As the boys walked, a portly man with a red face saw them and turned. “There you are. Where was he hiding?” “He was in the upstairs bathroom. The one in back.” The man’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t think anyone ever used that one,” he said. “It’s too inconvenient.” “That’s why he likes it,” said a voice from behind the man. He was older, and taller than Tom, but not yet an adult, with red hair and eyes the color of tarnished copper. The man chuckled. “Hush, Johnny. Boys, let’s go find your mothers.” The man pushed through a set of double doors that led into the vestibule. Tom’s mother stood with Sunil’s mother among a larger group of women. “Pastor, thank you for finding him.” “I’m afraid I can’t take credit. Sunil had to track

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him down.” “You two were separated?” the Indian woman said. “I would not think it possible.” “He gets away from me sometimes.” The Pastor took both the women’s hands in his; first one, then the other. “Mrs. Palakshappa, Ms. Jeffries, I just want to express again what an honor it is to have both of your sons here at Lincoln Christian Academy. Sometimes I wonder if the only exercise these boys get is from lugging around books and sweeping up academic awards.” Mrs. Palakshappa laughed. “Sunil’s father is here, and he is more than capable of taking the awards to the car if we require assistance.” “I’m just joshing. These boys will toughen up sure enough. In Tom’s case, camp will certainly help.” Tom’s mother looked down at her son. “Tom? What do you say?” “I want to go home.”

The gray sedan drove down the tortuous country road, and drops of rain began to hit the windshield in big splats. Tom’s mother turned a switch and wipers squeaked across the glass. Tom twisted a second switch and tilted the a/c vents so he could feel the cool air blow on his face. “You’ll catch cold.” “Colds are caused by germs, not cold air.” “Okay, Mr. Smarty-Pants. You’ll see. Summer colds are the worst.” “Mom, why do I have to go to this camp?” Tom’s mother did a double-take, turned off the airconditioner, and looked at her son. “It’s an honor. They’re paying your way because you’re the smartest boy in school.” “There’s only 108 students there, and most of them are stupid.” “Maybe, but still, I’d let you stay with Mamaw, but she’s getting old, and I have to work a lot since your father died.” “You need to watch the road.” She slowed down just as a deer tensed to sprint across the road, and then pulled back. She turned on the headlights in the gloom. “Why can’t I stay with Sunil?” “You need to get out and meet new people. Sunil can’t help you forever. And you won’t be there alone. The Pastor’s boy Johnny will be camp leader.” “Johnny’s not a good person,” Tom said. “He hates me and Sunil.” “He doesn’t hate you. I’ve told you before, when other people give you a hard time what you need to do is ignore it and they’ll stop.”

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Tom was silent for a moment. “That’s a crack in a wall.” “What does that mean?” “Nothing.”

The camp was founded on the outskirts of Hamblen County. A long road led into the woods and cars left a cloud of gravel dust as they passed along it. Once through the initial wooded area, the road led through a clearing with wide stretches of green grass on either side, where children played kickball. The road led to a lot where kids were dropped off, and carried their belongings to the barracks which stood just to the left of where the gravel threatened to encroach on the trees. To the right, a path eventually led to a bluff overlooking Cherokee Lake. A small trail led from the barracks into the woods, past the chapel, and to where campgoers were required to attend three times a week. Tom spent two weeks there uneventfully. He made new friends with kids who shared his love of collecting things. Tom collected stamps and brought a book full of stamps with him. Over the last year Tom placed stamps from Argentina, Germany, and anyplace that sounded exotic and fascinating to him. He showed them to anyone who was interested. One day, Tom was poring over his books when he heard a familiar voice. “Why are you always so hard to find?” It was Johnny standing in the doorway of his cabin. Tom didn’t answer. “No answer, huh? Still have your nose buried in a book, I see.” “It’s not a book-book. It’s stamps.” Johnny walked over and peered down at Tom on the bed. “Stamps? Who collects stamps?” “I do?” “Why don’t you collect something normal, like, I don’t know, pictures of cars or girls phone numbers or something?” Tom didn’t look up. “Stamps are normal. Lots of people collect stamps. There’s one kid who collects different pictures and descriptions of bacteria. Even I think that’s weird.” Johnny shrugged. “Whatever. Hey, that’s cool.” He pointed to a stamp with a picture of an old European-style automobile on it. He grabbed the book, but Tom held fast. With his free hand Johnny swatted Tom in the head, but Tom held on and grabbed Johnny’s thumb and bent it backwards. “Ow, God!” “Don’t touch my stuff.”

“You little bastard.” “I know my father. You’re adopted. You’re the bastard.” Johnny hauled off and punched Tom in the left shoulder once, twice, three times. Tom’s fingers went numb and he dropped the book. “Look here,” Johnny said, picking up the book. “Since you want to be selfish, and don’t want to share, this is what happens. I’m going to take this away for awhile. You want it back?” Tom rubbed his shoulder and flexed his fingers, trying to get the circulation flowing back in them. “Yes.” “Tell you what. You know the trail that leads up into the hills? We’re going to go exploring day after tomorrow.” “We’re not supposed to deviate from the path.” “We’re not supposed to deviate from the path?” Johnny mocked. “Even the way you talk sounds like a pussy. If you want your book back you’ll meet me day after tomorrow at 12:30. Everyone will either be at lunch or playing ball.” The next day Tom was tired. He lay awake in bed all night thinking about Johnny, and the bruise slowly empurpling his shoulder. Beating someone’s shoulder was the sort of thing you do to scare someone without giving parents a reason to create a fuss. After all, maybe the bruise didn’t come from someone hitting your child. Maybe he was out on the playground and just bruised easily. Tom ate the same thing every day at lunch: Mashed potatoes with no gravy and white rice. The two were kept in separate containers because Tom did not like it when his food touched and the tastes of the different foods intermingled. As he took a big bite of the rice, a kid next to him nudged him. “What?” “I hear you like maggots.” “You hear I like maggots? No one likes maggots.” “I heard you do. You like eating them.” “Shut up.” “Don’t tell me to shut up. Look at you, you’re gobbling them maggots down, aren’t you?” Tom choked up. “Stop.” The kid began shouting to the others in the lunchroom. “Hey look, this guy eats maggots.” Other kids made groans and sick sounds. Tom searched the corners of his mouth for the rice and spat it out on his plate. He closed his eyes and grimaced. The kid in front of him joined in the abuse. “Don’t you like them? Don’t you like them squirming and worming in your mouth?” Tom held his hands up to his ears and sang “Happy Birthday” to himself, trying to clear his mind of the images

and sensations that accompanied them. It didn’t work. The taunts still made their way through his cupped hands and his voice, so he changed the tune to “The Star-Spangled Banner.” One of the camp counselors came over to see what was causing the commotion. “Quiet down! What’s the racket going on over here?” “Tom eats maggots.” The kids laughed. “Maggots! Maggots!” It was more than Tom could take. He stood up, hands still clutched over his ears. He gagged and caught the first surge of vomit in his throat, but managed to force it back down. He pushed back his chair so as to make it to the bathroom where he could become sick in private, or at least what passed for private. But on the back of his tongue he felt one tiny piece of rice still there. He tried to swallow but his mouth felt dry. He tried to bring it to the fore so he could spit it out, but instead it remained nestled like a maggot in a piece of rotting meat. He vomited on himself mid-stride as he ran to the bathroom. Some kids recoiled, but most pointed and laughed even louder than before. He shut himself up in the toilet, shut his eyes, and vomited until his throat burned. Afterwards, the counselor asked him why he didn’t just run to a nearby trashcan instead of trying to make it so far away to the bathroom. “Why did you throw up all over God’s Green Earth?” Tom tried to answer; only he stuttered, realized it was useless, and gave up hope of ever explaining himself.

The next day Tom stood alone at the beginning of the trail. It was 20 minutes before Johnny finally showed up. “You’re late.” “What, like you’ve got something better to do? Some of us have lives, we’re not hanging around lunchrooms tossing our cookies all over creation.” “They’re here.” He patted a large backpack he carried. “What do you need so much stuff for?” “Mind your own business.” Tom eyes flashed anger. “I should mind my own business? My book is my business. This whole thing with you is because you won’t mind your business.” Johnny smiled. “Temper, temper. Come on. Time’s a-wasting.” They traveled up the hiking trail for a long while until finally coming to the top of a rocky hill. Johnny began heading off the trail, towards the rockiest side. He turned and laughed at Tom. “Oh no, we’re deviating from the path!”

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The side of the hill was steep, and both boys almost fell several times. Handholds were sparse, consisting mainly of rocks and the limbs of long-dead trees. Johnny was better able to navigate the terrain due to his longer limbs, so he reached the bottom first and waited. After some time, Tom made it to the bottom, and he could see what Johnny was looking at. A cave opened up in the side of the rock. Johnny took off his pack and removed flashlights and a rope. “My book isn’t in there.” “No, it’s not. It’s back at my bunk. You’ll get it when we get back.” “What do you want me to do?” “Help.” “I don’t know caves other than snakes, and God knows what all live in them. I’m not a spelunker.” Johnny tied the rope around a tree stump. “I thought you knew everything.” “I don’t. Why did you bring me here?” Johnny shrugged and then grinned. “Guess I just like you.” Johnny walked into the opening of the cave and shined his flashlight. “It’s level right here, but the Zucker kid he went far down in, and he said it bottoms out straight into the earth. He came running out because he was afraid a demon was going to catch him.” Tom came over behind Johnny. “That’s ridiculous.” Johnny turned off his light and looked at Tom. “Haven’t you ever heard that if you dig a hole deep enough you can hear the screams of Hell?” “That’s bull.” “My cousin, he did it,” Johnny said. “Dug a hole ten feet deep, and he said you could hear ‘em screaming.” “Your cousin’s an idiot.” “Are you calling me a liar?” Tom stared off into the distance. He knew that saying yes would also be saying yes to the worst asskicking

of his life. His eyes moved over to the ground, just behind Johnny. “Didn’t your daddy tell you to look a man in the eye?” It happened quickly. The snake sunk its fangs into Johnny’s leg. Johnny yelped like a wounded dog and stamped his foot, trying to shake loose. The snake’s tail wriggled underneath the boot and Johnny stomped. Then, just as suddenly as it struck, the snake detached itself and fled into the cave, its body whipping and slapping the rock. Johnny moaned. “Did you see it?” “Yeah.” “You think it was poisonous?” “I don’t know.” “What good are you?” Johnny lifted his pant leg and looked at his calf. Two puncture wounds bled. “We’d better head back just in case.” Johnny agreed and both the boys began climbing up the steep hill. After a minute, Johnny stopped and panted. “I don’t feel good.” “It’s probably just shock.” “No.” Johnny sat down on the ground and swallowed. “Go get help.” “Where are my stamps?” Johnny squinted, mouthed, “What?” “Where are they?” “I lied. They’re in the bag. Take ‘em.” Tom found the stamps at the bottom of the backpack. He tucked the book under his arm and continued his climb without a word. Johnny rested his head on the slope and said, “Hurry up.” Tom crept slowly up the hill, using one hand to make for slow going. At the top, he sat down with his back to a tree. After another hour or two, the camp will send a search party, he thought. That will be long enough.

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Asmaa Ferdjallah Sunday Night photograph

death and abstraction chris martin

now, the difference between death and abstraction is the relationship between death and abstraction is a carrier pigeon with a note tied to its on a statue from the someone... sleeping underneath with a ticking watch the difference between death and abstraction now, the relationship between death and abstraction is a carrier pigeon staring with a message on top of a statue and the ticking wristwatch on someone else asleep at the pedestal. (learned a lesson from.) now, the difference between death and abstraction is as a carrier pigeon on the head of a statue at the base of which sleeps someone else entirely with the watch of their wrist still ticking.

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Devon Goodspeed Whereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the heart? spray paint on canvas

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The Man in the Pink Polo by John McDowell Moore

For six months, Mrs. Goldner, a sexy woman of forty-five, had been living alone in the white mansion behind the 11th fairway. Her husband was dead now: killed by his own hand with the brown magnum he kept in the Mercedes. He had bequeathed her everything: the house, the cars, even the golf course. It had become her habit to sit under the green and white-striped awning of the veranda drinking sweet tea and thinking about life without her husband. Today was no different. She sipped her sweet tea. It was late September but it was still hot. The golf course was quiet except for a bright pink polo shirt on the 11th tee box. She could see a man in pink speaking with his associate, a small, boxy-looking man in brown slacks. She could not understand the nature of the conversation. They were too far. She decided the tea was entirely too sweet. She mashed her lips together with smacking displeasure. Sharp pains of sugar pined at her enamel. She went inside to make a new batch. The kitchen was cool. From her window, she watched the men at the tee box. The man in pink went first. He hooked his ball way off to the left, near her yard. She waited. The short, boxy-looking thing in brown slacks duffed his ball near the lady’s tees. She winced. She stepped onto the veranda with a magazine to wait for the tea to steep. Her tanned legs glistened with lotion. White blonde hair swung behind the collar of her oxford, the knitted tips rubbing pearls in her peeling, red ears. Behind the trees, a silver shaft of light gleamed in the sunlight. The man in the pink polo, was slashing an iron around in her backyard. A man of maybe thirty, he had a large robust build and walked as if trying to stick out his chest. The pink polo looked entirely too small up close, and the vibrancy of the shirt made fresher the tanned delicacies

of his face. The man wore khaki shorts, no socks and untied black and white golf shoes: his legs were hairy and thin. She waved at him and showed her teeth to be polite. He said in a thick British accent: “I’m afraid I’ve hit my ball into your yard. You’ll have to pardon me, I’ve got the shanks.” She nodded as if to say: “Yes, its fine. It happens all the time,” but she did not say this. She said: “I have just made some fresh tea. Would you like some?” He pulled the dark hair from his eyes and said: “Of course.” The man in the pink polo set the iron down next to his ball. He walked over to her chair on the veranda, and stood for a moment under the umbrage of the awning. Sweat was coming down his neck in hot tears. She was taken back by the size of him. He was even bigger, even more masculine, up close. She alighted from her chair and motioned towards the sliding door. When he approached the door, he stepped ahead with a sort of brutish alacrity and did a little bow. He said: “ After you.” Mrs. Goldner nodded cordially and blinked her blue eyes as if overly pleased with the gesture. She edged her diminutive body sideways to avoid contact with his chest. The ropes of muscle veining his arm made her bite her bottom lip. In the doorway, she turned suddenly to him as if remembering something important. She said: “And your friend. Would he care for some tea also?” “No,” he said, and waved to his associate. “He does not like tea. He prefers bourbon.” “Then he will wait?” “Yes,” the man said. “He will wait.” The cold kitchen air erased the heat from outside. The man in the pink polo sat down and placed his elbows on the marble counter. She pulled down two glasses and filled them with ice.

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She asked him: “Would you care for a lemon?” He nodded and smiled showing his white teeth. He said: “Two please.” “I do not believe it,” he said after a moment. “Nothing to do but make sweet tea,” and he laughed. The compliment was rude, but she let it go. “I have time for these things,” she said timidly. My husband is dead.” The man in the pink polo swallowed hard. He rubbed the stubble on his chin as if thinking deeply. He said: “Yes, I am sorry to hear that.” “Then you knew him?” she said with an air of excitement. “No” he said. Then, after a moment of thinking: “But I am sorry.” “Yes, she said. “I am sorry too.” The silence was not uncomfortable. “And your friend,” she said finally. “He is still waiting?” “It will only be a moment. He is a patient man.” “Seldom are people patient,” she said. “No one stops to think about things.” The man shook his empty glass. The ice jingled like dimes. She said: “You will have to excuse me for not introducing myself.” She held out a small hand. The diamond bracelet almost slipped from her wrist. “I am Jane Goldner.” He said with a laugh: “ Well of course you are,” and showed his white teeth. He stuck out his hand to shake. Her hand went limp under his hairy knuckles. He looked down at his empty glass. He said: “This tea is divine. May I have some more?” She turned to the sink. The exquisiteness of his aspect was too much. His jocose smile, the white teeth, his tanned face, the thick British accent, the large robust build- all of it flowing forth in a sporty fountain of pink. While pouring another glass, she forgot to ask for his name. She turned back to him. “Kirk Goldner was my husband,” she said pensively. “The club is his. Well, it used to be his.” She looked down at her bare feet. Her toes squirmed. “It is mine now.” The man swallowed greedily. He laughed showing his white teeth. He said: “Thank you for the tea. I must be going now.” From the veranda she watched him go into the yard. She could see through the trees the boxy-looking man sitting in a golf cart on the other side of the fairway. The man in the pink polo lined up his shot and smacked a clean ball towards the green. Satisfied with his shot, he turned towards

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the veranda and gave a handsome grin. He said: “I have seen you squatting naked in a most vulnerable position, and I would like to see it again.” She pictured herself squatting naked in a vulnerable position. She was squatting like a dog, and he was there with her smiling, showing his white teeth. For a moment her brain turned a dizzy, muted white. She did not know the feeling this image provoked, but it fell somewhere between nausea and an orgasm. She tried to say: “No, I do not understand,” but he had disappeared already into the trees.

The next day Mrs. Goldner sat under the green and white-striped awning of her veranda watching the fairway. It was hot. She fanned herself with a copy of Madamme Bovary. A ball soared over the trees into her yard. Walking from the tee box, the man in the pink polo. She popped the green collar of her oxford and pulled the sides towards her nose to hide her face. Again, he appeared from behind the trees in her yard. He did a little bow and said: “You’ll have to excuse me. I still have the shanks.” She gave him a slight wave but she did wish to see him. She had ruminated over his last words from yesterday, and she had decided they were unprincipled and dissolute. There was no questioning that. She had the notion of telling him to leave her yard immediately, but for some impalpable reason she laid uncomfortably on her lounger frozen with disbelief, for encountering him a second time, on the very next day, had never crossed her mind. Surely his visit was deliberate: a chance to apologize perhaps. And if not an apology, what else? Cautiously, he laid the iron down next to his ball and looked at her. The sun was coming hard through the trees, and she had to bend her gaze to see past the brightness. She remained seated on the lounger, and looking upwards from her subjacent post, found him standing austerely in the same pink polo. He smiled and said: “I would love some iced tea.” “I’m afraid I am out of iced tea,” she said sternly. “And I don’t think I will be getting any more.” He laughed and showed his white teeth. He said: “But it is so hot out here, and I am so thirsty. Please, some tea if you would. And I prefer it with two lemons.” “No,” she said defensively. “There is no tea for you.” He smiled and did a practice swing with his hands. He said: “As you can see I still have the shanks. Just one glass. Two lemons.”

She jumped from the lounger and threw her book to the ground. She said: “Oh the nerve of you to show up here asking for iced tea. Do you not understand?” The man in the pink polo laughed and pushed out his chest. He said: “Shall we go inside? It is so hot.” He walked to the door and let himself in. When she walked inside he was not in the kitchen. He was in the sitting room, adjacent to the kitchen, sitting on the couch with his feet on an ademan. He wore the untied black and white golf shoes with no socks: his legs looked hairy and thin. She was impatient now and slightly frightened. She said: “What are you doing? You cannot be here.” In his hand there was a picture of her husband and her son. They were standing outside a chapel. The son was wearing a cap and gown. He said: “You’re family is so beautiful,” and he pointed to her son. “A fine young man as well. Where is he now?” “He is away,” she said, not wishing she had said it. “He has a family of his own. Will you please leave. You cannot be here.” “But why do you want me to leave?” And he laughed showing his white teeth. “Please. Just an iced tea. With two lemons.” “You must leave now,” she said, and her voice grew frantic and afraid. “I will call someone. The police.” He stared at the freckles on her chest. She walked hurriedly to the kitchen. Her heart was beating in rapid thumps. She yelled to him: “I am calling the police.” Her fingers trembled as she dialed. The air was hot and heavy, hard to breath. She heard heavy footsteps behind her. Her heart beat in rapid thumps. The man in the pink polo sat down and put his elbows on the marble counter. He said: “I will be leaving now.” Her heart slowed down and she put the phone to its dock. The fervency of her fear began to dissolve slowly into the surge of the air conditioning. She breathed. Her lungs filled with cool air. It was over. He was leaving. She had nothing else to say to him. He stood across from her as if waiting to incur another reproach: a scolded boy with a pouty face-- standing by the door in the bright

pink polo, but smiling now, showing his white teeth. He began to pull the dark hair from his eyes and for some reason the idea of TOMORROW came thrusting into her mind. She saw herself sitting alone on the veranda sipping sweet tea, and pictured herself wondering what was life like for the golfers that passed by. It had never occurred to her before, but she thought the whole idea of it somehow overwhelmingly sad. Mrs. Goldner walked timidly to the man in the pink polo. She came to him and lowered herself slightly under the weight of his figure to let his breath fall upon her. She looked up at him and said: “If you will please come with me. I’d like to show you my bedroom.”

The man in the pink polo emerged from behind the trees, dragging the iron behind him. His red mouth sagged with fatigue, as if his tongue had been dripping for hours. The short, boxy-looking man in brown slacks was squatting in the shade next to a golf cart, wiping sweat from his lips. He watched his associate cross the fairway in long, confident strides. The man in brown slacks called to the man in the pink polo. He said: “And…?” Then, after no response, more assertively: “And…?” The man in the pink polo sat down behind the wheel of the golf cart: it lurched with the extra weight. Through the trees, the sun beat down in long, aggressive shafts. In the tallest, most lonely window of the mansion, Mrs. Goldner’s aging face hung in a long, somber repose. A passerby might concede she was thinking of someone who had just left her—never to return. Mrs. Goldner watched the two men talking in the shade. The man in the pink polo was speaking emphatically, while the boxy-looking man in brown slacks nodded with slow, dangerous grins.

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Sesteana Allen S. Thomas The waitresses tell you: “Try the sweet tea.” You really must; it is the South: sugarysweet on a white cotton doily soaking up perspiration. Ask me, and I’ll say: “This is rotten teeth whispering comfort, a covering smile, and distaste at lust.” “The problem with love is getting past lust,” says the preacher of the seventeenth tee. That O.B. line is too close for comfort. “I need air,” I think. In conditioned suite she will stare slow from satin sheets and… “Say, it’s powerful warm out, ain’t it? I’m soaking.” In the kitchen chorizos are soaking in salsa—assuaging carnivore lust. South Knoxville se divertida si se habla español. The ’56 TBird weed-mired next door on one last sugaretched tire offers mice a guise of comfort.

Jacob Stanley Canoe Paddles Reflected photograph

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While I investigate the discomfort Of a six-year old merrily soaking Up the delighted murmurs and sugars of a mothering redemption of lust, I whistle accompaniment to tea kettle, and feel sweet pain I cannot say. You appreciate “This is Just to Say” more when you’ve been married awhile. Comfort in relationships is learning frailties. I toss and turn in my sleep, and so king size beds dance in my wife’s head after lust. Much of fate lies in interlocked sugars. I pray that when my mind becomes sugar For the worms that some of my friends will say, “He mostly lived with a passionate lust, misguided though it often was.” Comfort is dissolution: fading like soakingsweat dreams rising in smoke twists from scorched tea. I finish my tea, tip well (“Thanks, sugar!”), exit to South’s August sauna, and say, “The South steeps in sun-withered, syrupy lust.”

Suzanne Devan Swim Cap drawing

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Wrong again

I thought I had the universe figured out until I saw a girl’s bare leg.

Amien Essif And art is like math in too many ways. Imagining I have made progress until I realize I’m a worthless one in six billion trying to pretend I’ve died and come back to tell you the truth, prove that I think about other things than just sex, tell you something you don’t know. But I’ve never seen death and we’ve all seen life. Change my socks, they smell like hell. Shannon Petrie Wedding Dress photograph

Do my dishes, they’re pilling up. Close the windows, the pollen’s getting in. So here we are, biting off little chunks of the Great Air swallowing them deep into our chests then spitting them back out for the world to reuse. But Don’t despair. There are still uneaten winds blowing, tipping, lonely trees in lonely lands we’ve never seen. Don’t read this again, it’s not worth it.

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