The Big Windows Review, Issue 7 (Spring 2016)

BWR ISSUE 7 | SPRING 2016 | “LIFE SCIENCE”

CELEBRATING 10 YEARS OF THE WCC POETRY CLUB 25 ISSUES OF WCC WRITING CENTER PUBLICATIONS

The Big Windows Review, Issue 7, Spring 2016, “Life Science,” is a joint production of The Writing Center and the WCC Poetry Club at Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, MI, USA. This issue celebrates two milestones: the 25th issue of a Writing Center literary magazine (18 issues of Blood Orange + 7 issues of The Big Windows Review) and 10 years of the WCC Poetry Club.

This digital issue was produced on a PC using Microsoft Word. Fonts used include Angsana New, Bradley Hand ITC, Rage Italic, and Times New Roman. Photographs were filtered through Picture Tools in Microsoft Word. Front- and back-cover design by Tyler R. Wettig. Book design and layout by Tom Zimmerman.

Copyright © 2016 the individual authors and artists.

The works herein have been chosen for their literary and artistic merit and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Washtenaw Community College, its Board of Trustees, its administration, or its faculty, staff, or students.

Come visit The Writing Center! LA 355

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BWR THE BIG WINDOWS REVIEW I S S U E 7 | S P R I N G 2 0 1 6 | “L I F E S C I E N C E” EDITED BY TYLER R. WETTIG AND TOM ZIMMERMAN Contents—Words Ember Plummer Izzy Jäger Kathleen Strnad Tyler R. Wettig Adam Lowis Wanda Kay Sanders Nicholas T. Slane Tom Zimmerman Ayowole Oladeji Chester Beasley Joey Sims Audrey Talbot Diane M. Laboda William Bullard Lawrence Moebs Michael McNally

on fear and biology discovery You Nail Your Wings The Lock Replaced Conversation on a Summer Afternoon Red Tulips Grey Matters: A Fragment Horizons Kronos Devours My Boredom Galileo Finding Serenity in a Black Hole Big Bang Chemistry Scientific Thinking If I could stand still From Revolving Door Cogs and Gears Body Machine Disintegrated Bones Outer Sciences and Inner Sciences: A Fragment The Forensic Pathology of Absence a proclivity for Death

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Contents—Images

Tom Zimmerman Tyler R. Wettig Adam Lowis Diane M. Laboda

Front cover, 2, 5, 7, 31, 33, 37, 39, 41 12, 23, 29 15, 17 35 Special Feature

Dig Site: Literary Shards

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Ember Plummer ON FEAR AND BIOLOGY tell me a story about someone who was never afraid— never buzzed bees through their fingertips trying to create honey, someone who never got monsters stuck in between the layers of their skin. what is it like to not share your head with an overgrown garden? in biology, we learned about fungi that could take over a bug’s brain, make it climb up and up and up, and then die, give its body over to something else. i wonder if this is what they’re doing to me, filling my head with dreams of success so they can eat me alive later. i wonder, on my worst days, on days i don’t so much hate myself but forget i exist at all, on days i bleed to remember i’m human— i wonder if this is what it’s like to be a ghost, or something else dead but still breathing. this constant wanting to break things to show you’re still around. today, i noticed spider webs in the corners of my room, or maybe cobwebs. i want to make a metaphor out of the interconnectedness of it all but i can’t find clean clothes or my hairbrush or motivation and no one seems to notice the cuts on my hands. yesterday, i watched a little girl skip until her step broke and her knees hit the ground. when she thought no one was looking, she did not cry. she got up. she kept playing. i wonder if i was this. i wonder if i still am. i wonder if it matters, if anyone can see me anyway. last week, i told myself i’d watered the garden for the last time. i told the same lie today. i wonder how long i can hold on to the same thing that’s consuming me. this overgrown garden is weed-infested. in biology, we learned about non-native plants.

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i’m not sure if the weeds are the native plants. maybe the flowers are the invaders. tell me a story about a kid who isn’t afraid of monsters. or, maybe, tell me about a kid who doesn’t feel anything. i’m both some days. some days i’m neither and nothing else, dead but still breathing, weeds bursting from my fingertips, and fungi, growing from the scrapes on my knees.

Tom Zimmerman

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Ember Plummer DISCOVERY i’m of the belief that anything is beautiful if you learn enough about it— so i buy medical scalpels. i start with the thickest parts. thighs, stomach, i peel back layers. everything i ate for dinner, sadness from two months ago, anger from middle school, coiled into thicker skin, scars, puckered and white. i sew myself back up. new scars form. i pull the stitches out too soon. they say hurting yourself can be a twisted form of self-care. i cut open my chest next. find lungs shriveled with second-hand smoke that escapes when i cut them open. my lungs deflate. i fill them with dirt and flower seeds. the smoke makes my eyes sting so i close them. keep cutting. i find my heart— surprisingly whole for all they told me to find my other half. i don’t cut further. i don’t want to understand this. my chest is hard to put back together. i rearrange the bones but it’s hard to put the breasts back. i decide i won’t miss them, bury them in the dirt. maybe they’ll make good fertilizer. i pull the stitches out too soon. they say i don’t do this for attention, but i am a scientist. all i want is the fame of figuring myself out. i cut my arms next. open veins, find hate—hate—sadness—fear—fear—fear—fear— close them. collect the blood to paint with later. move on to my hands. these are my weapons.

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i sew them quickly, let them heal properly. i will need them. they say i can be everything. but i know the great secret—i can also be nothing. maybe at the same time. i open my head. clean slice around, mind the hair, dig into the soft and slimy brain tissue. here is everything. i’m going to be famous. i’ve figured it out. i try to tell them. i open my mouth but flowers are growing. thorns pressing against my windpipe, and there are vines in my voice box. i choke.

Tom Zimmerman

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Izzy Jäger YOU NAIL YOUR WINGS You nail your wings Telling me of course I love you I told you today I don’t want your screws anymore Your embrace is a hairshirt I don’t know if it’s lining your wings Or lining my lungs Forgiveness lies in the pond I am looking at my face and yours You—gazing at your face and mine We both want to drown our image I wish we could borrow Solomon’s advice Cut us in half The current is too strong to Break the bond I wish someone would come fishing Hook one of us Free one of us Both of us throwing out a line.

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Izzy Jäger THE LOCK REPLACED Better to be locked out or locked in Buzzards picking at my small intestine Critters exiting the backpassage Or Buzzards picking at your hairy ass Plucking sprouted seeds To be rolled into bread sold at Trader Joe’s The buzzard locked in or the buzzard locked out Both fed organic scrapple fixed in one way or another Stewed in the serpentine bowels Or Tossed in a Michigan salad of dried cherries, walnuts, Blue cheese and maple syrup

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Kathleen Strnad CONVERSATION ON A SUMMER AFTERNOON It is one way of telling you I love you to write a poem about your musical voice as in the summer afternoon you tell me of the new beehives and I notice how your voice and summer rhythms one resonant hum as the august afternoon fills full while we speak.

It is so simple this present moment sunlight and words of ordinary things.

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Kathleen Strnad RED TULIPS Here in April’s midst bloom shamelessly red tulips, scarlet against green grass.

These say, here I am, vivid pure in Spring’s transparency.

These tulips born from dark of earth, bulb, womb, now glowing fill with sun.

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Tyler R. Wettig

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Tyler R. Wettig GREY MATTERS: A FRAGMENT The genuine allies of my heart have come to be recently represented, as it were, in shades of grey. It began with a gorgeous, grey-haired bombshell that I met at a conference. From there, I became acquainted with an abandoned grey-haired cat named Mister Grey. Finally, I recently found the bridge of my glasses to be fixed with none other than grey tape. These things represent authentic tragedies: the tragedy of the unintentional-hip-sugar-mama-archetype as the apple of the asexual depressive’s eye; the tragedy of the disenchanted, homeless, wise old critter who asks for nothing but bears everything; and the umpteenth tragedy of the broken bridge. These things also share a synchronicity with the controversial “fetish manifesto” Fifty Shades of Grey – a book which has continued to make waves with enthusiasts and non-enthusiasts alike. However, beyond its superficial albeit enchanting prose, those “shades” of grey represent authentic archetypes of abuse: how our libidos abuse us, how society abuses us, and how we abuse ourselves.

Fifty Shades, much like the living tragedies I mentioned above, was not sought out at its inception; it was carefully observed from a distance, and this is what we must do to the disenchanted and despised. I’ve seen people in my life who have lusted to become these things and archetypes, but make no mistake: there are those out there who disingenuously long to elicit pity, passion, and mending.

However, in my own experience, these people and situations are rarely authentic like those that I mentioned above. Megalomaniacs, windbags, egoists, demagogues – make no mistake, if they seek you out, do not pity them. Observe and understand the authentic ones from a distance – find them in shelters, or happen upon them as they are stuck in the rain and staring at the sky. Grey matters.

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Adam Lowis HORIZONS Find the components, then the components of the components.

Isotope, valence, octet Crystal, isomer, allotrope.

Isolate particulate.

The future will be the room at the bottom, where that infinitesimal blur of a glimmer jumps and spins everything ever onward.

In time hence the trade game will equalize, held static in a web of entanglement.

The Play will be: "I'll raise you two downquarks for your boson."

Wealth will be measured by the distance between electrons.

The reach is every destination...in time.

Quantum leap libations Every quantum event, a remembrance fraction of time.

Only derision for a time dark in memory.

No nostalgia for an age when the primeval grave drove the monstrous mechanics of appetite.

Through a crucible Tyler R. Wettig it will dawn... as if casting off the morning dream scales, 14

that a voice named SURVIVAL cries out, wild in the wilderness of our divide.

We are blinded before its hearkening; listening, not hearing, absent watching, not seeing...

Not knowing that we must survive in the baptism of unity.

Adam Lowis

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Adam Lowis KRONOS DEVOURS MY BOREDOM I’m sick of all the counterfeit escapes that the world insists I need.

I’m sick of numbness, in the sun’s slow blasting of stiff shadows into concrete.

Same fate as those who wept in the black rain fallout— just on a longer timeline.

Opening a can of worms just for the calories, in ravenous boredom.

I will have to be jailed for a time, just to liberate these lungs, that breathe infrared, dust, asphalt.

These teeth that chew the cud of lead-weight sugar brainfat.

Anything for more time. . .

Medicines for more time. . .

Pounding rubber to concrete for more time. . .

The only currency on the ultimate commodity, More time! and anything not to sleep!

Those aggravating down-payments on death.

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Adam Lowis

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Wanda Kay Sanders GALILEO 1 Oh music of the spheres What tautochrone nature Causes you to follow The orbit of the sun?

We hear, we see the Ebb and tides of the Ocean’s daily movement, The silicate sparkling In the sand beneath Both moon and sun.

The moon reflecting The sun’s burning Light, just a shadow As Earth in its Circumference passes In larghetto motion.

God created your Pathway and keeps You on its unseen Track. He laughs At those who claim Knowledge of your Movements, of The workings of your Home the Universe, Where there are Majestic wonders that 18

We earthbound creatures Cannot or ever will see.

2 Only those who understand How unfathomable are Those things that you Created and how you Watch over them.

There is true harmony and Hallowed music in the Vastness of space.

Only a few can hear The tunes and play them, A surrendered soul joining With the hosts of Heaven, As finite and infinite Unite – causes all To be free from archaic And human constructs To embrace your truth.

The light of your Spirit shines within us As your truth is Revealed. Your fire Burns inside and Out uncovering Never ending flame, As the sun holds Us in his embrace.

With eternal bounds Ever circling just Beyond his fiery arms.

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DIG SITE LITERARY SHARDS

The dream was dark shapes with lapses of gray or white. A dashboard window and a highway with tones that bled puzzled. Across, down. He was not beside a woman or a lake. Trees didnt shade a thing. The answer seemed to hang in the air. Bare earnest sky.

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Legend Page 18: Top to bottom: Anthea Schroeder, from “Stoplight Mechanics,” from Words with Music (2011). Mike Frieseman, from “Standing,” from Recovery (2010). Elizabeth Mikesch, from “Going West,” from Blood Orange 14 (Fall 2009). Zachary Baker, from “Listen,” from Poets at the Crossroads (2007).

Page 19: Top to bottom: Joey Sims, from “Thoughts on Thoth,” from Blood Orange 11 (Fall 2008). Malcolm Barrett, from “Cayo Costa Collection,” from Blood Orange 10 (Spring/Summer 2008). Diane M. Laboda, from “Syncopation,” from Blood Orange 8 (Fall 2007). Michael Moriarty, from “Ode to Clean Water,” from Ideation Scroll (2009).

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Nicholas T. Slane FINDING SERENITY IN A BLACK HOLE Problems.

Braking a moving car.

What once was is no more.

Dissipation of tires and road, Calculations of zero at infinity.

Both everything and nothing, Reaching escape velocity from reality; An ethereal mass of gravity with no substance Soaring through time and space.

But energy is never truly destroyed, Simply changed.

Continue on, Don’t stop because of me.

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Tyler R. Wettig

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Tom Zimmerman BIG BANG We’re safe here in the cornball corner of the sonnet. So you think. But we know thoughts are mothers, breeding wantonly a love of increase. Chaste is waste. The lewd draw lots along the synapses. Cave paintings sprawl across the dark walls of the skull. A Blake engraving mates with something born to fall, a leaf, a Troy, an Icarus, a cake.

Pandora, open sesame: a freefor-all, a fracas, jailbait. Hell breaks loose, a heaven forms, then morphs to universe.

We’re left to span the ambiguity.

Each stroke of genius paralyzes Zeus, who’s bedding Kali in a wedding hearse.

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Tom Zimmerman CHEMISTRY Her towels are crispy with his jism. Why this brute attraction? Music, yes, it soothes the savage something. Late sonata, hifi, stereo: ancestral fucking smooths her dreams like butter spread on toast, appalls like blood in milk. The dead cells? Genocide, but Elvis made the women wet, their bawls and shrieks an older, mammal song. “Slow ride, take it easy”: old LP lust. Her boyfriend knows the band. Her hands won’t leave his chest: he’s hotter with his shirt off. “Love’s a ploy for pulse and impulse, Mother Nature’s jest, it’s nothing dirty or perverse,” she thinks.

He pours, then offers her the cup. She drinks.

Tyler R. Wettig

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Ayowole Oladeji SCIENTIFIC THINKING When you think of science What comes to mind Science is very intriguing to the mind Your senses trigger the cell membranes As you begin to think Of words in science Suddenly the mind freezes Like a blocked cage Then and there All the scientific words Start flowing through the brain Words like photosynthesis, Astrophysics, and phosphorus . . . .

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Chester Beasley IF I COULD STAND STILL If I could stand still And look about with my eyes closed And hold a piece of the world, Would I be the judge?

I could form an invisible shelf And understand The mysteries too deep to escape.

Each blade of grass Would vibrate at 315 hertz And science would know a cure.

I am holding love . . .

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Joey Sims FROM REVOLVING DOOR 63.

(Digital Crucifixion) I can no longer afford to dodge bullets or put myself in the line of fire; I’d rather conquer myself and let nature take its course like my mother said I brought you in this world and I’ll take you out; I won’t fight against the free will of others their victory depends on overcoming the flesh and only they can take that step even with guidance; the flesh wars against the spirit. I wuz once on a teenage death trip then I wanted to save the world now all I wanna do is pass down culture to the children; the older generations should know better and will perish by their own hands, all us apostles can do is bystand. (these people can hardly be led and don’t know who or what to follow). My sadness is because I’ll never get to see the people I knew as they were and if I saw them as they are now there would be an awkward distance; I remember you all I was forced to go out into the world now I reminisce the world that is no longer; Jesus was supposed to come back in the year 2000 after that was untrue something left the planet; we went from neon colors siphoned out to black and khaki; Jesus didn’t come and love left, it’s been 15 years of self-destruction and desecration since… Jesus didn’t come or came and went every prophesy hence has been suspect; all are redeemed in the new covenant but all aren’t safe death was conquered but torture and desolation are abundant; the soul leaves the body after the threshold of pain is exceeded; the body heats up to burn the virus out. What are we to do? When Jesus came they mocked him, when Jesus didn’t come they were let down left to the corporate wolves the old world is alive and well the mold spores are dormant in the wood even those who do good are funded by the adversary. I no longer wanna wake out of a light headed stupor; when you feel good you drink, when you feel sad you drink, when you celebrate you drink, when you mourn you drink; walkin on thin ice with a broken crutch clutching the bottle clutching memories. How carefree we were even if we had a curfew we were sure Jesus was comin it was like the homestretch of an arduous race a relief; how the dance was impossibly telepathic, how the candy was cheap and the hairdos fresh, the kicks laces loose, the 12 bit graphics, the community center, the community babysitters, the candy lady, the step squads, the beaded headed girls doing their keychain 28

braids, the basketball tournaments and church picnics; the bad boys won the championship and changed the name of the game an electric blur through Reagan Bush and Clinton after y2k the celltowers reigned Jesus crucified digitally. Will we get with the program and reboot pass this haunting season will another star appear will another Mary give birth to a savior expected to deliver us only to be feared and scourged the worms swooped up by a bird taken to a nest and that nest pillaged and all its eggs eaten and the vultures fight over the dried up remains. (passing on the virus) nothing has ever been true since I’ve been alive and what used to be is gone the grief weakens my stomach and is expelled through song; lord who has heard our report even those who were delivered from Egypt went astray; the congregation in a unconvincing tone mutters the lord’s prayer cellphones on vibrate; there are no more covenants we are on our own we may be better off that way mother… let us earn the glory of finishing the race by our own strength; mother you sent me out into the world in a turbulent escalating light still we fight a battle already won a seed already blossoming man’s biggest weapon will never outdo creation; my brothers and sisters I’ll see you there in the great regeneration.

Tyler R. Wettig

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Audrey Talbot COGS AND GEARS Sometimes, I feel like a machine, My nuts-and-bolts body, Moving together as one, Creating mechanical movements.

A smile slowly spreads across lips, Gears can’t move fast enough For it to appear natural.

I have an artificial smile.

I begin to rust, The process is slow and painful, I feel my insides struggle to work To keep up with my brain.

My mind, however, does not rust, It remains intact as I deteriorate, Until I can move no more, Locked in place.

I was living once But that was long ago Now I stand on display, Nothing more than cogs and gears.

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Tom Zimmerman

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Diane M. Laboda BODY MACHINE We stand, monuments to the tag-team match between pond scum and Neanderthal. Slimy inside contained in strong cellular wrap, like Mylar around the Echo, Kevlar sails against the wind.

We operate without an owner’s manual by clinging to our parental models, imitating their upright stance, uptight upper lip, ingestion and exhaust systems.

We process info-data in bytes and digest words in stanzas, give feedback in tones and orations and in shouts and honks and bullets.

We hold together strong diets of emoticons, while washing down the unpalatable with weak beer and fermented denial.

Rarely do we belch.

We frequently ambulate far outside our comfort zone, carrying our arms in a basket and our manners on our back.

We never let them see our eyes.

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On sun days we seek icons to pleasure our synapses and wrap our incomplete bone-sense with robes of star-shine and forgiveness. On our last day we seek to rise like the prayerful, hot-skinned Phoenix.

Tom Zimmerman

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Diane M. Laboda DISINTEGRATED BONES When these old bones finally give up and scatter, taking my consciousness with them, I will be bits and pieces, cells and neurons shot about like stardust.

Will my bones miss their joining, will my cells miss their bosom buddies, my neurons their network of memories?

When these old bones give up and scatter, there will be chaos for a while, then enjoyment of freedom from crowding into shoes, jeans, freedom from pain, weather created creaking, incessant clicks, pops and grinds, fondling by cold-handed orthopedic gurus and mistresses of irradiation, not to mention devices and props and sleepless nights.

When these old bones reach heaven they’ll surely party, dance, ice skate and climb.

They’ll live the life they were denied with me in tow.

They will look back to our childhood and no longer wonder why we couldn’t get it all together for dodge ball or climbing the rope, no longer regret being told ice skating wasn’t for us.

They will recall their inner tap-dancer and know it wasn’t their fault.

It was mine. The klutzy girl-child, taller than everyone, bookish, unpopular… no wonder.

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When these bones realize their freedom and the possibilities of going-it on their own, they will definitely get in line for a newer, athletic type for their reincarnation.

Abandon the studious, sedentary poet for a newer cross-country star or sky-diver.

They will run, each bit and molecule, away from my form or anyone related.

And run fast.

Diane M. Laboda

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William Bullard OUTER SCIENCES AND INNER SCIENCES: A FRAGMENT At the end of January, I spent three days in the hospital and was diagnosed with a disorder known as Myasthenia Gravis, an autoimmune deficiency disorder causing the immune system to attack the connection between the nervous system and the muscles. While I was in the hospital, I started taking the medication that manages the symptoms associated with Myasthenia Gravis, and was closely monitored to ensure that the medication was working. Associated with MG are several symptoms, which manifest through exertion. Beyond monitoring, my doctors needed to be certain that MG was in fact the correct diagnosis, because there is another, more serious disorder that has similar symptoms. With the aid of testing devices, including a Kat Scan and a muscle testing device, my doctors determined that I have Myasthenia Gravis. These constituents affect my physical health. However, this is only one important part of my experience, although for many people, it would be the only important constituent. Coinciding with these physical elements, I have begun a new phase of my individuation process.

Whatever exists in the visible world, what many consider to be the only reality, has an underlying reality that is “invisible.” To have a full experience in living, people need to recognize this reality and allow it to be the foundation for the visible world.

Unfortunately, many people, at least in the Western world, will only recognize the visible world, and consider that the visible world has no other foundation. As Carl Jung says, “The idea that anything could be real or true which does not come from outside has hardly begun to dawn on contemporary man.” The difficulty with recognizing what is “real and true which does not come from outside” persists in current times. However, there are signs that whereas, for example, the humanities are being invaded by cognitive and computer oriented sciences, there is also a countering resurgence, which may yet be smaller in stature, an interest in looking to the inner world. This is not as vibrant as the interest that manifested in the 1980s and 1990s, when New Age activity was manifest, but it shows that the New Age is still alive. Many people are acutely aware that the only reality, the only “real” is what begins in the inner world and then manifests in the outer world. This is what the Gospel says when it talks of the Light shining in the darkness. As humankind is struggling to “fix” the effects of manmade climate disaster, people more than ever need to listen to the inner reality for the solution.

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This is current with me, in my own world, being one who works with my inner process. Being in the hospital put me in a space that was outside the normal flow of life, and thus a process began. I quickly moved further to develop this space and quickly began to experience further inner change, directed by my inner voice.

This is as important as my physical health and process.

Tom Zimmerman

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Lawrence Moebs THE FORENSIC PATHOLOGY OF ABSENCE They say he lived in those hills, Absent of companionship, as long as anyone could remember, till he got cut, That is. And his beating heart, with no medic To rescue him, pumped until his death, Squeezing chambers and corpuscles, to death.

And blood, like water, flows downhill; Seeks its own level, the lowest point, alone, hermetic And out of sight, until being absorbed again, under the uncut Grass. What doesn’t kill you may still cut; But veins dissected on a table, after death, Do not bleed nearly so much as the fresh and the living that the medic Tries to save, after rushing onto the battlefield beyond the hill…

The contours of human muscle, laid bare, are like hills With their once flowing rivers eternally dammed, cut, Exposed and coagulating beyond reversal, beyond the medic’s Alchemy. And not dammed to produced power but death.

But nobody knew he got cut, living alone as he did, up in the hills, And bled to death, in the absence of a medic.

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Tom Zimmerman

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Michael McNally A PROCLIVITY FOR DEATH sometimes I close my eyes and lean against the shower head just to feel what it’s like to have a gun held there, flush to my temple. but when I bend over to twist the silver nozzles and end my lazy shower, the last bit of warm water that falls off my neck feels like the silken hair of a lover riding down the interstate of my nerves, and I think I’d rather not be at gunpoint. other times I like to stare at the ocean, take in the huffing clouds, exhaling, and then look into the puddle at my feet, compare the two bodies of water. the ocean makes me wish I could be like the animals and fuck without thinking.

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the puddle makes me feel small and wonder what it’s like six feet under, probably one giant upskirt of Mother Nature.

Tom Zimmerman

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BEASLEY BULLARD JÄGER LABODA LOWIS MCNALLY MOEBS OLADEJI PLUMMER SANDERS SIMS SLANE STRNAD TALBOT WETTIG ZIMMERMAN

THE BIG WINDOWS REVIEW ISSUE 7 SPRING 2016 “LIFE SCIENCE” EDITED BY TYLER R. WETTIG AND TOM ZIMMERMAN A JOINT PRODUCTION OF THE WRITING CENTER AND THE WCC POETRY CLUB WASHTENAW COMMUNITY COLLEGE ANN ARBOR MI 42