Y a h a r a J o u r n a l
Y a h a r a J o u r n a l A F I N E A R T S JO U R N A L
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On the Co ve r Photograph by Sharon Vanorny
Co ve r De sign Genia M. Daniels
Yahara Jo urnal Staff Edito r Genia M. Daniels
Asso c iate Edito r Jared Kubokawa
Staff F.J. Bergmann Jessica Duncan Emily Haack Josh Liss Jennifer Paige Sherie Rakow April Wunderlin
Jo urnal De sign Genia M. Daniels Jared Kubokawa
W e b De sign F.J. Bergmann
Advise rs Sonja Hansard-Weiner Doug Kirchberg
Abo ut The Yahara Jo urnal The Yahara Jo urnal is a fine arts publication of Madison Area Technical College student work. It is one of many activities made available by the Student Life Office and funded by Student Activity Fees. The opinions expressed in this publication do not necessarily represent those of the MATC administration, faculty, staff or student body.
Co nte nts
The Answe r Ete rnal Je ze be l Untitle d Pho to graph Co nditio ns Unde r W hic h Lo ve Is Use le ss Untitle d Illustratio n I Ne e d A W atc h Subm issio n A Swe e t Diso rde r Untitle d Painting Tho se Two Make A Gre at Co uple Cie lo Cubic o Le tte r Fro m Inside Jazz Club Pride Sunlight Me tam o rpho se Untitle d Pho to graph Chaste ? Myra Le e Stre e t Co rne r Exc hange Untitle d Pho to graph Pine apple Abse nc e Of Alic e So c ks Mado nna & Child Making A Lo ve W hat’s Le ft Is Lo st In The Light Birth Of Co o l She Clo se II At First … De rive d Infe re nc e Re tro ac t Mystic He ad
Cynthia D. Carlson Kaosk Stacey Cox Nathan J. Comp
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Joseph Hinnendael Josh Liss Takeylar Benton Brecken Schaller Lori Alexander Jared Kubokawa Dana Lund Rice Genia M. Daniels Matt Thruman Dale James Mitchell Kaosk K. Johnson-Bair Angela Bartley Joe Vickers John Schroeder Josh Liss Sharon Vanorny Zenda lee Shimshak Susan Spahn Sherie Rakow Marian Maldonado Elizabeth Campbell Jared Kubokawa Alex Andre Chris Dyer Genia M. Daniels A.D. Verona F.J. Bergmann F.J. Bergmann R. Logu
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Cynthia D. Carlson
The Answe r I Amazing Grace hums and moans through organ notes as the Deacon taps pedals like a dancer. God and angels fly from the mouth of the minister trying to comfort the family of a man who never came to church. Everyone in clothes they rarely wear crowds around a new baby. He’s the only fire and somehow we need to keep warm. The crying could fill the casket drown the flowers and keep everyone drunk if Jesus would change it to wine. II Over coffee at McDonalds she tells me how he gurgled like a percolator at the end, how the catheter gave him an infection they didn’t even bother to heal. How during the day, the TV would cover the noise but at night she would cry herself to sleep. How he stopped eating a week ago, his mouth simply wouldn’t work – the cancer ate that part of his brain.
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III Her voice cracks like a porcelain cup, she asks what to do with the half empty jar of Miracle Whip, the left over oatmeal, the open pack of wintergreen gum, the Marlboro Lights with six left, the unused sticks of butter, the can of Folgers, the box of Kleenex. The ring. What about his wedding ring? IV The flowers sent three weeks ago, or maybe it was three days – begin to die. One by one she pulls the wilted lilies, changes the roses’ water, then sits beside a shuffled pile of snap-shots opening cards like the bible. V Of course, the moon knows but won’t tell. It hoards loss, and doles out hope in small pieces to the stars, plays wise to the lamp post left on earth to collect bugs and guide drunk lovers. Look instead, inside the boxes where the snow globe fills the empty space between the flour tin and fiesta bowls. That’s where the message is written in secret language. You’ll know when it falls on you like dusk, even and blue. The memory of the day, beautiful, still, vacant as the beginning of night. 2
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Kaosk
Ete rnal Je ze be l -- To dye m y fe e t with sc arle t he nna – sit as still as Ne fe rtiti – and danc e fo r him with m y e ye s – fo rge tting the c ro wds o f gazing m ale wills – se nsual drips – e ntranc e s e sse nc e s – and sc e nte d puffs o f tangy swe at - falling into the to rre nt o f lo ve r’s ve rtigo – lo sing m yse lf within the vio le t skin o f his light – go lde n silk o f his c him e –
if you come one more time I’ll let you in to where nipples taste like condensed milk and sweat slides like butter on a warm tortilla and thighs part into centers beneath the skin of selfishness
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Stacey Cox
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Nathan J. Comp
Co nditio ns Unde r W hic h Lo ve Is Use le ss It was never more than a simple case of misunderstanding. Margie never understood Ralphy’s inability to understand anything at all. Even simple things like the importance of cleaning up after dinner were greeted with the alien gaze that Ralphy used to navigate life. “It’s important to have a clean environment, Ralphy,” she would say and Ralphy would respond with things like, “What does the environment have to do with cleanin’ the dishes?” But Margie liked Ralphy because he didn’t know enough to complain. She also liked that Ralphy didn’t talk much. Even in those times when she longed for someone to speak with. Margie would ramble on until her words became so backlogged in Ralphy’s brain that they spilled from his ears. At this point Ralphy would signal the end of her noise by saying, “Gee Margie, how you done become so smart?” At this Margie always walked away satisfied until one day it occurred to her that maybe Ralphy didn’t appreciate her wisdom. That an ignoramus such as Ralphy should not embrace her mental endowments was preposterous and she dismissed the thought all together. One night at dinner, following a day of serious pondering, Margie asked Ralphy what he thought about all day. “Whaddya mean Margie?” She replied, “I mean, what kind of things do you think about all day. You’re practically a mute sittin’ in that chair of yours all day. Even dummies have thoughts.” Ralphy appeared to think for a moment and replied, “Why, I’m not sure what you mean by that Margie.”
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Margie became frustrated and began grunting as she chewed her steak. “I mean, Ralphy, do you think about sports, or television, or other women even – the future maybe? I mean, what are you thinking about right now?” Ralphy, after swallowing a heaping spoonful of potatoes, quietly said “Nothing.” The next day Margie watched Ralphy mow the lawn with an enthusiasm that was new to her, and for the first time in years she thought of intercourse. Ralphy didn’t care about such trifles as these and performed only out of marital obligation. This too was satisfying for Margie. She never had to worry about being in the mood. It never mattered what mood Ralphy was in because he always did as he was told. Watching Ralphy mow the lawn enlivened her. She had never paid so close attention to him before and felt a strange and renewed affection for him. That night at dinner Margie said, “I thought about killing you today, Ralphy.” To this Ralphy replied, “Why would you go an’ think a thing like that?” “Because I can,” said Margie. Ralphy nodded and cleaned off his plate. “When you were out earlier, you know, mowing the lawn,” Margie continued, “what were you thinking about?” “Mowing the lawn,” Ralphy replied. “That’s it? You couldn’t possibly be thinking of mowing the lawn that entire time, especially since you were mowing the lawn. I mean, do you ever think about me?” And Ralphy replied, “Why would I think of you when you’s always around?” “For the same reason you think about mowing the lawn while you’re mowing the lawn. It doesn’t make sense Ralphy. I demand to
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know what it is that you think about all day. Do I not have a right to know?” In bed later that night, Margie decided to pontificate rather than have sex, a decision she voiced aloud. “What do you think about that Ralphy?” But Ralphy was sleeping. The next morning, Margie decided not to prepare breakfast for Ralphy so he simply fetched an apple from the fridge and went and sat in his chair. Likewise, Margie neglected lunch and so did Ralphy. By dinner Margie was starving and decided that she would go out and that she would do so without Ralphy. She prepped herself in her best apparel, which was her best because it was the best she had. It consisted of a frayed wool sweater, navy blue khaki’s and a silk scarf to cover her hair. She made a point to tell Ralphy that she was going out to get a bite to eat, that she’d be back shortly. “Ok,” said Ralphy and she departed with a huff. When she returned, Ralphy was in the kitchen washing the dishes. “What the hell are you doing?” snapped Margie. “Why, I’m washing the dishes like I do every night, Margie.” And suddenly her appetite disappeared. She tossed the bucket of chicken wings into the fridge and went upstairs. Before she made her way down the next morning, she thought of clever new ways to try and torment Ralphy, to force him into speaking his thoughts. She threw on her robe and lumbered down the stairs. On the fridge hung a note penned in the scribble that passed for Ralphy’s handwriting. “Margie,” it read, “I thynk it is tyme I should be gone. XOXO, Ralph. P.S. Thanks four the chyckin. It wus good.” And for the first time in twenty years, Margie wasn’t sure what to think. Yahara Journal
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Joseph Hinnendael
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Josh Liss
I Ne e d A W atc h If I were given time, I’d strap it to my wrist and illuminate it. Resonating, blue tides would stand still and the old man’s cratered smile would mock only the dark side, grasping, reaching for breath underneath the horizon’s black curtain. If I could steal time, I’d bottle it up tight and not allow it to roam. The fragile piece could not restrain a constant longing to continue. The hourglass would shatter, its sands removed, blown, tossed by the wind, finding their way to freedom again. If I could track down time, I’d wrestle it to the ground. The pendulum to which the hammer sounds would fall from rhythm, a simple harmonic motion dissolved, muted, replaced by the hum of mediocrity, of quartz crystal clicks and austere chiming birds. Sorry for the time, I’ve misplaced it again. Stonehenge crumbles, obscurity overcasts the sundial’s shadow, and Mayan science falls to ruins.
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Takeylar Benton
Subm issio n His seductive smile dominates my daily flights of fantasy and his cashmere caress lights a candle deep inside but all I have to offer is myself – which I’ll submit willingly when I’m with him and my heart feels as free as air and he seems to find that timid and terrified little girl trying to hide from his seductive smile that dominates my daily flights of fantasy. When he examines my soul through my eyes, I submit and take him there to allay the angry black woman, allowing her to sustain her pride knowing all I have to offer is myself – which I’ll submit willingly when he secures this sensation of strength I can climb the highest stair and then he promises to protect my soul through the rough ride if his seductive smile doesn’t dominate my daily flights of fantasy. When I can close my eyes and allow him to take me anywhere and he nurtures the naked wounds staying ‘til the tears subside recognizing all I have to offer is myself – which I’ll submit willingly when I forget about forcing it and allow it to flow as freely as air and I open up and expose my emotions, I trust and take him inside where his seductive smile dominates my daily flights of fantasy but all I have to offer is myself – which I’ll submit willingly.
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Brecken Schaller
A Swe e t Diso rde r It was the floor that suffered most Becoming the object of one’s cruel stomping The dismay of breaking glass And the tickle of sweep thereafter The thump of her body falling with laughter As he pinned her to it and slowly kissed her neck The years bring trouble and joy The floor himself has seen his share Overnight slumbers bring giggles And the passing of loved ones Leak tears into its fractures Soaking up the sting of unwelcome misery Yes, the floor did become the character Spreading himself out for all to walk on Scraping the knees of running children The steps of dance reward him Like a helping satisfaction Knowing he was the sturdy one It was the floor that suffered most Becoming the bearer of muddy boots The shock of knives falling with a clang And the ache of the scratches Growing larger and larger By means of the rolling chair
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Brecken Schaller
Yes, the floor did become quite old Our probable support of wood and lacquer The change of time decaying his surface Getting older and wearier with each passing year Only to be covered again With one more new idea A sweet disorder became the floor Ricketing with each step creaking And squealing with every move rotting From the core until the boards cracked up and flopped loosely about the earth Like a terrible fish
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Lori Alexander
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Jared Kubokawa
Tho se Two Make A Gre at Co uple Honestly, they can’t get enough of each other. This is what Howard tells me. And I couldn’t be happier for him. After Denise left him, he just moped around, rarely speaking. Even when we’d have coffee in my apartment he was unusually silent. Sure, he and Denise had problems but what couple doesn’t? I don’t know why she left him though; Howard has that good job down at the computer firm. I suppose they were too young. Denise was the friendly type, but for some reason it just seemed fake. But his new girl, oh she’s wonderful and what a beauty. Soft olive skin, perfect chestnut hair with eyes to match. I think she’s just a doll. I’ve seen her here and there around the building. Our apartment complex is pretty nice and people seem to like her. I’m just really glad he found her. I knew he would have trouble dating after the split. He was telling me about Sally, his new girl. It was so sweet, the way he talked about her. They’ve been going together for a year now and Howard wanted to celebrate. I guess he couldn’t wait till Tuesday, their real anniversary. So on Sunday, the two lovebirds lay in bed together all day. I thought it was a waste of a beautiful afternoon but they didn’t care. Oh how they love spending time together. Howard told me they made love three times. Three times! I wish Jim and I had that kind of energy, maybe when we were younger. But the truth is we haven’t slept in the same bed for almost fifteen years. I don’t know, I love Jim but we’re like siblings not husband and wife. I crave something more, something physical—intimacy I guess. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a wonderful man and we’ve spent the best years of our lives together. It’s just when I see Howard and Sally, they are so—happy. Don’t tell Jim but I even get jealous of her from time to time.
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Jared Kubokawa
Boy, when Howard talks about her he just glows. One full year together and not a single fight; he said it’s like a dream. Their relationship started out a little slow. Howard’s pretty shy and I guess he had cold feet. But soon it blossomed into what he likes to call “a factory fairy tale.” After they made love a third time, Howard was dressing or something. Sally just lay there on the bed, happy as can be under her electric blanket. She always had that thing despite the summer heat. They decided to celebrate with some greasy cheeseburgers. So out the door and down the walk they went, Howard pushing her in the wheelchair. He was almost jogging he said. When they got to his convertible, he carefully lifted her out of the chair (she’s at least a hundred pounds) and gently let her down into the seat. I’ve seen him do it before and I think it’s the cutest thing on the planet. You can just tell he absolutely adores her. They headed down to that old A&W stand where you talk into the box and someone brings the food to your car. Anyway, when the young guy brought the food out he recognized them. They’ve been there lots of times before. The kid seemed all right. He talked with Howard and Sally about his soccer game the evening before and how they won at the last minute. Howard said Sally was so polite, listening intently the whole time. Howard asked a few questions but not too many. He ate a double cheeseburger and onion rings and the biggest float available; he must’ve been real hungry. After dinner they drove around in that convertible of his, her perfect hair blowing in the breeze. I can just picture them now, so sweet and happy. What I wouldn’t give to be young and in love again. There was no need to talk; they just enjoyed each other’s company. Some people gave them real strange looks, though. Once at a stoplight a child in the car next to them started jumping up and down, pointing and screaming. The parents gave Howard the finger and
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Jared Kubokawa
drove off in the other direction. He didn’t care. He sat there smiling away. Then Howard took her down by the lake to park. I remember Jim and me parking there when we were young. Howard told me they watched the sun slowly set into the water. They listened to the stereo completely silent, holding hands. When finally it got dark, they started necking like kids. They probably did more but Howard’s a gentleman. It was back at the apartment building where they ran into a little trouble. There were some new people moving in, young kids right out of high school. I always told him he should rent his own house. Howard was pushing Sally up the walk and the kids were coming up behind them carrying boxes. They started teasing Howard. Ridiculing him, calling him a pervert. Just then Jim came down, he was going out for some chocolate ice milk. He told those kids off all right. Howard was pretty shaken up though. The three of them took the elevator back up and Jim came right in and told me the whole story. I was so angry. How could anyone do this on the celebration of their anniversary? I marched right down to the front door and found those kids laughing on the steps. “Don’t you know it’s not right to tease people?” But they just kept laughing and laughing like maniacs. “What is wrong with you kids today? Can’t you accept people for who they are?” But they wouldn’t stop; they kept on going and going, tears forming in their eyes. “Those two make a great couple. And you must understand that Howard is the nicest guy in the world and once his wife left him he had no one. Don’t you know everyone gets lonely from time to time?” Finally one of the guys paused just long enough to respond.
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Jared Kubokawa
“But lady, don’t you know—she’s a FUCKING doll.” I told them straight out that Howard and Sally had a beautiful relationship and they better learn to accept it or I’d have them evicted. I don’t care if they haven’t even moved in yet. But you know kids these days, they’re awful, they just kept on and on. So I went back to check on Howard. I knocked softly and heard his voice. I opened the door and there he was smack in the middle of the floor. Sally was next to him but something was very wrong. I knew she was one of those expensive pieces, not a blow up doll or anything, but this was so strange. He had removed all her clothes. I tell you, I’ve never seen her like that, I mean he always dresses her up in something. She looked like … an alien but made up to be a human. Those breasts – they were amazing. And there was more, I saw her genitals. I mean I could completely see her genitals. They were so real. It looked just like it. Yet something was terribly wrong. It took me a moment but then I placed it – she was torn. Torn where she should not be torn. Something very cold shot through my body as I looked at Howard’s face. Tears were running down his cheeks. He was crying, no – he was sobbing. I saw Howard, a grown man cower like a child. Then he did something. Howard turned her on her side. She was behind him. I saw him reach back for her arms. Struggling, he tried to pull them around his waist. But they wouldn’t do it. They just couldn’t, not like a person. She couldn’t hold him that way. I closed the door and walked back to my apartment where Jim was standing in the doorway. “Hold me,” I said. “Hold me the way you used to.”
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Dana Lund Rice
Cie lo Cubic o
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Genia M. Daniels
Le tte r Fro m Inside I. I look forward to his letters written in unsure cursive – he cannot sleep at night the guards keep the radio on and there is never complete darkness – a fluorescent buzz of light constant as breath – Saturday a man arrived in his block singing all night … All Yo u Ne e d is Lo ve … he laughed as he told me over the gingivitis stench of the visiting room phone – Our reflections blur against the Plexiglas muting clenched jaws and the hiss of orange jumpsuits II. It couldn’t have been any other way – a voice in my head tells me W hat did yo u e xpe c t? So m e o ne had to e nd up he re –
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Genia M. Daniels
The path behind us is scattered – memories hang threadbare drowning us with uncertainty – We are ugly stupid and deserve everything we get – the Lutheran neighbor says pushing us out of her home – teachers look blankly at us and suck their perfect teeth – Isn’t it sad? The y’ll ne ve r go anywhe re III. Sometimes I try to talk to him about the violence – The stepfathers The belts The unexplained rages – I am reminded of police officers who cut him from the rafters telling him he should have used a stronger rope
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Genia M. Daniels
IV. I study the graffiti scratched into the cheap brown paint dressing the visiting stalls – Ho usto n ’99, Fre e She p Do g – he points a nervously chewed finger to Fuc k tha Po lic e he says, e xac tly – His eyes wander away as we look for words that scratch less – words that force the shadows out from behind our sharp eyes
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Matt Thruman
Jazz Club Blue eyes squinting with teardrops Cold beads of sweat, cooling faces High capacity lungs, endless notes Raising goose bumps Circular breathing, lacking blank Eruptions of silence Horns pointing to the inevitable Bowing backward, stretching loudness Golden sparklers of brass quintet Polishing flashes infallible Infinite waves of frequencies With power to induce excitement Hair standing on end Frozen by electrostatic transducers, Rhythmic sessions mellow With fractions of resistance Ultrasonic slivers reverb Splicing crystal chandeliers Beyond breathtaking climax Sudden shock of quiet, still Lingers a tsunami of wind ‌ Smothering the fire
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Dale James Mitchell
Pride
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Kaosk
Sunlight HIS FINGERS STRUM THE STRINGS OF THE UPRIGHT BASS SOUND INSTANTANEOUSLY TRAVELS ALONG A 4-D LINE TO MY legz HMMMMMMZ ITS WAY TO MY mostsupplesites AND flesh tingles EACH PLUCK ANOTHER SECRET
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K. Johnson-Bair
Me tam o rpho se When I was a kid, I had certain habits; rituals you might call them, like all kids do. Praying or brushing your teeth before bed, or saying grace at the dinner table. I don’t know how this particular behavior began, but it could have been the house fire that occurred the year before. The house next door to us burned down. Our house was untouched by fire, but we lived with the smell for months. I can’t even remember the circumstance in which I first did it. I would make my daily after school cheese sandwich. But rather than throwing the plastic away, I’d walk over to the toaster, which sat under the baking cabinet that held cans of Borden’s sweetened condensed milk, C & H powdered sugar and baking chocolate. I’d turn the toaster on high and place the plastic from my cheese slice over the wall of heat coming up from the toaster. The plastic would literally float above the heat wave, then the center would puff up and the edges would round. For a brief moment the plastic would become a body of itself, literally floating and metamorphosing before my eyes. Then the center would implode, the edges would fall, and when I wasn’t quick enough with the knife some of the plastic goo would fall down into the toaster. The plastic from Kraft slices seemed to work best. On weekends during breakfast, at some point, my father would yell in frustration about how we used or m isuse d the toaster. Once the toast was pushed down, the lever would remain stuck and thin wisps of smoke would rise from the heating ducts. My eyes would lock with my brother’s and for a moment there was silent struggle. My brother, my accomplice, then six, knew all about the “experiments.” He never told.
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K. Johnson-Bair
Over time, I procured even finer materials for these “controlled burns” – like the thin plastic sheets that covered the pages of my mother’s new phonebook, one she had not yet written. I thought that this would be the perfect source for future experiments, maybe she wouldn’t notice what had been there. It was on one of these missions that things got out of control. The new plastic was somewhat thicker and had to be held over the toaster longer. The key was making sure that the toaster was hot enough to begin with. I held the thin sheet of plastic over the heat wave, the tips of my fingers stinging from the heat. Just when I thought I saw the first bubble emerging and ready to be jettisoned, the weight of it sank through, spilling down into the toaster. There was a brief moment of disappointment, and then suddenly flames erupted and began licking at the cabinets above. I yelled at my brother to stand back and grabbed a half gallon of milk to douse the fire. It was a mess. 2% milk stained the walls and cabinets, the smell of burining plastic and milk hung heavy throughout the house. The plastic that caught flame had melted down the side of the toaster and adhered to the counter. I frantically cleaned up the mess before my parents got home and decided that the wreckage would warrant way too many questions, so I put the toaster outside in the bottom of our trashcan. I told my parents that the cord must have had a short, because huge sparks shot out of it, and that it started to smoke, just like it had on the weekend when Dad used it. We got a new toaster. The following week, I went away to summer camp.
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Angela Bartley
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Joe Vickers
Chaste ? They told me it was wrong to speed And punished me with tickets They told me it was wrong to feel And barred me in a cage of indifference They told me it was wrong to talk to strangers And the sad man next to me on the bus has no one to talk to Now I speed everywhere I go Screaming out the windows at people I don’t know And wonder what they were thinking
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John Schroeder
Myra Le e Myra landed the part of a Porcelain Dildo Goddess who performed feats such as curing impotence and kissing women into fiery fertility while Dear Sir became props, beaten mercilessly with bags of Halloween candy and covered with toilet paper while the Goddess kissed the audience members and dry-humped the lead actress. Jealous for her underage lover, boning, fourteen, and beautiful while she was dying at thirty; Dear Sir grew to love solitude while Myra grew to love boys. Charming ones. Dear Sir is still called Dear Sir. Florence likes "Rencia," although its musical significance is little. She pays for condoms now. After poking holes in them, of course.
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Josh Liss
Stre e t Co rne r Exc hange I. Black Tie You whore With your nylons thigh high Your crooked smile To make them love you To make them see you Your blind knowledge From those you spend lonely nights with Open your eyes Pull the joint from your mouth Take a break from the constant high Listen to me Grab your deficiencies Your proud moments stolen from you Leave this hazardous state Beyond broken homes Past your dealer’s doorstep To another world made for you
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Josh Liss
II. Thigh High Nylons You asshole With your tight black tie Your plastic smile To make them respect you To make them follow you Your flawed logic From those who’ve held the silver spoon Open your ears Pull the mic from your mouth Take a break from the constant spotlight Listen to yourself Grab your fallacies Your haughty merits never truly appreciated Leave this wretched stereotype Beyond Wall Street Past your client’s wallet To another world not centered on you.
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Sharon Vanorny
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Zenda lee Shimshak
Pine apple Giant flakes are falling outside my window. They fall to the street and onto the roofs of other people’s houses. They get together, kiss and fall all over each other; it seems to me, they make love. I smile as I think of the X-rated show we will all have to drive through today. I imagine the roads will be slippery, and my pant legs will get wet. I sigh, as the crystal weather comes down from the sky. The way the wind blows it about makes the apartment seem cozy, despite the sad truth of my shivering shoulders. I have to pull myself away from this window. I have to do my 200 crunches and 50 push-ups. I have to take a shower, curl my hair, and put on my blackest clothes. I have to get ready for the funeral. I wonder if Jason will be there. His aunt lived two blocks from our apartment. My twin sister, Aurora, and I were never in the apartment; home often felt more scary than the couch of a neighbor we had seen a few times, walking their dog in the morning, or grilling on the fourth of July. We met Jason when Aurora and I found our apartment locked one day after school. I remember I had to go to the bathroom. This was no small problem, even at that age I was accustomed to wetting my pants. So my sister and I started our routine march. We hiked down the sidewalk, looking for an inviting face. Sister Mary Margaret was not home. Joan, the red head who made burnt cookies, was not to be found. I cursed my alcoholic mother as we searched for a place to spend the night. It seemed we would have to walk all the way to the grocery store for me to let my goddamn bladder go. Oh, I was angry! And then, there they were. Jason was smoking on the cement steps outside the blue house. His aunt was pointing an accusing fin-
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ger at him – she looked quite angry. Aurora was the brave one. She walked up to the strangers and started her performance. “My sister has a urine infection, and if she doesn’t go to the bathroom quick, she is going to pee in her pants.” Aurora didn’t mind humiliating me, she rather enjoyed basking in the perfection that seemed to be cloaked on her, via my evident flaws. My face was particularly red that day, having noticed Jason immediately upon stepping onto his block, and with the same speed, deciding to develop a strong liking for him. As the plump lady (we would later call her Aunt Evelyn) took my hand and pulled me inside to her bathroom, my skin burnt with self-conscious hatred. Why couldn’t I control my goddamn bladder? Jason had brown hair that hung over his eyes in that sexy “I just got out of bed” look. He was tall and skinny. He had dirty fingernails and wore faded t-shirts. He was fifteen then. I was eight and had a huge crush on him. I remember walking up Aunt Evelyn’s green carpet stairs to Jason’s room. There, posters hung on the wall and music played loudly. To a second grade girl, he was the ultimate example of “cool.” Looking back, I see Jason must have felt sorry for me. He must have identified with my circumstances. Like mine, his mother was an alcoholic. Like me, he didn’t like going to school. Like me, he didn’t have a dad. I was Jason’s good deed; he wanted me to be happy, and he wanted my life to be brighter than his. So, he would let me jump on his bed and light the candles melting on his stereo. He would let me read his stories and wear his leather jacket. He taught me how to slide down the green carpet stairs and gave me freezer-burnt ice cream when I wanted a snack. Jason was a writer. He told me he wrote five hours a day, every day, and I believed it. I still believe it. Jason had big cardboard boxes
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filled with notebooks that were, in turn, filled with stories. I liked the oldest stuff, the stuff that was at the bottom of the box, the stories he called “crap.” In the “crap” notebooks, you could find stories about giant marshmallows, families that lived in caves, or my favorite, super cats that got magic powers from licking photographs. He had hundreds of stories, all kept in those wire bound notebooks you find for 40 cents at back-to-school sales. Jason didn’t go to school much, he said if you had a passion, that’s all you need. I’m sitting in my apartment now, close to the window on the east side. Ever since I was required to read Amy Tan in high school, the east has served as inspiration for me. Things begin in the east. The east is where the stories start, so I sit by the east window in my apartment and wait for a super cat or giant marshmallow to come to me. I wait. I stare out and into the snow. I look at my hands. Damn the person who says your hands define who you are. Damn the people, doesn’t everybody say that? My hands are dry skin, frantic ballpoint-pen reminders, and broken fingernails. Is that who I am? I look to the mirror and into my face. My features are large, big brown eyes that match big brown eyebrows I’ve kept neatly plucked since beauty tips found in Co sm o my eighthgrade year. Thank goodness they told me what pretty was. My lips are bee-stung and deep red in color. My skin is olive-toned, my cheekbones are high, my complexion is clear. I am an attractive woman. Is that who I am? Yesterday, I went to the west side to give oral sex to an upper middle-class man. He lives in a big brick house and has two very nice cars; he has a great stereo and a great TV. He pays me $50. I wonder how you get to be a prostitute. Is that who I am? My thoughts are drifting now, I have to get back on track. I have to look for my story. I turn from the mirror and look again outside to the blizzard. Snow drifts equal mind drifts, and here I go
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again. For me, it started with a conversation in a coffee house. Secret identity number one claimed to be an artist, just like everyone else in this town. He was a photographer, and he just happened to mention he was looking for lady models and, if I was interested . ... When I got to his “studio,” I saw the porn on the walls. Framed women licking women were hanging on white plaster, playing backdrop to a leather couch. I braced myself for the worse. He had told me the shots would be nude, I was ready for that; now though, it seemed I would have to prepare myself to model pornographically. My mind was racing. He told me to strip. I undressed. “Think sexy thoughts,” I told myself I was determined to get through the shoot without crying or shaking uncontrollably. I put on my best “everything's cool” smile and let him put his well-manicured hands on my body. I went home and ate a whole pizza, then a pint of freezer burnt ice cream, then some leftover pasta my mom made, then I puked. In the morning I went to Walgreen's and bought myself $50 worth of make-up. I spent another $50 on two new CDs, The Flaming Lips, and a Black Flag tribute. I again had no money. One week later I called secret identity number one; he hooked me up. When morning comes, I’m like a zombie. I drift to the phone and dial secret identity number two, or three, or four. Do you want to know what I’ve noticed about them? They all live on the west side, for one thing, and they all have nicely manicured hands. What does that say? Is that who they are? Aunt Evelyn died Tuesday night after a second stroke. Aurora called me yesterday morning, she is picking me up in a half hour, and we are driving to La Crosse to pay our respects. I haven’t cried yet, I don’t think I will. I am numb to death, it doesn’t phase me, I know worse things in life.
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I wonder if he will be at the funeral. Jason drinks pineapple juice now. The last I heard, he found God. He lives in San Francisco now, a real sun-tan man. The last I heard, he still writes five hours a day, and I believe it. I think I still have a huge crush on him. I want to sit with him on Aunt Evelyn’s green carpet stairs. I should try to find God. I want to eat freezer-burnt ice cream with him. I wonder if he still has wears Led Zeppelin t-shirts sometimes. I wonder if he still has dirty fingernails. I wonder what his hands look like. I look at the snow fall. I look at the snow.
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Susan Spahn
Abse nc e Of Alic e it wasn’t so much she thought her parents got the wrong baby (some confusion at the hospital) but there was some mistake about the planet elbows on the sill nose against the pane not knowing the unlatched door to or from the house she hesitated, more apart, her small and baffled heart unwilling she had tried to live with gills on land, to fly with paper wings she was not like other girls
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Sherie Rakow
So c ks I love to do your laundry sorting and turning socks right side out, holding my nose, into the washing machine they go, dissolving evidence. I toss the ones with holes. How do you do it? Darning is futile. When I put the socks in the second drawer of our dresser I smile knowing at 3:00 a.m. when your alarm buzzes, after you’ve hit snooze once or twice, when you open the drawer with eyes still closed, your socks right where you need them no need to think. Socks validate.
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Marian Maldonado
Mado nna & Child
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Elizabeth Campbell
Making A Lo ve I'd like to breathe water I'd like to sleep beside heart to live in a mother and feel I was home I'd like to be the texture of her dreams and the music of her voice to feel her blood run purple-blue through my veins She would call me Love when I reached the light and gently unfurling my little fist she'd put her lips to my palm and make me my own
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Jared Kubokawa
W hat’s Le ft Is Lo st In The Light sorry, jerry don’t play no trombone anymore he lost his girl and his life down at the ol’ bottle store see, there’s no violins and ain’t no baritones just scotch and a girl, hung up on the phone sorry y’all, jerry forgot how to blow that ol’ bone just two cats, one bottle and a white liver stoned see that ol’ hep without his gust and his grin he just ol’ kit of drums, beat, beaten like the wind sorry fella, jerry lost his slide for the bone the F clutch, his finger and the last telephone see, the only thing that matters is love, laughter and this the last bliss of a three o’clock kiss sorry pal, the young bar back stumbled home slide grease and everything, ol’ jerry sold the trombone see, doctor lost his listening skill, sirens screeched but the girl – she found a hundred dollar bill at his pad, she came back – that girl he left with two dollars, seven cents and the sound of an ol’ bass clef but it’s what she held in her hand as it moaned you guessed it, one shining silver slide trombone now jerry – what you got left blow, you slide man, blow
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what you got left blow that sign off the pole blow the wind blow the sea and the snow what you got left a scotch, two smokes ain’t nowhere to go jerry, it’s morning, what’s left? you got – four fingers, three cars, and one pair of shoes just blow that ol’ bone man blow it as you once knew don’t worry about what happened tonight cause what’s left is lost in the
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Alex Andre
Birth Of Co o l
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Chris Dyer
She The bathroom was carved in ice. She crept methodically across the frozen tiles, and the walls echoed her footsteps until she knelt by the bathtub and twisted the hot water knob. She paused a moment, then tested the temperature of the fountain with the back of her hand, grimacing at the heat. The wound on her right wrist overflowed, blood streaking the edge of the porcelain bath, but she was lost to this. Steam rose from the pool; she leaned forward and inhaled the clouds as they floated upward, shielding the ceiling from the dominant chill of the room. The full-length mirror on the door began to fog, though it captured her image as she stood to look at herself, pale, naked, shivering. She did not see the tear rolling down her cheek. She only saw the scars. Born on the base of her palms, dozens of slashes grew to touch her wrists and matured to the center of her forearm, aging and fossilizing into a landscape of healing flesh. The old gave birth to the new, and blemish grew upon blemish, migrating to the tender valley where her triceps turned into biceps. They crisscrossed and connected, rose and fell, up and down both of her arms. Mountains of tissue overshadowed valleys, almost touching bone, carved in her skin. A river, red and thick, flowed lazily through the crevasse, and she stirred it with her fingertip. This was her artwork, her therapy. Each stroke was genius; each mark was an expression of her life. Blood dripped off her elbow and darkened her toes. She smiled. She discovered her talent by accident. A trip to the Grand Canyon, or to Gramma’s house, or to the swimming pool, she could not remember where, but she was little then, and her brother, her sweet older brother Michael slammed her foot in the back door of
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Mommy’s Buick while she was trying to get out and it HURT, oh boy did it HURT. She screamed as Michael shoved Mommy back in the car and she screamed as they hurtled over the twenty city blocks to St. Francis Hospital. She screamed as the doctors yanked her onto a stretcher and crashed her through the emergency room doors, and she screamed as the fat nurse held her down and stabbed her with the hypodermic needle. When the darkness finally crushed her, her mouth was frozen open. As she regained consciousness, Mommy was stroking her hair. A persistent ache, cramping in amplified rhythm to her heartbeat, a monster feeding on her right shin. Buried deep in the foundation of her leg, it spewed quakes of lightning through her nerves, and she locked her jaws as she was struck time and again. In her agony, she discovered that one of the teeth in the back of her mouth was loose, and when her foot started to pulse and throb she clenched her muscles and bit on that tooth. She bit down hard, and the pain that shot through her gums and into her brain, the pain that she gave to herself, washed away the pain in her leg, and she felt better. By the time she was ready to leave the hospital the tooth was gone – she could not recall if she swallowed it or if the nurses took it away – but her means of distraction was no longer available, and that was bad news. The good news, she grinned, was that, because of her constant jawclenching, another tooth was loose. She limped her way through the rest of the summer, losing two more teeth along the way. School bells welcomed her to the first grade, where she learned boys were mean and she hated having her hair pulled all the time. Then a stupid boy named Bobby Coleman tripped her and kicked her sore foot while they were lining up for recess and it HURT and she was screaming and she had to go to the nurse, who told her to lie down and rest until she felt better. In the
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darkness of the room she clenched her jaws really tight; and when the nurse came in to check on her a few minutes later she was smiling and feeling much better, her gums dripping blood and saliva, three of her front teeth resting in the palm of her hand. Was Mommy crying? She remembered looking up as Mommy, fiercely tight-lipped, noticeably angry in her housemaid apron, violently navigated the Buick through lunch-hour traffic toward the medical complex. The dentist, with his thick glasses and stinky breath, took one look in her mouth and prayed she would have an enjoyable, toothless few years, because he foresaw orthodontic hell in her future. She returned to first grade and ran through second grade with single-digit teeth. During third grade Mommy framed her school photograph and hung it in the entryway, where her shiny pink gums proudly welcomed the few visitors who entered their home. That summer the dentist’s curse came true as some of her permanent bicuspids were breech-born and her incisors mutated into outcisors. Celebrating her ninth birthday in the fourth grade classroom, that mean old stupid Bobby Coleman christened her Picket Fence Face as a present. The classroom laughed at her. Tears filled her eyes as she blew the birthday candles out. Mommy had her hands full with Michael that year; he was in high school and high schoolers should be able to stay out until ten o’clock or later, except if they had Mommy for a mother. His bedroom was his sanctuary, and anyone who dared to transgress would drown under heavy metal and incense. He found an attentive companion in his little sister, and he often scoffed to Mommy that he and his sibling were victims of the same war. She remembered how she loved him, and how he would invite her into his room and play cards with her until she tired of losing. Michael never made fun of her teeth, she thought, not once, not even on the day she emerged from
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the dentist’s chamber, the prophecy fulfilled, with a grotesque new metallic smile. Iron caps smothered her damaged teeth. Those caps were chained together by a barbed piece of wire that impaled her cheeks when she closed her mouth. Her gums writhed like snakes. She was forced to sleep with a headpiece that tightened around her face like an octopus, her mouth invaded by tentacles that latched to the wire and stretched her jaws during the midnight hours. She couldn’t chew, couldn’t speak, and couldn’t smile. Her teeth had betrayed her, and she anguished. The pain, which she had found so comforting in her time of need, intensified a hundredfold. Her head hurt. There was no pleasure in this sensation. She became despondent, then enraged; she accused Mommy, accused Michael, accused Heaven for allowing this to happen to her. Mommy tried to comfort her as she smashed her fists again and again on the table in the family room. We will go back to the dentist, Mommy sighed in defeat. We will go back to the dentist and have this device removed, and we’ll just have to live with it. And she, in a final exhalation, punched the table again; the glass top slid off the foundation and shattered with a deafening crash, and immediately the very pain that had instigated the argument vanished. The braces no longer hurt her; the overwhelming suffering in her mouth was gone, and, for the first time in months, she smiled. She smiled as Mommy turned white and began to scream; she smiled as they hurtled the twenty city blocks to St. Francis Hospital. She smiled as the doctors yanked her onto the stretcher and crashed her through the emergency room doors. As the head physician meticulously dislodged the eight-inch spear of glass from within her forearm, she thanked him with a wide metallic grin. The wound was deep, and the stitches delicate. The physicians told her that she would have to take extraordinary care to protect the
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bandages; she was in jeopardy of losing the feeling in her right fingers. She heard their words but did not listen well, relief drawing her attention away from the good advice. All that mattered was the pain in her mouth was gone. She nodded absently, feigning enough attention to satisfy the professionals, and she was home.
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Genia M. Daniels
Clo se II
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A. D. Verona
At First Yo u Are No t Go ing To Unde rstand But The n So m e thing Like A Giant Razo r Blade Is Go ing To Cut Thro ugh Yo u And Yo u Are Go ing To Be Able To Talk To Yo ur Othe r Half And Yo u W ill Unde rstand And Be Unde rsto o d In Re turn And This Is W hat W ill Be Said So it’s like this.
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F. J. Bergmann
De rive d Infe re nc e “Found it,” the Mouse replied rather crossly, “of course you know what ‘it’ means. —Lewis Carroll, Alic e ’s Adve nture s in W o nde rland It bases itself on conjecture rather than observation. It is getting the hang of recorded messages. It tries to have phone sex with telemarketers. Its appearance is cursory, with wide green stripes and matching cowboy boots. It has faster-than-light lightfast underwear. It likes sharp fragrances and partial trisomies. It finds points on curves and rationalizes playing the numbers. It puts garlic powder in the lemonade. It firebombs stores that sell platform shoes. “Life is short,” it says, “but not short enough.” It sulks under pressure. Money hangs over it like a melting sword, just out of reach. Both sides of its bed (with rose-colored flannel sheets) are the wrong side, but both sides of its bread are buttered. Luckily, the carpet is clean. Its suffering is an abstraction, and therefore suspect. It ascends the cosmos, and slides merrily down the other side. Its voice is still small.
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F. J. Bergmann
Re tro ac t Give us back tarpans. Give back the moa, the dodo, the quagga, the dark passenger skies, giant trees and ferns rising out of dust, forests flowing over continents, spreading marshes alive with birds. Put it all back the way it was: the sedate, puzzled processions streaming out of the death camps; the loaded, singing ships plunging back toward Benin, Rotterdam, Reykjavik; the hordes coalescing to start the long trek toward the Orient, carrying their unknown diseases with them.
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R. Logu
Mystic He ad
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Ho w to Subm it Yo ur W o rk All students of Madison Area Technical College are welcome to submit literary or visual artwork for consideration. A team of student editors will evaluate the work and decide which submissions will be published. Although the Yahara Jo urnal is published in the spring, students are encouraged to submit work throughout the school year. Work accepted includes short stories, poetry, essays, one-act dramas, photographs, paintings and other illustrations. Written items should not be more than 10 double-spaced typewritten pages. To submit: E-mail items to: studentlife@matcmadison.edu Drop off items at: the MATC Student Life Office, Truax Room 140, Downtown Room D237
Ho w to Jo in the Staff The Yahara Jo urnal has several student staff positions available. Students are needed to help evaluate and edit items, prepare items for publication, layout and design the publication, maintain the Yahara Jo urnal Web site and assist with readings and other events. Staff applications are available at the MATC Student Life Office, Truax Room 140 and Downtown Room D237. For more information, call (608) 246-6576, Truax, or e-mail us at studentlife@matcmadison.edu.
Y a h a r a J o u r n a l 2 0 0 3
Lori Alexander Alex Andre Angela Bartley Takeylar Benton F.J. Bergmann Elizabeth Campbell Cynthia D. Carlson Nathan J. Comp Stacey Cox Genia M. Daniels Chris Dyer Joseph Hinnendael K. Johnson-Bair Kaosk Jared Kubokawa Josh Liss R. Logu Marian Maldonado Dale James Mitchell Sherie Rakow Dana Lund Rice Brecken Schaller John Schroeder Zenda Lee Shimshak Susan Spahn Matt Thruman Sharon Vanorny A.D. Verona Joe Vickers