Pressions 1995 - Memorial High School

PRESSIONS
1995
Comfort Wasikhongo

Lee Houa Yang
PRESSIONS
A Journal of Creative Writing
James Madison Memorial High School
Volume XIII Spring 1995
Editor-in-Chief
Karyn Schairer
Editors
Elizabeth Updike
Martha Gurtz
Typographical Specialist
Mike Peterson
Faculty Advisor
W.R. Rodriguez

© 1995 Pressions Press
Authors
Volume XIII Spring 1995
Copyright reverts to the authors upon publication.
Lisa Bult ..........................................................................5
Chris Timmerman ...........................................................7
Amanda M. Fulmer .........................................................8
Mike Wajda ....................................................................10
Pressions Press reserves the non-exclusive right to reprint.
Nona Mei .......................................................................11
Kent Murrish.................................................................14
Lucy Larbalestier ..........................................................15
Some of the included writings originally appeared in
The Independent and in Sword & Shield.
Jessica Chow .................................................................18
Sonia Rose .....................................................................19
Adam Gratch .................................................................20
Mike Wipperfurth .........................................................21
Thanks to the following students for their help typing
this issue: Kiana Beaudin, Kashana Cauley, Stacy
Kinney, Andrea Klopp, Brian Lee, Nona Mei, Ramu
Naidu, Ben Staats, Elizabeth Slagel, and Joey Yearous-
Algozin.
Jarvis Ward....................................................................22
Pete Nordlund ...............................................................24
John Phan ......................................................................26
Flavio Bravo ..................................................................32
Karyn Schairer ..............................................................33
Jamie Welch ...................................................................43
Special appreciation to the Academic Booster Club
for its continued support of the arts at Memorial.
Charity Collins ..............................................................44
Emily Truman ...............................................................45
Wendy Prosise ...............................................................46
Art work for Pressions 1995 is by:
Kashana Cauley ............................................................47
Dan Kuemmel ...............................................................48
Comfort Wasikhongo ...............Outside Cover
Lisa Hendrickson ..........................................................54
Lee Houa Yang .............. Inside Front, Page 4
Mandy Rasmussen ........................................................55
Justin Knoll ................................. Inside Back
Elizabeth Gilgen ............................................................56
Ben Smith ......................................................................57
Martha Gurtz ................................................................58
Matt Chaboud ...............................................................60
Send questions, comments, or manuscripts to:
Jason Glomp ..................................................................62
Elizabeth Updike ..........................................................66
Pressions Press
Josh Herman .................................................................68
W.R. Rodriguez, Advisor
James Madison Memorial High School
201 South Gammon Road
The fi rst one hundred copies of Pressions 1995
include chapbooks by Martha Gurtz and Elizabeth Updike.
Madison, Wisconsin 53717 2
3

4
Lee Houa Yang
Sing With Me
Sing with me
a journey of life
as it passes you by and by.
What did you fi nd grazing
in your fi elds of joy?
Sing it
to me
and to all!
Finding Normality
Finding normality
through mental blindness
leads only to disastrous parables.
Its search leads through twisting labyrinths,
where truth terrifi es
the onlooker,
the fugitive,
so beyond treacherous tunnels
and gasly airs
back at zero
in confusion
stands you,
only to fi nd
life’s arrow
pointed
the other way.
5
Lisa Bult

Lisa Bult
Tiptoe Silently in Crisp Soundlessness
Tiptoe silently in crisp soundlessness
to watch a raindrop fall upon the stillness of a puddle.
The gentle ripples go away, then back upon
themselves
painting still-life patterns through moving
cancellations.
Slowly they absorb into each other and become calm.
Sight stares across a placid sea, contained with soulfi
lled emptiness.
Mind looks and wonders if ever a drop had truly
passed.
The water lies in the perfect solitude of
incomprehensible grace.
Another drop falls and ripples brush away,
shaping cradles of comfort till no longer needed.
Still again, refl ecting all, waiting for the lonely
nomad.
A fi nger holds itself weary above the surface
fearful to shatter the brilliance.
Slowly it touches and lifts away
watching the ripples take on their movement.
A spark of delight and amazement, realization of the
acceptance.
Again a touch.
Patient water caresses its motion.
Delight and amazement, dulled and dampened.
An impatient touch, the graceful dance
splashed away, shattered into one thousand seas
waiting in placid brilliance.
6
The Sneeze Poem
I was sitting in the corner
when he threw his head back
mercifully, tantalizingly
and he
sneezed!
Exclamation of
life!
A bright, happy, high-pitched
Achoo!
How great it must have felt—
A release of froth, spit, and years of dust!
He couldn’t just take it
anymore, evidently.
A natural “high”
unattainable by us
normal people
but
special
for a guy
like him.
Achoo! Achoo!
Oh, nasal orgasm!
The apex
of a formerly dull
existence.
7
Chris Timmerman

Amanda M. Fulmer
Q-Tip
What is poetry, anyway, except ear wax removal?
Poetry
dance
song
painting
playing instruments
making drawings
clay pots—
love is
all a form of self expression
screaming
whispering
drawing
articulating
murmuring
enunciating
mumbling
snorting
shouting out your insides.
The closest canal from your mind is straight
through your ears.
What?
Ears!
Listen up!
Anger comes out as steam,
insanity, as a ceaseless humming and buzzing
beauty, as a symphony, which you write down
(or maybe not, if you’re selfi sh)
and they call you a composer
fears and doubts as sarcastic, unkind little voices
hopes and dreams as timid rainbows
peace and contentment as sunshine
suicide attempts, not as red, shiny blood
but as a steady, empty vacuum
capable of swallowing or creating entire universes.
All these emotions drift around aimlessly
then gather into one very strange ensemble.
8
9
Amanda M. Fulmer
Poetry
and other ways of telling the world
whatever damn thing you want to say
is just letting the beans of knowledge spill over.
They come out your ears!
Naturally, they can’t come out the ears if there is
ear wax in the mmgmmph… What?
Ears!
So, to write really good poetry
fi rst, clean your ears
then, listen to yourself
your stomach growling
your heart beating
and all the people that you consist of
talking, maybe even having a party in your brain
and let whatever they have to say go fi rst
into your ears
and then out.
Let your life blood come shooting out.
Let your soul overfl ow.
But don’t let your beautiful poem get earwax on it
or people won’t be able to read it.

Mike Wajda
The Whittling Fig
I remember a night when I looked so great I thought
I might melt. My eyes were not even bloodshot. I was
dressed in black and dissolved in darkness, save the
scraping of iron lining the soles of my boots.
I had been with a woman earlier, and she had struck
me so deeply, yet so ecstatically, with her total disinterest
that I thought we could take the world together. My
head was full of visions of me holding a man down while
she cut his throat because we just didn’t care.
She had left me alone by then, though, so I went to
fi nd a place to sleep. I’d be damned if after a night of
passions and savagery and visions of murder I would
curl in my absurd quilted bed with my absurd stereo
softly playing.
No. It was dark and clear like it can only be in winter
when it’s piercing cold. The stars were like holes in
the fabric of night. The moon was high. No one was at
home.
I made camp underneath a radio tower. Radio towers
are crazy because they sway like weeds even when you
couldn’t notice a wind at all. They are also a million feet
tall.
When I slept my head was full of light: starlight,
moonlight, the red pulsing glow from above. I woke
maybe an hour or two later, and it must have been one
or two. I pulled my hat over my eyes and had the intense
urge to have my picture taken right then and there. I
must have looked like a cowboy or a vagabond or a spy
or something romantic like that.
The second time I woke up I knew it was all over. My
mouth tasted bad and my overcoat was wrinkled and
my hat was fl attened and my hair was crazy and I had
that stuff in your eyes after you cry in your sleep, so it
was back to domestication at four o’clock in the morning.
10
Metamorphosis
relief
tingled warmth
washed over me
stretched me like a
rubber band
swallowed me into the
vacuum of space and
spit me back
pushed me to the
fourth dimension
reused, recycled down the
drains of bathroom sinks
gushed me out of the
fountains of New York
evaporated me into thin air
and precipitated as snow
melted me and
once again I took the
form of a
human being.
The Yin-Yan Effect
11
Nona Mei
angelic clouds
smile
(or is it frown)
upon the skies above
gateways to the heavens
(or is it hell)
birds sing of love
(or is it hatred)
surviving in a world of realism
(or is it corrupted fantasy)
I grin daintily, satisfi ed at
the poem that lies before me
(or am I just insane)???

Nona Mai
Shift
blink
for a tenth of a second
to the imagined land of insanity
fl ashing thoughts, memories
NO—
come back
unveil your eyes to
soothing reality
negative—let’s go back
blink again
return to fantasy
bloated minds of psychopaths
swirling, twisting with delight
desiring to go to a place in between
is there such a place?
cultural shock
BAM—we’re back
oh no not again
no more playing ping-pong
with my mentality
crushed by confounding reverie
plunging into nothingness—
shift
12
Twist
charred black hole
spiraling into
the depths of monstrosity
gaping evil mouth
reaching down
down
down
shards of broken glass
pieces of mutilated bodies
in a mixed jumble
of bloody fl esh
sinister hypnotizing
sounds of agony
crushed butterfl y wings
strewn like fl oating petals
wretched malicious heart
pulsing demonic beats
amidst this eternal
wasteland of hatred
a love blossoms
shining
glistening
lustrously radiating
throbbing with
the warmth
of a passionately bonded
affection
13
Nona Mei

Kent Murrish
The Park
The park, the park
how I love the park
with the green grass
and the trees’ brown bark.
I lay in the shade for hours and hours
dreaming of stomping all the fl owers.
I throw nuts at squirrels
and sand at birds,
then I fall and laugh at what I’ve done,
and soon I disappear,
just like the sun.
14
Hot Pavement
Hot pavement
Under
My bare feet
Wipe the sweat
Off my face
Gasp and grasp
For a dying
Breath
Dry throat
Crackles
Like the
Dry leaves in
Fall that I
Went out of
My way to
Crunch
Under
My bare feet
15
Lucy Larbalestier

Lucy Larbalestier
Clear Blue Sky
Clear blue sky
Sun rotting the
Orangey fruit
Molested by fruit fl ies
On the table with the
Distinguished pinkish hued
Place mat that makes me
Think of fi fties Tupperware
Parties thrown by middle-aged
Women who fear a burnt cake
More than the neighbor’s dog who
Ripped their son’s new shoes of rubber
And chewed them into
Nonexistence
So the green plant
Soaking up the sun
Knocks desperately
On the window trying to escape the
Oncoming storm that is
Hell and high water
But the red and green
Of the walls won’t let it
Because they think
Of Christmas
And at Christmas you have
A pine tree
Not some stupid
Lime green fern
Who’s afraid
Of lightning
16
Teddy-bear Theodore
Teddy-bear Theodore
With your
Crooked eyebrows and
Wistful smile you
Remind me of
The bread-man made
At Easter time with
The plump, unwelcome
Raisins too nutritious
For me
I sit and pick them out
He loves me…
He loves me not…
Carelessly discarding them
In the direction of my
Sister
Picking wild purple and white
Violets off the side of the lawn
For May Day
With
Theodore who held the
Basket while I was
Trying to get more and more
Than the others
Who did not have the help
Of my
Melancholy friend
17
Lucy Larbalestier

Jessica Chow
The Colors Blur Before Her
The colors blur before her
she blinks
and there stands a gray wall
The morning bird chirps
though it is night
she screams and all is quiet
The milk glides down her throat
but those are carrots
she spits them out
The blanket feels soft and velvety
she looks down in horror
it is vinyl
A fl owery fragrance fi lls the air
she opens her eyes
there hangs a dead chicken
18
Pangolin
Hey!
Long brown snout man—
Stretch your pink appendage—
Wipe out armies—
Slurp. Yum!
Music
From the still and quiet
Comes a hum of many throats.
Tilt your head to hear it.
Feel the smile tug your lips.
The moan melts to a melody.
It is met with fl avors, feelings, smells.
Goosebumps steal over arms;
Hairs rise to attention.
The wave of sound fl oods the senses.
Now! Smell colors, see tastes,
And touch thoughts!
Listen—over the crash of the music
Roars the thunder of life.
Sadness creeps alone
And laughter springs away.
Bright song
bitter smile
deep sigh.
19
Sonia Rose

Adam Gratch
Floating
fl oating
four adventurous souls
on a seemingly endless
blue giant
the waves hit our ship
trying to fl ip us
yet we stay afl oat
in the distance
others like us
travel
to unknown lands
but they are just an illusion
and we are alone
20
Hall of Stone
Through a hall of stone
My life on a line
Here the few chose for all
Oh, hell, that stone is
The dark spectres’
The choice is made
The head drooped
The life changed
All are equal
Except
The young
The dumb
The guilty
The homeless
All will be known to the stone
My life changed
Never again
The cold stone
Warming the soul
Of those innocent in its cold stare
Here my hell lives
While chaos reigns
All travel through this hall of stone
My hell fl ows through
Only the stone
And me
21
Mike Wipperfurth

Jarvis Ward
Feelings
Feelings
Emotions
Going crazy
Losing control
Of mind, body, and soul
Sadness after breakups
Happiness after births
Angry, mad, frustrated
Crying over weddings
Depressed
Because of deaths
Trying to deal with life
Problems of the heart
Something that can be hurt
Abused, used, walked over
Killed and destroyed
22
23
Pete Nordlund
The Death and Birth of Christianity and
Me, Respectively
God, how you must have felt when I let go and you
fell from my window
Dropping into another one’s Sunday morning routine
Oh God, how you were not mine but that of someone
who assumes my liability
Oh my God, I whisper uncertainly, as a teary eye
turns away from my window
and I realize you are gone
The generic, conforming ventriloquist of religion
Was so easily accessible and acceptable
I was the dummy in a uniform
Too brainwashed to notice you had your hand in my
back
Too fi tting to realize it wasn’t my voice
Too limp to stand alone
About to begin an existence without the airy savior I
used to breathe
A shudder warned me not to begin at all
Less confi dent, less ignorant, less dependent on a false
sense of security
No one left to confi de in but myself, I shed another
tear
The vacant pray phone is now dead on the other end
of the line
Life is left individually undefi ned
I’m just trying to give mine a meaning
Through a time a true God I deformed
One that was born for me, from an endless untapped
shadow within
Now with me at my window to help me see clearly
through the pain
Not a God to place on a pedestal and praise
But one to put in the back pocket and take along
One that will change as I do, and endure alongside
One that will accompany me past the miracle of death
The God that is mine

Pete Nordlund
Escaping from This Hypothetical
Reality, Momentarily
The unwelcome king sleeps in the golden chamber next
door to my ear
He is unreal as the nightmares he hosts
But genuine fear he imposes
For protection I wear a cross-eyed mask with a smile
And pretend my part in this comedy
And silently serve my sentence in his kingdom
Where unattached deafness is shamefully hopeless
Where cautiously I creep in worthless circles
Gagged, muzzled, holding my tongue silent
For it is warned that if one were to nudge the king from
slumber
He would cast a spell of seven serpents into the belly of
the pest
To feed on living organs, and spasm
Until they have each burrowed undeadly paths to the
skin
Once I climbed over the forbidden outer walls of this
kingdom
And when I thought I was free I noticed another wall
There, hiding in shadows, lived another tribe
Composed of all those who had been banished or who had
fl ed before me
These people, unlimited and independent, were
frightened
Trapped behind voiceless cross-eyed masks of gold
Just as infected and useless as myself and the rest of the
kingdom
Misplaced and confused, I silently returned home
Time enlightens with humble answers
It closes the eyes so they can see
The eternal path that leads out and open
Is the one that travels within
24
Forget the future and fi nd me my way into my ordinary
mind
Remember only the truth and all else never known
For now that is where I am going
To dwell in the space between hesitating moments
My cell of thought has become a six sided vice
Earthly senses are forgotten
Chamber walls compress with me to a single point
Where we enter each other and pass through
Disappearing outwards infi nity, in a timeless, endless,
placeless sky
So wish me upon a shooting star
Or that distant silver moonset
Away from that sterile revolution
As a puddle of worries freezes over
In this incomparable evolution
The moon’s spongy tongue licks my eyes,
And fl oods me with inventive vision
Its monotone song capsulizes me
Is this my death simulation?
The strange white light swells as a drooling fl ash
It magnifi es momentarily, then vanishes into a point
Captivated, I become that point
This dream has taken me through the city of uncertainty
And over the peaks of excruciation
Into the pointless land of non-existence
To a state of uncontrollable imagination
A sudden golden thunder clap
And my attention lapses
I blink, maybe a little too loud
Seven piercing bites in my large intestine
Shhh—
I think I have awakened the King
25
Pete Nordlund

John Phan
Testimony
A man,
Under the moon,
Above the earth,
Stood alone beneath the sky.
A man saw the beauty of the tree,
The majesty of the heavens,
The peace of the sea,
And the soft embrace of the land.
A man closed his eyes.
A man
Stood thinking,
Dreaming,
Wondering.
A man
Stood alone.
Suns set, moons shift
Over a restless sky.
The earth held its breath
Above the thinking man.
Why was the sky above,
Not below?
Why did the oceans wash the land,
But never touch it?
Why did men die?
Anger fl ushed his face,
Painting the skies red with fi re.
Why did men suffer?
Hunger, pain, weakness—
What was suffering?
And then the man opened his eyes again.
He looked for the beauty of the tree,
The majesty of the heavens,
The peace of the sea,
And the soft embrace of the earth.
26
And he saw
Nothing
And everything.
Darkness clouded his eyes.
Vultures clung to carrion.
He saw not the beauty,
Majesty,
Peace,
Or soft embrace.
27
John Phan
He saw skeletal branches against a bleeding sky.
He saw oceans of darkness as
Gaping maws.
He saw sickened earth beneath his feet,
Stiff with stone and unyielding ice,
And the man closed his eyes.
He cried to Yahweh,
Allah,
Shiva,
Zeus,
Buddha.
He cried to Simplicity
And Complexity,
To Light and Darkness,
To Love and Hate,
To all gods and goddesses that inhabit the planes,
And silence answered him.
Then, the voice.
The voice of Yahweh,
Allah,
Shiva,
Zeus,
Buddha,

John Phan
The voice of Simplicity
And Complexity,
Of Light and Darkness,
Of Love and Hate,
Of all the gods and goddesses
To which Humanity has bent his knee,
And more—
It was the voice of Nature,
The voice of Technology,
The voice of the Sea,
The sound of the sink,
The wail of the winds,
And the ticking watch.
It was everything and nothing,
Both infi nitely empty, and infi nitely substantial.
And it spoke.
And the man listened.
“I make the rivers run,
The mountains stand,
And the winds blow.
I am Yahweh,
Allah,
Shiva,
Zeus,
And Buddha.
You are human.
Who am I?”
“You are God.”
“I am the trees,
The mountains,
The sky and sea.
I am the eagle,
The whale of the ocean,
The fi sh of the rivers,
The antelope,
And the tiger that hunts her.
28
I am the mouse,
The serpent,
The fruit and fl ower.
Who Am I?”
The man was silent.
He thought.
He listened.
When he spoke,
He spoke slowly,
Hesitantly,
With caution and care.
“You are Nature.”
“I am the airplane,
The chariot,
The bridle and bit.
I am the skyscraper,
The bridge,
The commode and pump and pipe.
I am the wheel.
Who am I?”
At this, the man thought again.
Slower to answer,
Quicker to think,
The man was silent.
Confused, the man
Thought more
and more.
The seasons changed,
The days collected,
And the man answered.
“You are Science.”
“I am hatred,
I am jealousy,
I am malice,
I am violence.
Who Am I?”
29
John Phan

John Phan
The man, now appalled,
Thought again.
Days passed,
Minutes ticked by
Longer than years,
Years, shorter than seconds.
He answered.
“You are evil.”
“I am joy,
Happiness,
I am content,
I am ecstatic,
I am euphoric,
I am love.
Who Am I?”
The man answered quickly here,
Thinking himself assured.
“You are good.”
“I am neither good
Nor evil,
I am both.
I am the shadow
Light creates,
And the light
That creates shadows.
I am the tree
That is used for lumber,
And the chain saw
That destroys
The tree.
I am God,
I am Satan.
I am excess,
I am lack of.
I am Yin,
I am Yang.
I am the thunder
Of the storm,
30
The lightning of the fl ashlight.
I am the fi re of the sun,
The heat of the anvil.
I am Everything,
Born of Nothing.
Who Am I?”
The man stood silent
In deafening quiet.
Silence was all that could describe,
All that could tell,
What he felt,
What he thought,
And fi nally,
What he knew.
The man looked around him.
He saw the beauty of the tree,
The majesty of the heavens,
The peace of the sea,
And the soft embrace of the earth,
And—
The fury of the jet,
The power of the train,
The ship,
The gun,
The city.
He saw everything,
He saw nothing.
He saw hate,
And love,
And yin,
And yang,
And then he opened his eyes.
“Who Am I?”
“You are human.”
31
John Phan

Flavio Bravo
Your Love and My Semi-Automatic
The bitter truth, baby doll, is that your
Emotional masturbation is as pointless as you are.
Cupid has died.
In the heat of the moment,
And the throes of obsession,
We tied him down and stuck him,
thirty seven times to be exact,
With the knife of reality—
But don’t think it was a rather glib conviction,
A convenient crucifi xion—
Anyway, you always said love is like a knife, right?
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
The Perverse Fantasies of the Apathetic
Steaming hot black coffee Yeah I watch you
Watch you pour it down your slimy hatch
Wanna throw that festering plasma in your eyes
Grab your New York Times Don’t care what it says
And think of all the people you’ve killed
I’ll feel over the crossword puzzle Personally I’m
obsessed
Straddling the chair Dissolving the black and white
print
And I can walk away with the table all wet
Knowing full well you’re the one that’s insane
32
Glub
33
Karyn Schairer
I fell out of a boat one day
and gagged upon the ocean spray
with salt stung eyes I glanced around
I passed out and then
I drowned
Lunch
please bite the head off my apple
and chew slowly with lines of spit running down your
face
as you lose yourself in the delicious delectable center
and savor the juices that come from within
my plastic thermos
and the hot coffee
tickles your throat
as it slides down
to the center of your
processing plant
bubbling and churning
around your twirling tongue
and slightly amused smile
while inhaling the ecstasy
of your butter bread
sandwich with the fi ve globs of mayonnaise
and a tomato
to coat the entire affair
guided to the center
of your lips
where the good go to die
and the better are digested

Karyn Schairer
Amalgam
My collection boy
my perfect boy
my nonexistent boy
is a collection
of perfections
in separate people
My attentive boy
my romantic boy
is neither truly attentive
nor truly romantic
My intensity boy
my electricity boy
feels the shock
of a positive connection
My erotic boy
my exotic boy
initiates
erotic action and
thought
in a stare
in a raise of an eyebrow
My imagination boy
my anticipation boy
can feel the excitement
of carefully placed tension
any tension
intellectual
or sexual
My fi re boy
my desire boy
is on fi re
but does not show it
He can euphorically
digest me
my words
my mind
my raise of an eyebrow
34
35
Karyn Schairer
Can comprehend
my careless talk
my carefree walk
even when my careless mindlessness
is completely pointless
My pensive boy
my incomprehensive boy
is a deep thinker
but thinks fi rst
with his heart
and then does
what his heart
thinks
My illusive boy
my obtrusive boy
intrudes into my mind
is a vision
but is hard to visualize
although a little of him
is everyboy I know
everywhere I look
I think I see him
and then
I don’t

Karyn Schairer
Memory Storage
My daydreams are hemorrhaging
again
sporadic tears in my subconscious
are becoming a muddled mess
of translucent fantasy
the yawning mouth of preoccupation
chews my mind
with jagged teeth
Teacher’s lips
the supposed spout of knowledge
the lips melt into sand
as does the chalk white light
the uncomfortable chair
and the pink pencil with teeth marks
And as I sit
in the plastic sand dune
of my chair
a single idea
a beautiful memory
claws its way through
the garbled scratchy sand
of the teacher’s voice
pulls itself out
and begins to play itself back
like an old videotape
The beautiful picture I made in grade two
the blot print of the sunrise
with candlewax and glitter
the melody of praise
from teacher’s lips
and the happygram with the yellow hippo
The tape skips
to running
beating the neighbor kid home
through clover and burrs
that are sticking in my socks
36
37
Karyn Schairer
Falling in a patch of dandelions
in a patch of yellow sunrises
all tickling my cheeks
and scratching my memories
as the sand leaks into my mind
the video becomes static
something more important to listen to
Press stop
rewind
record over forever

Karyn Schairer
Autumn Air
i breathe in
the smell of rotten tree
the moss on broken logs
the fl owered scent
of autumn air
the wind
breathes on my face
invading my privacy
like a stranger on a bus
where the sticky fl oors
and the late night stink
of happy hour
makes the sweat on your body
very apparent
as i struggle
to remember
to forget
the struggle
i had with him here
the incoherent babble
of the brook
matched his incoherent babble and blather
as he followed me off the bus
down the street
into the woods
of my backyard
i shift my shoes
and the autumn leaves
crunch under my soles
crunch like my jaw
he hit so hard
ignored my tears
that came down
like the rain is
now
he tore to shreds
38
my woven shirt
the pieces hung
in circles around
my constricted chest
and heaving waist
i grabbed his gun
and blew him away
the wind blows a gust
like the force of the recoil
fast and hard
so much more forceful
than i had expected
the fragments of leaves
whirlwind around his head
and all the bloody leaves
run over my shoes
i put my hand
over my face
now
to block the thoughts
and sights
and smells
of this place
for you see
i am still holding the gun
39
Karyn Schairer

Karyn Schairer
Untitled Nightmare
The net is thrown over my face
the ropes in my mouth tear at my cheeks
prick all my muscles
and stifl e my screams
I twist and writhe
in the tangled mess
becoming more ensnared
as the cords wrap around my wrists
pull at my body
and tear out my hair
The net yanks upward
sideways
backwards
I dangle like a toy on a wire
and grab at the scissors
swinging back and forth
out of my reach on the dull gray table
I grab hold
of the scissors
the wrong way
as I hang crazily
upside down
The net is cutting
off my circulation
The scissors
are cutting
into my hand
The pain
makes everything swing crazily
as the net rocks back and forth
back and forth
A line of blood slithers
down to an end of rope
hits the fl oor
drip
I laugh
splat
40
41
Karyn Schairer
the sound I would make
if I hit the fl oor
SPLAT
I am trying to concentrate
on the drip drip sound
getting so sleepy
so deliciously sleepy
The fl oor is swimming
in a circular motion
swinging in a circle
like my thoughts
I am at the end of my rope
but I’m tangled in rope
That doesn’t make sense
I can’t understand
the sound of the voice in my head
I’ll just fall asleep
I’ll wake up better
Sense
I’m not making
blithering backwards
falling
out of consciousness
sleeping

Karyn Schairer
Ethereal
the hands are hesitant
the breathing is shallow and soft
as the scarf slides
off her neck
onto his face
to cover his shaking hands
and quivering lips
the grass
ripples around the bucket
where the drops of water
ripple across the surface
breaking the refl ection
of the clouds
breaking the stillness
of the concentration
of the wide excited eyes
of the beating heart
the nervous tension
breaks apart
the anticipation
the bodies fall over
each other
knock over
the bucket
the water
spills over
into the grass
42
The Dam
the hair on my arms stood up
a cool breeze
moonlight on the reservoir
ducks squawking
the plank across
rushing, thunderous falls
tunnels within
green grass
little hell, down the slide
a trail that leads to woods
down along the rocks, slippery green mold
perhaps a cave
he’s around a corner
looking over the lake—
the light of a fi re
ahh, someone’s grill
the scent of lighter fl uid on hot coals
to be out among the wild and free
away from the lights
my own world
i take my blanket
down on the hill
close my eyes
the cascade of water
sound of parties in the distance
look up into the sky
the glow of the full moon
shooting star—
make a wish
heaven—
the dam—
always
43
Jamie Welch

Charity Collins
Quietly I Listen
Quietly I listen
To the sounds of the clock
I can listen forever
Joining with the rhythmic motions
The hands make
Boldly standing out
Against the face
While the numbers stand still
Reminders of the time
Slipping through my fi ngers
I could be doing something else
I know this
But still I watch the clock
Growing, learning, watching
A Gold Chain Around His Neck
A gold chain around his neck
A fl ower in her hair
Her lips are red
They match her fi nger tips
His green eyes sparkle in pale moonlight
He kisses her softly
44
Woman
thin fi ngers cracked
with dusty wrinkles
yellowed nails peeling
blue veins exploding
all in the contrast with the
ivory skin
joints swollen from
years of exposure
hands so old fi sts
no longer can be made
tired eyes make contact with the dish
two hands reach to grasp it
unable to hold on
it slips
shiny glass falls everywhere
poor spine so twisted
hunched
deformed
aching back refuses
to bend over and clean the mess
knees buckle from years of pressure
exhausted body gives in and
falls upon the sharp fragments
45
Emily Truman

Wendy Prosise
Where the Storm Lies
Where the storm lies
Angry, afraid she grits her teeth
Glaring at the wall with intensifi ed eyes
Muscles strained, fi sts clenched
Her stomach twisted, distorted
While her heart shatters like ice
Raging breaths throw her hair back
There is a strong sense of lightning
A feeling of thunder
But outside there is no storm
46
Forms of Moisture
In the darkness of her mind
she gropes for a reason
to continue at all.
I see the light now.
I run, grab, push, see
into my future,
startling events that shock
the curious onlookers.
She fl ees
like the bent, sour notes of a scale
played horribly wrong,
like the lotion that sits on top
of the cracks of my foot,
refusing to be soaked up
by the waiting fl esh
that yearns for moisture,
like the hunger for excitement
that peaks and wanes inside
of each of us.
She refuses to be absorbed
into the normalcy of normality itself.
She feels warmth; she senses company.
She knows she’s not alone
anymore.
47
Kashana Cauley

Dan Kuemmel
0:Horizon:66 (Lithium)
a smile coerced half in jest, half by insanity. is it reality,
or part of me i just assume/deny exists? a trip through the
wastelands, and images burning through the ministry of
my subconscious (the ultimate head cleaner). a new world
of thoughts and images. i roam around freely, safe from the
ignorance and arrogance of the harsher world beyond the
reach of the cold winds that blow over the frozen sands of
the tundra and warm this wilderness of substance. stillness
overcomes the confusion of the horizon and the darkness
of the neverending landscape. welcome to 0:horizon:66.
confusing ideology warps my personality, political views,
and other identities that i perceived as important in my
other dwelling. welcome to the new frontier. forbidden entry
though other substances my previous society contemplated,
i hesitantly enter this vast new heartland.
i forgot what i was talking about (oh, yeah). behold your
new epidemic, the quest for knowledge and self you have
denied me for the longest measurements of time, continue
persecuting and pushing forth your propaganda, your new
agenda of arrogance, and force the few unbelievers to look
within themselves for sustenance.
i am no longer me; the part you see is confusion, redefi
ned personality driven by your massive push for perfection,
happiness, and a mini van.
(irritated, because i only have one of the three.)
no, you’re wrong; i am not here to entertain you; how
selfi sh and ignorant of you to think so. but i stand helplessly,
i give in, i will play your game. do what you will with me,
and leave what you do not want for someone else to take.
(at least leave me change for the bus.)
but why can’t i be that? why can’t i do that? continually
persecuted and ignored, wondering back into my own land
of polyurethane, i thrive on self–sustenance. and now you
force open the doors, to which you do not belong. so here i
am, part of something i wish to destroy (except for yogurt,
i like yogurt), but yogurt is the only thing on this pebble
you call earth that has a culture. civilization indeed.
i am different, therefore i must be dealt with properly,
because YOU can’t deal with it; that is the history of your
48
49
Dan Kuemmel
civilization (politics eliminated); we are as important as
the ant you wipe from the face of your “planet,” which you
assume you are above. pure ignorance.
and ignorance, the substance which makes you sit
in your chair and say nothing, like you were taught, and
then persecute me, and others unlike you. you never question
“absolute truths?” your excuses feed your ignorance,
and you displace your blame in hopes of continuing your
struggle against those who are different.
your steady diet of ignorance eats at the insides of us
(yumyumyum), of everyone, you included. some catch on
and realize they are wrong; they conclude we are here to
entertain you. no, you are here to entertain yourself—the
cure for your own ignorance—a platonic and subtle embrace
of thoughts occurs, as neurons fi re rapidly through a world
that is altered by a drug, for a reason beyond the user’s
comprehension. because society says it’s wrong to feel like
this, so must the entity continue to take lithium so he may
be deemed fi t to exist. (grrr.)
no more, i play the role that i assigned myself, as i watch
the little guys rehearse their play, and choreograph the fi nal
dance scene (act IV scene 24, which contains some interesting
dialogue between the bum and a confused adolescent,
as they discuss what it is to be a “man”)—all in my head.
ignorance, the object that tears at the fabric of our
society—it’s all for you—even me—even my existence—like
a religion, there for your disposal, and then let go, when you
decide it’s not convenient. take what is mine. the axis on
which your world revolves spins rhythmically, like the incessant
pounding of the membranaphones in my temple.
(1–2–3–1–2–3–1–2–3–1–2–1–2)
just like the guy with the funny hat, i am here. just like
the lady walking down the street, i exist, fl oating in and
out of your world, as i see fi t.
am i wrong?
does it matter?

Dan Kuemmel
The Funeral
procession moves slowly
across the mystical garden
eerie sense of closeness
of another world beyond
ritual commences
memories are risen
with the souls of the loved ones
we now send on their way
no one dares ask why
captivated by mercy
and moments in time
that still exist from inside
feelings of loss
and violation
by a force beyond
all human control
everything is done
the thoughts are now buried
fi nal isolation
what’s real is now gone
exit from the garden
carefully walking
paying tribute
to those who now have moved on
the past is the past
not meant to be lived in
yet some of us live in it
every day
some things are sacred
cannot be forgotten
possessed by a self–destructive fi re
that burns from inside
50
at end of the path
at the foot of the garden
the last bastion of protection
from the past is now gone
everything is done
memories plague those
visions of blood
on the hands of the torn
torn between this world
and the world we envision
leave all thoughts and questions
at the foot of the garden
those who were there
cannot erase the past
the one who found you
is now scarred for life
the last form of rejection
from a world she despised
leaving her loved ones behind
to ask only why
but deep inside
memories still stain me
the one who found you
and knows the answer to why
I can never say
or ever determine
the blood on my hands
already defi nes
the ritual is over
people revive
from the trace of the garden
and try to return to their lives
51
Dan Kuemmel

Dan Kuemmel
Coming Home
“home is the only place you can go where they have to
take you.” i think some poet said that, yeah, maybe it was
robert frost. to tell you the truth, i don’t really remember
a lot about home. after all, it’s been fi ve years, a real
hard fi ve years. i remember mom and dad fought a lot,
and i was kinda overlooked, but i don’t think that’s the
reason i left, or as they say, “ran away.” i wouldn’t call it
running away, merely starting over. i don’t really think
anyone can start over, though; you take what you get.
i’ve been on the streets for fi ve years now, and i never
got a fair start.
i’ve often thought of going home; i’ve almost done it at
least fi ve other times. it’s just that i don’t know what
to say. i can barely recall what my brother looks like.
what if they moved? where would i fi nd them? all that
would do is strand me in another place; all i would lose
is my hope. but the thought of walking through that
door, and walking over the tile fl oor to the living room
where everyone is sitting, and saying, “i’m home, for
good.” i’d do almost anything for it. walking into my old
room, sleeping in a bed, eating decent food, and having
a place to take a shower. i still wonder if they miss me,
if they wonder where i am or how i am. i sit here, looking
out the window, watching the endless landscape of
farms and cornfi elds. someday i’m going to live out here,
and ignore everything that is closing in on me, and just
watch everything go by, instead of it running me over
like it has since i was born. the worst part is knowing
that it’s no one’s fault but mine. my father used to say
“you pay the price for the life you lead.” it was probably
the only thing he said that turned out to be true. maybe
he’ll understand that all i want is to start over. maybe
he’s gone. i wonder how my little brother is. i never really
meant to pound on him so hard; i wonder if he misses it
as much as i do. i wish i would have been more receptive
to people around me, but i guess that’s just how i am.
fi nally i won’t have to rely on the streets for sustenance,
which is the only thing i’ve learned in a long time. i want
52
53
Dan Kuemmel
to travel the world; i want to learn how to play the piano,
and take my driver’s test which i could have taken last
year if i hadn’t run away. but i was only twelve then, i
didn’t know what i was doing.
the bus will pull into cleveland soon. i counted my money
to make sure raven didn’t steal it from me. i wonder how
much longer he’ll last on the streets. i still have the letter
from my mom—just before i left—her handwriting is so
perfect. i used to try and mimic it. each fl uid movement of
her now-smudged penmanship a work of beauty in itself.
it’s so smooth and caring. i wonder what she looks like?
when i come home, i have this picture of her throwing
her arms around me, and whispering into my ear, “things
are gonna be different now; everything is gonna be all
right.” we’re almost in cleveland now. i wonder if i can
still remember the street names? i hope that old bridge
under the railroad tracks is still there. my friends and
i used to hide under there all day, drinking soda and
talking about sports, girls, and what seemed to us to be
logic. i can’t seem to let go of the note. all my thoughts
randomly come together into one giant realization—this
is a dream. i try to stop the lump in my throat as i wipe
my eyes with my torn jacket, and carefully fold mom’s
note, and put it into my pocket. “drop me off at the next
stoplight,” i say halfheartedly. “will do!” the bus driver
replies. i step off the bus and walk in a random direction,
north, i think. i manage a faint smile. my hope is still
alive—the dream was not shattered. after all, i have the
letter from home, and to me, the mother i never knew
is right beside me.

Lisa Hendrickson
Dad
Lights shine from everywhere
blocking lines of vision.
Sounds fl ood into my ears,
voices, sirens, crying.
The cold of winter
makes me crawl deeper in the blanket.
Faces appear,
strangers I’ve never seen.
They speak softly.
I can not think.
I call out,
but no one hears.
A voice calls out,
familiar yet distant,
like a dream.
When will I awake?
I am forced back into reality.
Lights of all colors now shine.
Cold, pain, loneliness,
a hand grasps mine.
I look up,
confronted by friendly familiar eyes.
I smile.
I am safe.
54
A Prayer
55
Mandy Rasmussen
Lord,
let me be cleansed through your sorrow;
let me be heard through your anger and grief;
let me, small as I am, be the basin for your tears of pain
which fall harder each year.
Lord,
I ask for your advice,
to guide me, to lead me,
to show me through the labyrinth of life;
forgive me for the times I hurt you
and accept me for who I am.
Lord,
let me turn to you in times of need;
open the door to my heart
and allow me to hear you.
Lord,
you are the one I seek,
a true friend,
always willing to help.
I thank you for your guidance
and wisdom,
and for lifting me up another step of life.
Thanks, Lord.

Elizabeth Gilgen
Miracles and Memories
when the wind blows
the seeds roam
the dust
and the stars
convey around us
the miracle
that brings
memories
from our heart
which make
the world shine
throughout eternity
The Speech
the lovers’ hearts are screaming
madness is dripping hard
now it is beating
we want to fi nd it
we look beyond the clouds
that are covering blankets
shaking the feelings
glistening shadows bond
and settle together like scars
which burn deep
making irresistible smoke
that beautiful eyes ponder
and the lovers speak as one
56
Broken Blues
Crack
is the sound of my heart
ripping apart
Boom
is the sound of my soul
exploding its passion
Rip
is the sound of my limbs
letting loose and hanging
from my body by the thread
of my fl esh
Thump
is the sound of the impact
as my body hits the cement
Crunch
is the sound of my bones
shattering
to the size of marbles
Ka-Boom
is the sound as the mushroom
cloud rises over the horizon
57
Ben Smith

Martha Gurtz
Squishy Things
Deviled
egg rolled
dough
sow or cream
of broccoli
Running down
the withered leg
of lamb
chop suey
ear of corn
(nuts to that)
Orange
crushed
pepper spray
coats the apple
saucy grin
Too much salt
will not appease
porridge hot
chocolate
bar cookies
Frosting fi lling
cavities
black teas
herb teas
hair tease
pass the milk please
58
Blue Sweater Heaven
blue sweater
covered with fuzz
in the form
of heart-shaped balls
on a man who
while fi ghting two balls
sees red
on his head
because he’s the bull
sweater pulled
over his eyes
and bucking
sky sucking
clouds ducking
arrives in blue sweater
bell-bottom
bull-bearing
heaven
59
Martha Gurtz

Matt Chaboud
Little Town
A man walks into a liquor store
It’s French
He checks into the hotel
Sits
Falls asleep
Of course
It’s French
He wakes up
Shaves
Eats
The food
It’s French
He goes
To the bathroom
He sits
The toilet
It’s French
He walks in the street
Sees a cow
Milk
Cheese
It’s French
He walks
On the tracks
The rocks
The wood
It’s French
Some lights
A train
He’s dead
The blood
It’s French
60
Egg Van
A green egg van
Green plastic
Wheels and people
All made of plastic
Little people that look like eggs drive
I open the back and pull out an egg car
The car crashes into the van
Little egg people
Jump from the van
Green plastic
The little green eggs roll
Around and around
No legs
No arms
They wear green clothes
Green plastic
They have on hats
Green plastic
They drive under the bed
My bed
They wait until morning
Then I pull them out
They seem dead
Never alive
Green plastic
61
Matt Chaboud

Jason Glomp
Fairyland
Once I traveled to Fairyland. I saw all the little happy elves
with their happy little bells. I talked to one, and he told me
I didn’t belong. I felt saddened that I couldn’t live in the
elves’ happy little town.
I moved through Fairyland, and I saw a group of smiling little
dwarves. I watched them work in love, peace and harmony.
They told me not to bother them, for they had to whistle.
And so I moved further on into Fairyland and saw a group
of furry little bunnies hopping and frolicking amongst the
long blue grass. I opened my mouth to talk to one of them,
but then I thought, “no, I can’t talk to bunnies, even if they
were the famous Mister Ed. Oh, but wait, this is Fairyland;
I can do whatever I want—this is Fairyland, dammit.” So I
asked a little one if I could pet him (or her, I didn’t check).
The bunny quite rudely asked for Trix. “Silly rabbit, Trix
are for kids,” I replied. “Then you don’t belong here Doc,”
the rabbit told me.
And once again I moved farther into Fairyland. I came
to a river, a magical river—of course it’s magical, this is
Fairyland. And I drank from this magic river for my thirst
was deep from the day’s travels. And as I rested along the
banks of the river I felt a pull at my leg. The pull came from
a magical fi sh. I asked him, as you ask all magical fi sh, for
a wish. He said to me, which is hard to do for a fi sh, even a
magical one, “Mr. Potato, you don’t get a wish, says I, ruler
of all. That’s no wish for you.”
And so I continued my journey into Fairyland. I came across
an old goat. I said to him, “Bill, my friend”—yep, that’s his
name, Bill Ebulrt Goat, I swear—but Bill laughed at me
and said, “You are wise, young grasshopper. Oh, yes, you
have learned much, young Potato. But you are not a Jedi
yet.” I told him I must leave, but I would return to complete
my training. Bill gave me the magic pencil to destroy the
darkness that had befallen Fairyland.
I continued on my way, although I had no destination. I
traveled deep into Fairyland to seek out strange new worlds
62
63
Jason Glomp
and to go where no man had gone before. I soon met an old
lady named Floppy. I told her not to cry. “Oh you ugly Spud
Boy you,” she said. “You must not talk to me. For you are
not among friends on the new horizon.”
I moved deeper into the deep forests of Fairyland. I saw a
group of trolls, an awful mean group. But yet I could see
through their ancient animal habits of death and destruction.
I could see the kinship of community for which I longed.
I knew my kinship was here somewhere in the wonderful
foliage of Fairyland.
I was discouraged and destroyed, but yet I ventured further
on in Fairyland. I saw a cozy warm burning house (yes,
burning, as in fi re). People inside were calling my name.
Could this be it? The house slowly burnt to ashes and my
sadness grew.
And now I reached the end of Fairyland, and like a long rope
of pale blue wood that burns eternally for the age of the new
kingdom, I cried out an unbearable sadness, for my heart
had fallen. I had not found my place in Fairyland. Now I sat
in my corner staring at the long tasteless white wall. And
then Elves with their bells, peace loving dwarves, hopping
furry bunnies, the magical fi sh, Bill the goat, Floppy the old
woman, the distasteful trolls, and even the bubbling boiling
name calling people, all laughed at me. They mocked me.
And so I sat in my bland little white corner eternally and
felt the shame. The torment passed onto me like a fi ery torch
burning the skin of an old woman who had fallen down the
stairs of a burning house I had seen not long ago.
But wait, for my story is not done. Look there at my corner,
at my altar—the wall has color now. And I announce to all
who will listen: “I’ve done it. I’ve found my spot in Fairyland.”
And it’s here. Look, do you see the color on the wall? It
fl ies with me over the many creatures of Fairyland. I know
now I am a Jedi. So don’t cry, my friends. I am with you, and
I belong. And now as the yellow pages of the phone book
close, I bid you good life and goodbye from Fairyland.

Jason Glomp
Longing for Death, Holding on into Life
Walking into a hotel room, origin unknown, a man
thought,
“Why am I needed?”
His eyes turned towards images on a wall.
The man’s head spun with fear and he dreamed.
“Why?” the man screamed as he awakened from slumber.
He looked at the clock; he had just checked in.
He stumbled into the bathroom to shower the dirt
acquired on his trip.
One look in the mirror brought the man to tears.
He shattered the mirror into a million different pieces
And they crashed to the fl oor; he fell there as well.
“Why are the lights on?” he thought as he entered the
hotel room.
His feet were cut on the glass below.
And his pain was quite real as he looked around the
room.
Lying on the bed he watched the useless hotel T.V.
The bathroom faucet dripped above his sleepless body.
“Why did she make me leave?” he asked, nursing a
watered down drink.
His daughter came to mind; he was playing with her now.
“Catch daddy,” his daughter told him in the most
innocent of voices.
“That was your wife?” said the mistress, dressed in black,
on in his bed.
The fl oor was hard and had been blanketed by his blood.
“I need a room,” he told a man who looked at him
strangely.
“Why did I leave?” he thought, lying on a newly made
bed.
“No mommy don’t shoot daddy,” he screamed. “No.”
He was bleeding profusely now and lying on the broken
glass that lay on the fl oor.
Walking to school he thought of his mother, and shed a
tear.
The mess he had made was quite apparent now.
64
65
Jason Glomp
And just like the mirror that had cut him, his life
Lay there on the fl oor in shattered pieces.
His life had cut him as well.
And the water dripped from the faucet above.
Slowly he drifted away from our reality.
The whispers, the tears, the screams called him away.
And he lay there in the bloody bathroom
While scattered memories cut deep into his body.
Gone Fishing
I took a trip today and I went fi shing. I caught a big old
fi sh and put him in the net. But for some reason I looked
into his eyes and he told me to let him go. Not really in
words, but just a powerful look. I felt crazy, but I knew it
would be wrong to kill that fi sh. My dog, Sam, looked at
me as though I were crazy, but I knew. Before I let him
go I went back to where I caught him. The water was a
little clearer there, and there were other fi sh for him to
play with. So, my heart fi lled with environmentalism, I
carefully dropped him back into the lake where he had
been born, and where he would live a long and happy
life. The water made a little splash. And I watched him
swim away. And I watched as my dog, Sam, jumped in the
water and tore that little fi sh into pieces. Good dog.

Elizabeth Updike
Sunny
Sunny weather
means swimming
at the pool
sitting on the roof
soaking in
warmth
solar powered children
collect the rays
and run
through their
sprinklers
slide down
the slide
and play tag
with each other
in the thick
green grass
dogs sniff
the happiness
and wiggle
their stubby tails
hopefully
yellow light
refl ects
in stained-glass
church windows
where people
fan themselves
with prayer books
and hear
the minister
drone on and on
like the bees
that are fl oating
lazily above the
yellow fi eld
of fl owers
and the
faint screeches
66
of children
can be heard
in the church
and the children inside
wiggle and squirm
as reproachful parents
give them looks
and warnings
and the temptation is
almost too much to bear
until the congregation
can rise
and sing a
hasty hymn
after mass
the people burst
out of the church
the sun smiles down
on the stained-glass windows
and its colors
are brilliant
smiling down on the
starched
but sweaty
people
as they race home
to don
summer clothes
to run outside
to develop
brilliant red sunburns
that will hurt
if they remember them
but will gradually fade
like the memory
of people
enjoying the day
of warmth
and sunny weather.
67
Elizabeth Updike

Josh Herman
Lost in a Dream
Screaming whispers
Her image is lost within a dream
As I remember the life
I had it all once
Lost in one moment
Forever struck with a haunting thought
Seeing broken hearts that lie before me
Impatient as I feel
Thoughts
Pictures
Memories drift in and out of my head
While the image of her is lost in a dream
Cry for Me
Cry for me
I am a child who
Dares not laugh
Not play, not jump.
Cry for me
I am a man
Afraid that I will
Die never knowing love.
Cry for me
I live in a world
Too afraid to care
Too afraid to cry.
68
Justin Knoll