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Foreward
As the many different artistic fragments of a mosaic become a
composite of color to the naked eye, so too the many different moods
expressed in these writings become a composite of emotions delving
into the deepest recesses of the writer's mind. We invite you to read,
experience and enjoy the Marist community literary efforts.
Cover illustration by Courtney Black
Mind's Eye logo by Jen McLaughlin





Editorial Staff
Sean Creighton
Janet DeSimone
Ellen Mooney
Jason Suttile
Advisor
Judith Saunders
-


Foreward
As the many different artistic fragments of a mosaic become a
composite of color to the naked eye, so too the many different moods
expressed in these writings become a composite of emotions delving
into the deepest recesses of the writer's mind. We invite you to read,
experience and enjoy the Marist community literary efforts.
Cover illustration by Courtney Black
Mind's Eye logo by Jen McLaughlin




Editorial Staff
Sean Creighton
Janet DeSirnone
Ellen Mooney
Jason Suttile
Advisor
Judith Saunders




To pick up a pen,
and let the ink flow freely from your fingertips
Creative thoughts travel from the brain
through the nerves, jotted down on paper
The power of ink
The creative energy of a dreamer
never confusing fantasy with reality
but always getting lost in one world or the other
Leading the life of a writer
"publish or perish," this is what the pro's say
But do they ever get their hands dirty
do they say, "yes of no?"
do they see the world like I see it
fantasy or reality?
No, they sit behind a desk
in a big chair, with gel in their hair
Teaching from books
Breathing stuffy air
Sending students out into the world ... naked of knowledge
Life is strange .. .fantasy or reality?
In grammar school you are taught to reform, learn to conform
High school, much the same
College ... new scene
Teachers take twelve years of rules, set you free,
and send you a bill
They tell you to express yourself freely
make the best for yourself
in a world of fantasy
in a world of reality
BRICE







Wearing an orchid negligee
she slipped into her dark
royal purple sheets
and slept alone
in a cold room
in a cold world
.
Patti Smith
Hudson Morn
A boat sounds silent notes
Lurching homeward to the sea.
The river eases in and out, in and out,
Graveling wavelets on wintered shores.
Crunching cubic flows, the solitary hull,
Rejecting tide, thrusts forward.
A swaying mast, dawn dappled,
Splashed by dubious slivers of sun,
Salutes a newly blued sky.
Gerard A. Cox
Shadows On The Moon
Will you ride with me in my red balloon -
Drift over the hills and the sea?
At night we'll see our shadows on the moon
Let's float away and be free.
Laura
C.
Kuczma





"MIND"
Not something you can walk away from,
A situation you can leave.
It's with you always,
everywhere.
Not easy to put away
neatly
in a drawer
or a box
safe from view
"Out of sight
Out of mind.
"
Not so.
It doesn't go.
It's hard to "Just say no"
To your mind,
your thoughts;
Thoughts others hurl
your way
each day.
Darkness
always seeks
to extinguish
the Light-
The Light of your mind
.
By Keith Barje



A Rotting Corpse Looking on
the Bright Side of Death
My friends are now
the worms,
It's not so bad
(like they say in the movies),
Nothing to worry about
Nothing to have to do
(and I never felt so loved)
And it really is a quiet place
(just like Marvell said)
I've lost a lot of weight
(like I wanted to)
The only thing is
Is it's a little dark
Oh, and a little cramped
(but I don't mind that
part so much)
And I guess it's kind of
lonely
(But I always liked a little solitude)
now and then
(But the best part is:
I don't have to worry about
what others think)
Kevin Dwyer








Annie Orange
She was angry. She was sick and tired of always being the
underdog, of always being overlooked. Her unpopularity had
almost driven her into obscurity, and she was not going to take it
anymore. Why had her lot in life doomed her to the roofs of
Howard Johnson restaurants? People never wanted to decorate
their living rooms with her, or even to wear her in a sweater. No,
she was solely reserved for all the ugly things in life she detested
the degrading, obnoxious Howard Johnsons the most of all. They
even serve greasy food, she thought sadly
.
Not being one of the primary colors, Orange knew that she
had no power or importance to influence the other colors. They for
the most part ignored her, and gave her all the jobs that they did
not want like the flag of Ireland. Green was too nice to refuse and
they just kind of stuck Orange along for the ride. She does not
even like Ireland because she hates potatoes and the Irish only
recognized Green anyway. She dreamed of being the vibrant
American flag; Red and Blue looked like they always were having
so much fun and they made a good couple. Actually she also
wished for a united world where everyone could mix regardless
of creed or color and they could all be a flat earthy brown.
Even in the holidays she lost out. Red, that bitch, took all
the Christmas fun, even pulling her mellow Green friend away
from her. Green was the only one who listened to Orange, but he
never had any time for her during that dreaded holiday season.
She couldn't even participate in Chanukah, blue and gold had
stolen that one clear away before she even had a chance. Oh, and
of course there was Easter which orange hated most of all, all
those stupid young colors like Pink, that pansy and Lilac who gave
Purples a bad name. Even Green got his own holiday in March.
Orange was particularly upset at this because
she
was also on their
flag
.
Well
if
Green was going to act like that maybe she would just
quit and he could have the whole stinking flag for himself
.
The
only holiday left for poor Orange was yucky, ucky, icky Halloween
which she had to share with Black. Actually if
it
were up to
Orange, Halloween would be a much nicer affair,
it
would even be
in a different season like summer. Orange hated the fall, it
reminded her of death with all the leaves dying. She lamented
over the fact that all the Green leaves were allowed to stay on the
trees but when they turned Orange, the leaves were swept away
as trash.
It
was Black's idea to make Halloween so damn morbid.
All they did on that holiday was scare innocent people and dress
up in stupid, juvenile costumes. She especially hated the ridiculous
jack o'lanterns. The faces on them were so stupid that
if
she could,





Orange would blush. Black was such a morbid guy too, always
cracking off color jokes and trying toJinch her butt.
It was enough
to drive a person to drink, and it di .
"Why?," thought Orange weeping as she took another swig
from her bottle of Grand Mariner, "why can't I be more accepted,
maybe if I was more assertive. It's all my father's fault, he's so
cowardly, so mellow, so Yellow.
If it weren't for him I would be
more outspoken and more popular." She looked at herself in the
mirror and was forced to admit that what she saw was not so bad,
she decided that everyone was jealous of her so they sort of
pushed her onto the back palette of life
.
But it still wasn't fair she thought as she shoved the mirror
away. She decided to do something about it now!! She had enough
Red in her from her mother to make people stand up and notice
her. She would show everyone a thing or two. She made up her
mind to go and talk to her mother first though to see if she had
any pointers, even if she didn't like her mother too much.
Red was busy making people so mad that they could
actually see her when Orange asked to speak with her. Red looked
down on her daughter with almost pity. It was plain to see that
even though Red and Yellow were very happy with each other
Red thought their children were almost downright ugly.
"Oh dear," Red said, "I simply do not like that neon tone
you've taken on today, it's much too flashy almost tacky if you
want my opinion."
"Mother, I've come to talk to you
.
," Orange stated.
"I'm feeling rather blue lately -
"Don't you dare talk of Blue in such a manner!," Mother
admonished.
"I'm sorry," Orange said humbling herself down to a more
tawny tone that was rather reminiscent of a bright burnt amber
hue. "Well it's just that I feel so neglected lately. I feel like I am
being used for all the yucky jobs like Howard Johnsons or Burger
King uniforms. I'm even the last to go in a box of crayola crayons-
even in the Sixty-four jumbo box with the sharpener. I want
someone to like me."
"Oh honey, don't
cry,"
Red cooed. "Things will be okay. Just
think of all the things you do have, like Halloween. And Green is
always asking where you are. He even bought you a Christmas
present this year."
"Yeah and it clashed horribly with my complexion. Besides
I hate Halloween, Black gives me the creeps and Green is always
talking about how vibrant you are. He doesn't even notice me!!!
And I'm sick of doing the roofs of Howard Johnson, their food
sucks."






"Don't be so down on yourself. I
used
to be a sort of an
ugly duckling too, we all go through our awkward stages. And
remember some people with color blindness can't see me at all."
"Really?," Orange asked wiping back her tears. "But I
wanted to ask you how you do it, I mean what can I do to be
popular- to make all the boy colors like me? How did you meet
dad?
"Oh I met your father at the comer of Main and Maple
streets. He was trying to get people to slow down, I of course was
trying to stop traffic. It worked too. But I don't know what you
can do about yourself. I wish you could be more like Purple, she
has a lot of prestige, it must be the Blue in her." Red sighed as she
said Blue's name. She always felt so alive when she was with him.
He made her feel like dancing.
Orange realized that Red was too selfish to care about her
dilemma. She left her mother to her daydreaming of all the pretty
things that Red could do and Orange couldn't. Talking to her
Mother never did her any good, her mother would never tell her
why red cars were the number one stolen car, whereas noone ever,
ever would even consider buying an orange moped let alone a
whole automobile. Or why everyone like catsup and spaghetti
sauce while noone like carrot juice or turnip casserole. Orange felt
she was the ugly duckling of the rainbow. Sometimes she was not
even represented in the rainbow, as if everyone was ashamed of
her.
Sadly, she trudged down to the local bar the Hue Hole
where everyone went to drink. Magenta was there with some of
her neon friends boogying up a storm on the old dance floor. They
were too flighty for her and only cared about trendy clothes and
gossip. The earth tones were in their usual comer discussing
politics in a low tone. Of course they were talking about all the
bad things going on in the world today, but they were all secretly
happy because they got to represent all the dismal things in this
world, and the worse things got the more exposure they received.
Orange tried to join their conversation, but they kept either
interrupting her or looking at her strange when she did get a word
in. Besides all their talk was just making her more and more upset.
Orange resigned herself to a stool at the bar and ordered a
scotch on the rocks. Usually Orange didn't like to drink, and she
did not make it a regular practice; she was just trying to drown
her sorrows. She
_
could only have half of her
drink,
because she
didn't like the bitter taste. She decided to take a walk and look for
Green, maybe he would listen.
Noone was to be found, so Orange walked by herself along
the cliffs by the water. She loved the ocean. Maybe if Green had
been around he could have given her some consolation. However




noone was around, so Orange stood all alone summing up her
meager amount of accomplishments. Not finding anything she had
ever done good enough, she drew in her breath, wiped back her
tears, took a few steps back from the cliff and began running
towards the edge at top speed. She did not fall directly down as
a human might, but actually ran a few steps on sheer air, because
she was very light. Then the wind got underneath her and an air
current carried her far out and away, like a magic carpet.
Orange lost consciousness when she was in mid air. She
awoke with a splat in a very bright and warm place. She did not
know where she was but it felt like she was lying in some grand
soft feather bed with the most beautiful pale blue canopy and the
fluffiest white sheets. Orange felt very beautiful and comfortable
there. She looked up to see her father, looking very brilliant indeed
and Orange asked him what he was doing here.
"Why I am the sun of course.," he replied. "I've always
wanted you to see my office. Don't you like the view?"
"Dad, this is great, but I don't know how I got here."
"Well that's besides the point. Your mother wanted you to
come out for a visit sometime. Do you want a job? I could really
use an assistant.
It requires a lot of world travel.
"Yeah!," Orange exclaimed excitedly. She loved to travel
and she was quite frankly looking for a new job. 'Well what do I
have to do? When do I start!?!?"
"Well," Yellow drawled, "It's quite easy really all you have
to do is follow me around and show your best colors. We get to
make the sunsets in the sky. You can start today."
Being a very creative person, Orange was well suited for
her job. She made the most lovely sunsets ever and was soon the
envy of every color that lived. They begged her to come back, but
she would only make rare appearances on tangerines and of course
her namesake oranges. Even the Roofs of the Howard Johnsons
began to fade, and Orange was very content to be such a glorious
part of nature. She lived beautifully forever after.
Ellen Mooney








Mama, Are There Jews In Heaven?
Well, I know that people shouldn't mix,
they should stick to their
own
kind,
That's how the good Lord made
it,
and he must have had something
on
his mind.
But I never really thought about it over much before,
Till this new family moved to town, and bought the house next door.
The husband worked up at the mill, you know, just like my Ben,
But he was some kind of accountant-he didn't work with the men,
And they had a daughter, too-she was kinda scrawny and small-
Wiry hair, funny nose, no kind of personality at all.
but she was just nine years old, same age as my son Butch,
And they started playing together-well, I didn't like it much,
But I didn't do much about it, just tried to put it out of my head, Until
one day little Butchie came up to me and said:
Mama, are there Jews in Heaven? Jerry Falwell tells me no.
If there are no Jews in Heaven, Mama, I don't want to go.
I just want to be with Becky, and you know it don't seem right
If God don't hear her prayers, because I pray for her each night.
Well, you know, that really shook me, and
I
saw that I'd been wrong,
So
that night, Ben and the others burned a cross on the Epsteins' lawn
And I told little Butchie how the Jews had killed our lord,
And how he was never to play with that little Jew-girl any more.
And
I
know I'd done the right thing, and that things would tum out
fine.
When on the spot where that cross had burned, we saw a For Sale
sign.
We all went to church that Sunday, me and Butchie and Ben,
But on the way home after
the
service, he asked me once again:
Mama, are there Jews in Heaven? Jerry Falwell tells me no.
If there are no Jews in Heaven, Mama, I don't want to go.
And please, Mama, I don't want to burn for all eternity
I just want to be with Becky, 'cause she's Heaven-sent for me.
Within a month, the house had sold, and those Jews were leaving
town;
That night we called Butchie for dinner, but he was nowhere to be
found.





And when he hadn't come home by nightfall, we organized a search-
Ben called the sheriff in, and we got some of the men from the church.
We started out a-looking, and down beside the water
We found that Epstein feller, out lookin' for his daughter.
He kinda tagged along behind us, as we searched into the night
Till near daybreak, down by Frenchman's Bend, we saw a dreadful
sight.
It
was in the shallow waters, in the marsh grass by the strand,
We saw Butchie and that little Jew-girl, floating face down, holding
hands.
Well, Jesus knows which souls to take, and He knows which souls to
save,
We buried Butchie in the churchyard, and put a cross over
his
grave,
And I prayed to God for guidance, and I know what we did was right,
But sometimes I still hear Butchie's voice-times when I can't
sleep at night.
Mama, are there Jews in Heaven? Jerry Falwell tells me no.
If there are no Jews in Heaven, Mama, I don't want to go.
And please, Mama, I don't want to burn for all eternity
I just want to be with Becky, 'cause she's Heaven-sent for me.
Tad Richards








OPA
I have known only
your photograpp,
but even more,
I have observed
your smile
when laughter animates
my mother's visage;
her very countenance
is evidence that you
are present in
our lives
.
I have known
yoµr tears
through
a dear grandmother's
meditations
of a time past,
riddled with
both history and song,
and brimming over
with the conventions
of a distant country.
Somehow, still I know,
there is
a man,
whose heart beats
as mine,
whose handclasp I perceive
only through the comforting
touch
of the people
who traveled far
to
include me
in their lives.
Opa-
somehow I feel
I have known you -
the walks you have taken,
the private hours you have spent,
the written voice that reaches us
here ...
I have known you,
Yes, through the lives of those
who silently hold you
so dear.
Desiree
S.
Brennan






Spring Sport
Students are parachuting hamsters
From dormitory windows. "It seems
Like the obvious thing to do."
- I -
Buy a transparent, plastic bubble.
Unscrew it in the middle, place the hamster
On the bottom, twist the top to close
The hamster inside. It lifts its feet
To walk, propels the bubble forward,
Moves protected, in a visible shield,
No getting lost under furniture or squashed
Underfoot. Around and around it rolls
In its celluloid globe; no falling off the edge
Of this world.
-
Bump, bounce! Bump, bounce!
Bump, bounce! Bounce! Bounce! Bounce! Bounce!
Bounce! BounceBounceBounceBounceBounce
BounceBounceBounceBounce'''"''''
The hamster finds the stairs!
Someone brings it back from two floors down.
-11-
A large bandanna, knotted at the comers,
Makes a fine parachute for a hamster.
Strapping tape fastens securely
To slippery fur, ingenious harness.
Take the hamster to the seventh floor,
Drop it out the window.
air catches under outspread kerchief,
Lifts it into gliding descent.
Just one yard from journey's end
The updraft fails, the make-shift chute
Collapses, the hamster tumbles down.
Glide ... glide ... glide ... WHOOSH-plop.
Retrieve the hamster and repeat.
Willing feet push off from window sill.
Floating into flight or fall through transparent air.
The obvious thing.
Judith Saunders







Dogma polis
The shout of a pipebomb shakes me awake. A piece of shrapnel
whistles through my window and imbeds itself in the wall. I hear the
sound of running feet and the wounded cries of a boy. His wailing
recedes until it is lost in the white noise of faraway gunfire.
I turn on the radio. A Hell's Angel is dedicating "Anarchy in the
U.K." to his commander-in-chief. The Hell's Angels were better anarchists
when they didn't know there was a word for what they were doing.
As Johnny Rotten's voice trails off, the d.j. comes on: "Rocking
you with one steady roll, this is Dr. Tongue, the bastard son of a
thousand maniacs and the ayatollah of rockenrolla. It's high noon, and
time for Rumble Report. Megasaurus firefight action exploded this
morning in Hegel Park as the National Front and the American Dental
Association
launched
a
,
joint
offensive
against
the
Anti-
Federalist/Menshevik alliance. The siege of the abortion clinic on 910th
Street and Steinman by Moral Majority crusaders enters its third week
today. The N.O.W. amazons defending the clinic are threatening to use
napalm on the crusaders, so steer clear. The gang war between the Black
Panthers and the Hassidic Jihad is still raging full on, so consider the
Lower West Side a no zone. Now, here's Don with the weath ... " I turn off
the radio and get out of bed.
From my second-story apartment, the victim of the pipebomb
looks like a Rorschach test printed in red ink. Pigeons begin to land and
peck hungrily at his wounds.
Beneath my window, an Animal Liberation
pack
tramples a
sleeping dog while in heavy pursuit of an N.R.A. survivalist. Across the
street, the Andalusian Dogs paint surreal graffiti with the blood of
symbolists. In the alley, Up With People stormtroopers wearing smiley-
face t-shirts lynch a nihilist from a fire escape.
I
turn away from the window and walk across the room. The
sound of cat bones crunching beneath my boots makes my stomach
growl. I strap on my dart belt and walk down to the street.
The pigeons feeding on the pipebomb casualty take to the air
when I open the front door of the apartment building. The surrealists and
the stormtroopers look my way, and then look away when they see that
I'm not packing heat. .. Unfortunately, the trampled dog has already been
dragged off, so I'll have to work for my dinner.
A few blocks down the street, I see a cat chowing on a dead
Shriner's arm. My mouth fills with saliva. I slowly pull out a dart, take
aim, and let it fly. The cat howls as the dart sinks into its left hip, and it
bolts down an alley. By the time I enter the alley, the cat is gone, but it's
left behind a trail of blood.
The alley comes out in the Mormon zone. Mormons will shoot
you just for picking through their garbage, so I stay as far away form
either sidewalk as possible by following the double yellow lines down
the middle of the road. I can feel them stare out at me from their pillbox
bunkers. I hope none of them feel religious today.
Utah Boulevard becomes Engels Street, and I pick up the cat's







trail again
.
As I track the p
a
th of blood stains on blacktop, I hear gunfire
ahead, but my empty belly, heedle
s
s of anything except hunger, urges me
forward.
Finally, on the comer of Marx and Engels, I see the cat leaning
against a lamppost, panting. I approach it slowly and wrap my hands
around its neck. I lift it up to eye level, and it looks at me with fear and
sadness
.
I almost feel sorry for it.
Suddenly, a mortar shell explodes in the middle of the
intersection. Pieces of concrete slash my face and arms. I drop the cat and
duck into a bombed-out store-front. Through bullet holes in the
wall,
I
see the Democratic-Republicans and the Republican-Democrats tearing up
Marx A venue
.
Opposing cries of "Freedom and Liberty" and "Liberty and
Freedom" can be heard over their gunfire. Nobody knows why they hate
each other so much. Most people can't even tell them apart.
Before the two gangs can kill each other, a third gang attacks
both of them
.
They come swarming out of a side street screaming "Give
Peace a Chance," yet they're jacking up the body count something awful.
It must be the Swords of Aquarius, the city's only gang of militant
pacifists.
The battle ends abruptly when one of the Swords detonates a
backpack bomb. When the smoke clears, no one is left standing. In
Dogmapolis, this is known as a "convenience store."
I scavenge my way through the dead and dying.
As
I search the
pockets of a wounded Sword, I realize that I recognize him. His name
used to be Jake Viscous, but he changed it to Billy Jack when he joined
the Swords. We used to be best friends.
His eyes opened he looks at me with mutual recognition. There is now
warmth in his eyes, though; just the cold flames of a fanatic.
"Hey Jake, for a pacifist, you sure fight like a motherfucker.
He whispers to me through a mouth full of blood, "a true pacifist
must be willing to kill ... for peace." He closes his eyes and gives up the
ghost.
I hate Dogmapolis.
I take his rations and walk off.
Greg "Hong Kong Phooey" Petix






Christmas Eve
How can I describe how we feel alone
Only as one again -
moments by themself
Where two as one had been
Where breath and ,galvation, trifling and contemplation,
Hands, warmth, foots, cold and mirth blend.
Dawn's end we sought by nest
By womb
As friend. Now I worry
You're bygone: all earth,
Wit and heaven, days, sounds
And Silence
.
Whisper such thoughts untrue.
Soothe these cares
Tame fears.
I'll be deaf
Sad
And nothing cried could believe
As you'll rest forever last
My Christmas Eve.
Sean Creighton





Sabre Dance
Dave Edmunds is on the
stereo, guitar flashing
Sabre Dance, too unlikely
to ignore - -
"If
we
talk, will it go away?"
asks Missy, but we're all
gathered in the cascading
anomalies of sound, and I'm
not taking it off. "We're getting
older," says Woody, "and one day
we'll all be dead, and who's
going to take our place?"
Tad Richards
Friends
yes glance ...
Shall we dance?
Don't want any wrong ideas.
So
we sit down
And I clown.
It's worth it to hear you laugh.
Minds wonder.
He can't wander.
Where did those two go?
Talk to me and I'll
be
here.
I'll talk back, know you'll hear.
Let them think we've been kissing.
Hey, they don't know what they've been missing.
Hey, what else are friends for?
Mark Miller



Games of the Mind
Contact between them
on a higher level.
Understood by the mind,
unfamiliar to the flesh
.
Electric waves are felt,
ecstasy is the feeling.
A want, a need,
satisfied continuously.
Both have the same feelings,
the same emotions
.
Detected by one another
they know; It is time!
Venturing from their confines,
out to a mountain or a mystical plane.
Maybe to Mt. Olympus or to Shangri-La.
Rain falls from the clouds below.
Unaffected, they journey farther into the unknown
.
They are entranced and they do not want to leave.
But all good things come to an end.
Thus they return to their earthly bodies.
Satisfied until the next moment arrives.
Blackthorn






"A Morning Spent in the Park"
It
was approximately nine-thirty a.m.
People
were rushing on
to
their jobs, their homes,
their
responsibilities.
"People should
take more
time
to notice the beauty all around
them," Nigel
said, shaking his head tragically. Kenneth and Edward
nodded in
agreement.
"Rush, rush,
rush everywhere," Kenneth murmured
.
"Then
once
they get to wherever
they're
going,
they've got
to
pick up and rush off
to some other
place. No one
has
time
for
the simple things in life." He
signed and
leaned forward, resting his chin
on
the handle of his
oversized
umbrella. The umbrella
was
with
him
always; even though
the
sun
shone
brightly now,
no telling
when the heavens
would split
and shower all humanity.
Edward
held out
the
Thermos
bottle. "Would
anyone like more
coffee? There's still
a few
cups left."
"I
would, thank you," Nigel said.
Edward poured
out
a cup
and
passed it down
to him. They sat
there, on
their bench
in
Central
Park.
They
sat
near Strawberry Fields,
the
section
dedicated
to
John Lennon.
Now
and
then,
a young person
with
long
hair and starry eyes would come by and leave a flower or a
message there.
These were the polite ones; they always said a courteous
"good morning" to
the three of them. Sometimes they'd even stay and
chat
a
moment
.
Nigel was of
the
opinion that these pilgrims were
interested in
them only because
they
were English and still retained
their accents. The pilgrims probably assumed that these old gentlemen
had known their idol in
his
lifetime. But it was nice to have someone
new to talk to.
"Where
would you like to lunch today?" Kenneth asked. It was
five minutes to ten. "Any preferences?"
"Our
preferences are one thing,
"
Edward said dryly, "but our
finances
are quite another."
Nigel took "their" wallet_it was regarded as community
property_from
his pocket and counted the crinkled bills. "We have
fifteen dollars and forty-two cents."
"Hmmm,"
said Kenneth, "I suppose that will One of those 'fast
food' establishments?""Bleah!" exclaimed Edward. "Not if we can help
it. That gristle is death to my ulcer."They shrugged and sighed. Nigel
replaced the wallet within his vest.
"Look at me," Nigel said quietly. "Three Distinguished Service
medals in the war, and here I am. Old and decrepit, living in a low-
income housing unit, presently sitting on a park bench in New York,
attempting to decide between Burger King and McDonald's."
Kenneth patted his shoulder. "Nigel, be sensible! It's not as bad
as all that. You've still got all your wits about you. Your health is
excellent for a fellow your age. Things are bound to change for the
better."
"Of course they are!" Edward joined in. "No telling what we can






do, given the proper circumstances." He nodded. "Better times are still
ahead, for all of us.
This morning was no time for self-pity. The sky was an
incredibly perfect bright blue
.
The few
.
clouds that were out were
billowy and soft white. The grass and the flowers practically hummed
with life. The park was beautiful, but no one seemed to want to stop
and look. What a pity. Edward reach behind him and plucked a rose
from a bush. He carefully snapped the stem off and put it in the
buttonhole of his worn (but clean) greatcoat.
The usual morning activity buzzed about them. For lack of
anything better to do, Kenneth had placed his hate about five feet away
from their bench; they were now tossing playing cards into it. Their
eyes were still sharp, and they managed to get most of them into the
hat. At eleven o'clock, a rather impatient young jogger knocked over
their hat as he rushed off to wherever it was he had to be.
"I beg your pa
r
don!" Kenneth shouted after him. "I believe
you've knocked over my hat."
The jogger stopped
,
panting, and turned to glare at them. He
continued to glare as he walked back to them.
"You say something to me?" he asked
Kenneth was short, but he drew himself up to his full height.
"I did, sir. I asked you if you would be so kind to pick up the hat
which you have knocked over."
"Oh. Damn, I'm really sorry about that." With exaggerated
politeness, he righted the hat and put the cards back in. Then he
s
traightened up and took out his wallet.
"Why don't you old guys get yourself some jobs, huh? I hear
McDonald's is hiring seniors
."
He took out a crumpled dirty five-dollar
bill and threw it in the hat.
Nigel
,
Edward, and Kenneth stared aghast at the hat. It was an
abomination! Disgus
ti
ng! They raised their eyes at him, still staring.
"You
'
re welcome," sneered t
h
e jogger. He began jogging away.
Kenneth stood
a
nd helped Nigel to his
f
eet. Nigel picked up his
s
pecially designed walking stick. Edward adjusted his coat, and they
followed the jogger.
They caught up to him soon. He was walking slowly, clutching
his side.
"Oh dear, a stitch," Nigel tsk-tsked.
"They are terribly painful," Kenneth sympathized.
"Well," Edward said quietly, "they won't be a bother for long."
Kenneth held his umbrella as if he were "presenting arms."
When they were close enough, Nigel harrumphed loudly
The jogger wheeled around. "What-"
Kenneth brought his umbrella down squarely between his eyes.
The jogger nearly passed out, dazed. He mumbled thickly, ''You .. whas
gain' on ... "
Edward and Kenneth grunted and puffed the man over to
another bench and forced him to lie down.
"Knock
hey, what are ya







doin'? ... knock it off-"
N
i
gel pulled on the handles of his walking stick, unsheathing
the sword. He had bought from a frenchman in the War. The blade was
fine, similar to an icepick. He neatly pricked the man at the back of the
neck. The man began to gurgle. They waited. It was over quickly.
Kenneth closed the man's eyes and put the man's hands over
his heart. He pulled at the man's legs and managed to get them onto
the bench. The man now looked as if he had fallen asleep after a run.
Edward found the wallet and riffled through it.
"There's more than a hundred dollars here," he reported.
Nigel was taking deep breaths to get his wind back after his
exertions
.
"Greed never helped anything, gentlemen. Leave about thirty
dollars there, and put it back precisely where you found it."
The policeman who was interviewing them was young and plant, with
blond hair and freckles. He was very respectful as well.
"Now, gentlemen, you say you didn't hear or see anything
unusual? No, uh, suspicious characters?"
"No, sir," Nigel replied truthfully. "We saw no one unusual."
"Do you think that young, er, dark fellow we saw earlier might
have had something to do with this murder?" Edward questioned the
other two.
"I believe, Edward," Kenneth said gently, "that he was of Latin
descent
"
"Oh, that fellow!" Nigel gasped. "Good heavens, yes! Do you
know, Officer
.
.. yes! Now that I think about it, I think that man has been
here almost every day a murder happened!"
"Nigel, I do think you're right," Edward said, with a ponderous
expression. "Yes, doesn't he wear a huge diamond on his right hand?"
Kenneth nodded enthusiastically "Yes! Yes, that's the chap!
With a huge diamond."
The policeman made a note. "You think maybe this guy has
done all of them?"
·
"It's very possible," Nigel said firmly.
"Well, it's not a whole lot to go on, but
it
could help. So you
saw him today? Can you give me a description?"
"He was young," Kenneth Then he beamed at the young man
"I think he was about your age!"
The policeman grinned; these old guys reminded him of his
own granddad. The old guy lived up in Vermont, and he didn't see a
lot of him anymore. Maybe he should call him up ... no, better still, he
ought to drive up for a visit.
"Yes, young," Edward continued. "With, er, long dark hair."
"And he was wearing a
red
T-shirt and black jeans," finishing
Nigel. "Oh, and he had a lot of those large gold chains. The kind young
people seem to favor these days."
"Incredible, isn't it," Kenneth said, shaking his head. "These







young fellows are always complaining about how poor they are, but
yet they can afford those chains. How can they do that?"
The policeman grinned,
"My
sergeant wonders that too
sometimes. 0.K., gentlemen, you're fr~ to go, if you like."
"Thank you very much, officer," Nigel smiled. "I do hope you
find this criminal"
Kenneth and Edward helped Nigel to
his
feet, and they
carefully made their way out of the park
"Our financial situation has improved somewhat recently,"
Nigel murmured.
"Any
new suggestions on where to have lunch?"
"What about the lovely little French restaurant over on Tenth
Street?" Kenneth asked. "It's so picturesque."
"That's a fine idea!" said Edward. "And now, we've
enough for both carfare and our meal."
"No, I'd rather walk," Nigel said. He took a deep breath of the
fresh spring air. "It's such
'
a pleasant day, and there's no telling when
the weather might change."
Kenneth tapped along the sidewalk wit his umbrella. ''You're
quite right. Lovely day today."
"Oh yes," agreed Edward. "It's exceptional."
"You see, Nigel?" Kenneth grinned, poking him in the ribs. "We
were right. Things are beginning to improve already."
They proceeded down the street.
Lara Weiczezynski







Cathleen Ni, a dhiabhail.
*
Put down your sword, Cathleen.
Enough lives have been taking for a dream never to be seen.
All four pieces are forsaken to
Wish us dead.
Skies are crying. The seas are blood red
.
Children are dying over what has been said ... about their
memory.
Again we fail, without minority.
What have you done, Cathleen?
With four and four; twenty six plus six makes one??
But have you seen the clash of colours?.
Bombs at funerals?
Black flags burning?
IRA on the urinals?
How come, Cathleen?
There are tattered bodies against the wall?
Where is your fourth parcel, hag? What is it called?
600 year legacy of unrelenting hypocracy.
Cu Chulainn is dead, a slave to the faeries now, for trying
To chop off the wave's head
Oh the sky is bleeding.
Dead hearts are beating
And forgotten souls rot.
While the innocent are shot.
All around immortal scoundrels stand upon pedestals, high
.
Larger than life .. .in death.
and the children remain swans.
• a dhiabhail (a yeaw-ill): you devil (Irish).
Ed McEneney
4/89






A cushion of smoke
Carrying me
High,
.
Above the city of
Blackness and hate.
Carrying me
Higher
To drift among the
White vapor
And to sail to the
Orange moon,
Bu~ing me up to a
Handful of
Kaleidoscope dust.
Robin
Buckley
It
was night. There were stars.
There was the speedway. There were cars.
There were hills standing silent. There were trees.
There was wind. There was temperature, lowered by degrees.
I was there. I saw it all.
No raging voice had I. No madman's call.
I knew the night. I counted the stars.
I ran on grass. I climbed a tree.
The wind wept in loneliness. I answered its plea.
It
was night. There was the moon.
It
smiled with green teeth. It laughed like a loon.
There were other places. Different sights.
I had to go. I needed to see it all.
But I was not meant to. My destiny, she did not call.
I ran on the grass. I climbed the
hill.
The houses were empty. A cat in a window sill.
The wind wept. The tears fell from the tree.
I hung myself. For all to see.
Andrew Moraitis







CRISIS
The rain falls, a great man cries,
In the streets flow blood, a baby dies.
My heart is breaking, confusion on my mind.
Insanity rules the world, I cannot leave this behind.
Now right now, not just yet
.
The challenge is there, the challenge is met.
I feel responsible, I must answer,
To this dirge I am an unwilling dancer.
My enemy hovers at the
,
edge of my perception,
He knows he is the object of my obsession.
Perseverance will champion my cause
When my enemy is vanquished the world
will
pause.
Conrad Pierre Mauge'
Your Living Room
A paled worn green
carpet covers
the floor that snuggles
neatly into the panelling at every corner,
(white washed and faded).
The couch where Aunt Mary often sleeps
(the cats get the bedroom)
higher in the middle than on the sides
but very soft
smells like Christmas
(when we used to lie
and fall asleep together).
Kevin Dwyer






The View From Where I Stand
The swelter of midsummer had made it much too hot to work
indoors. Those that had foresight had left the city to escape the heat, but
I_ not lacking foresight_ but rather, money, was forced to remain. The
meager stipend which I had to subsist on at the university was enough to
get by, but I could not afford any luxuries, like going to the country.
The sun would rise high enough to make the city uncomfortable
by ten in the morning. I would be gone from the dorms by half past nine
and on my way to Washington Square Park. I had to get there early
if
I
wanted to beat the crowds and get one of the prime spaces to sit, one of
the steps surrounding the fountain. The park was deserted in the early
morning and I enjoyed the peace and quiet that this afforded me. The
fountain was turned on shortly
after
I arrived and great clouds of mist
floated
on the warm, summer breeze, coating the pavement on the
windward
side of the fountain with water.
As
the sun rose higher and the
ground warmed, the water began to evaporate into little wisps of steam.
About eleven, the pushcart vendors began to arrive in great
numbers for the coming lunch hour. Usually the park was the destination
of office workers who came on their breaks to escape the heat, and today
would be no different. The ever-present hot dog sellers arrived first and
stuck their claims to the most-valued spots. After them came the shish-
kebob men with their giant charcoal grill carts and thick clouds of gray
smoke that stink of burnt flesh. And finally, almost out of the
reminiscence of my parents,
came
the Good Humor ice cream men with
their
orange
and white carts with pictures of their ice cream on the sides.
At around twelve, the first people began to arrive. Most were just
passing through the park on their way to some other place, but some
came to sit in the cool shade. Office workers began to arrive and lines
formed at the food vendors. Lunchtime conversation and the sounds of
eating and soda cans hissing open drowned out the soft noises of the birds
chirping and the distant city traffic.
The sun rose high in the noon sky and beat mercilessly down on
the city All of the office workers, in their warm gray suits and dresses,
retreated under the trees to sip yogurt and eat tofu and bean sprouts. I
watched as the men took off their jackets and threw them over the backs
of the benches. Their linings were black and glistening with sweat and
they turned to talk with their coworkers and tried to be as interesting as
they could while wearing shirts transparent and sticking to their bodies
with perspiration. The women, in tum, ignored the
fact
that their
underarms soaked through their blouses and attempted to be alluring
while either talking about the sneakers they were wearing or the health
clubs they belonged to.
I chuckled at the humor of it, but my game was short-lived
because, as one o'clock neared, much of the noonday crowd went back to
where they came from and left the park mostly-deserted again.
I tried to return to my writing, but I was blocked and I threw my
pencil and pad down in disgust. I looked around and noticed an old man
who sat a few feet from me, down near the water's edge. He was bald









and wrinkled and his face bore the look on someone who had seen much
of life. His shirt was missing a few buttons, and the ones that it had were
sewn on from something else. His pants were tattered and patched and
he had a pair of dirty, brown socks balled-up in
his
shoes, and these were
placed next to him, I could feel his piercing eyes boring down on me.
"What're you doing, boy?" the man asked in
his
dry and harsh
voice.
"I'm trying to write a story ... sir." I said, adding the "sir" so as to
not offend him and cause a confrontation.
It
was much too hot for that.
"You know," he said as he stared at his feet soaking in the
fountain. "Growing old really sucks."
"I wouldn't know." I turned back to my work, hoping to end the
conversation there. Perhaps he sensed this and decided not to let me go
so easily.
"Are you going to be the best?" he asked.
I stopped writing and looked at him. "The best at what?"
"
The best at writing, or whatever it is you do with yourself!" he
snapped. As he spoke I could smell his foul breath and watched his
mouth as he talked and was nauseated by the blackened decay of his
teeth.
I looked down at my pad, resigned myself to the endless
in
t
erruptions, and signed. "I hope to be."
"You can hope all you like," he said. "But until you are the best,
it won't amount to shit."
"Oh, I don't know," I said and smiled. "I do pretty well for
myself."
"You're always going to be alone, then? Eh?"
"I don't plan on it."
,
The old man laughed, then began to cough violently. I took the
opportunity to retreat from the conversation and resumed my writing, but
it continued to prove difficult
.
He was doubled-over from
his
coughing
and when he stopped he looked over to me and saw that I was writing.
Out of the comer of my eye I saw him tum from me and he stared into
the fountain and began talking to himself.
He was quiet after a few minutes and seemed content to just sit
there with his feet in the water. I assumed that he had had enough of
talking to me, so I continued with my work. The time passed quickly, and
I began to get thirty in the hot afternoon sun. I put aside my pad and
began to fish through my satchel for my change purse to get some money
to buy a soda.
"You wouldn't happen to have any change to spare, would ya?"
he asked. He must have heard it jingling in my satchel and there was no
way that I could say no.
"Sure," I said begrudgingly and slapped some quarters down on
the step between us"Go get yourself something to drink."
"God bless you." he said as he picked up the change and walked
barefooted over to the nearest cart and bought two sodas. I thought of
getting up and leaving while he was gone, but he kept his eyes on me and
I knew I would feel guilty just leaving him there, so I stayed where I was.
He came back and sat down in his spot and put his feet back in





the water. he handed me a can of soda and struggled with the ffip-top of
his own. The can hissed and foamed as he opened it and he gulped a
mouthful before talking again.
"I was like you once," he said. "Self-centered and selfish. But that
comes with youth, and, hopefully, dies with it too."
I looked at him and said nothing, embarrassed because I knew he was
right.
"I suppose it's only natural that you want to squirm away from
me like you do. know I would if I were you."
"What gives you that impression?"
"Get off it boy!" he snapped. "Do you I think was born
yesterday?"
"Well, no." "All my life I've seen people like you run away from or ignore
people like me
.
In fact, I used to make fun of bums, too. Before I became
one."
There wasn't much that I could say, so I said nothing.
"I had dreams, too, when I was young" he said. "But then I didn't
realize that that's all they were, and that I'd have to work my ass off to
get them. I believe then that I was special_ better than anyone else _ and
that my dreams would just come true. I was wrong. I learned this too late
for it to help me, but you're still young and there's hope for you."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Never forget your dreams, boy
.
Keep and cherish them, but
always realize that they're not going to come true unless you make them.
You have to force the world to meet your needs, because it won't do it all
by itself."
I was thinking about what he had just said, and he snapped me
out of my thoughts when he next spoke.
"Don't forget you have a future, too Plan for it. It's more
important than the present because that's where you'll be spending the
rest of your life. I didn't think about that then, and look at me now."
"Doesn't the government help you?" I asked. "Don't you get Social
Security or something like that?"
"Not if you don't have an address."
"Isn't there anyone you can life with?"
"Would you want me to move in with you? No, neither would I.
I've no friends, no family, and anyone I knew or loved died long before
you were ever born."
I felt sorry for him and wanted to reassure him, but realized that
there was nothing I could do or say that would make him feel better.
"Nothing," he said to himself
.
"When I'm dead_ which won't be
too long from now _ I'll not have left even one single mark on the world.
No one will ever know that I was here, or am gone, for that matter. No
one." He put his socks and shoes back on and got up to leave.
"You know that's not true." I said and reached for my pad and
opened it to a blank page.
"Yes," he with a wink and a smile. "Why else would I talk to a
writer?"
Lawrence Deneault







The Masked Man Finds
His Place In The World
He lives where
,
things used to be,
where sons have no beards,
daughters have no breasts
He
is
flattered like an opossum
almost every night,
c.Tossing the super highway
where apple trees
and tufts of grass once protected him
from smooth hurtling cars.
He loses his money regularly
visiting where his friend Jake used to live,
now a supermarket.
He remembers the Sea Horse,
the Academy Theater,
the Black Swan,
the Little Red House
of Gifts,
the Garden of Eden.
Tad Richards





From Zero to Ninety
I am a thought, a dream, a wish,
I am living and breathing tissue,
I am reality
I am in college,
I am married,
I am a father,
I am a father of a father,
I am senile,
I am still,
I am a memory
Blackthorn



Controlled Insanity
Again
it initiates itself
touching all of my sensibilities
bringing forth
goose bumps winters that numbs me.
And somewhere
outside this reality
a marigold is
,
unfurling
reaching for sunshine
while the rest of my global siblings
tune out these possibilities
Still
I can feel it ascending
within
reaching a perfect crescendo
a testimony that attest
to things yet to come
And while
I sit in the absence of sound
frolicking with the square keys
the ad venture begins
where life seems to end
Again the pieces to the jig saw
lies scattered
and when laughter spills from
pale, dry lips _ I wonder at
where
it
comes and touch my lips ... to silence ...
Michael
J.
Love












phrases of deeper meaning ...
(1)
meditating in the darkness, no one else
is
aware ...
(2)
there's
something
about a motorcycle that makes me
want to glance at the rider ...
(3)
the ocean
slurs
its tidal waves
against the molten rock
only to leave a frosty foam
for the seagulls to dance in
Andrea Preziotti
In The Winter
In the winter,
The trees poke through the thick gray clouds like needles
And rip them open,
Letting the liquid sunshine
Spill like silver over the hills and the houses.
Laura
C.
Kuczma
Graffiti
The neon-colored words
Scrawled across the
Cement walls
And
Abandoned apartment halls.
The rainbow-colored
Wills of the
City children,
Silently screaming to be heard.
Robin Buckley










sw
or
d
of Aquarius (extended club remix)
A blue sky smiles down on me
.
It
is
like
a
blessing
.
Every nerve in my body is charged. My aura flares like a
ne
w s
t
a
r
.
My thoughts originate from a small burning point in the
center of my brain. I am focused. I have never felt this lucid.
From the top of the radio tower, I see a woman lying on the
gras
s,
reading. I want to yell down to her. I want her to know that
she's making a mistake. For I too have hidden behind books, and
they have only kept me from action. I have let words distract me for
too long
.
The letters, the speeches, and the demonstrations have
ac
c
omplished nothing. How long can I scream into the face of
apathy? How long can I prophet of Aquarius, but Aquarius doesn't
need any more prophets. He needs a sword.
Below, the R.O.T.C. cadets march onto the lawn, their brass
buttons twinkling like the eyes of snakes, yet their white uniforms
seem as pure as a clean conscience. Where are the dirty tears of
Vietnamese children, the blood of Nicaraguan mothers? Their
un
i
forms show no evidence of their horrible crimes. I will chance
that now
.
In my gunsight, the cadets march like toy soldiers. My cheek
rests on the cold steel of the rifle. My finger caresses the trigger.
I will bring peace.
Greg Petix







Sunday
It
was a Sunday morning like any other. Slipping in quietly,
Joe
leaned
slightly
forward in his pew, anxiously looking over the
bonnets.
He was hoping to catch a glimpse or perhaps a scent of any
one
of
the
poised women who sought the work of God this
invigorating
April morning. The
last strains
of
"'What
Will We
Promise,
What Will We Give?" released with emphatic vibratos of
"Amen" and
indicated to the Pastor
the
moment he had arduously
prepared for. There
was brief shuffling of chemise and leaves of
paper while
the congregation anxiously sought guidance from the
upcoming sermon. "Grace
be unto God
...
" the
pastor's
voice rose
over
the
fussy
children in the
rear
of the church. A few mothers
raised
cautioned eyebrows and an old gentleman snorted, startling in
awakening.
It
was then
that
Joe spied her. Diagonally across from
him, two
rows ahead, there sat
the
most exquisite mortal he had
ever laid eyes
on
.
Her bonnet sat high and black, higher than any
other hat dared sit, and
its broad brim proudly
maintained a
mountain of
raven feathers and lace trim. He could not quite
distinguish
the
color
of the hair that escaped the concealed bob pins,
but it was
wavy
and
produced
a
spray of various hues from
the
descending
stained glass light that enveloped her.
"Finally,
brethren,
pray
for us, that the word of the
Lord
may speed on and
triumph, as
it
did among you, and that we may
be d
e
livered from
wicked and
evil
men;
for
not all have faith
.
. ",
The
pastor
read
a
passage from
Thessalonians,
while Joe nervously
strained to
see
more
of
the
gentlewoman. Her
deep
set dark
eyes
never moved
from the sermon; they seemed
almost
in a perpetual
s
tate of daydream
.
What could
she
be
thinking?
Was she really
listening
,
or was
she immersed in
the
reverie
of a summer night
passed in
ecstasy?
He
wondered.
He noticed
she
had
a somewhat
pointed chin, and
approved
.
This
allowed
support for
a
carefully
outlined and
naturally
pursed mouth, which was on
the brink
of a possible smile.
If
he
stared
hard enough, he thought he could
imagine
the scent of
her
pouring
into him, fulfilling
the
delights of
youthful
cravings.
He caught
a
movement
in
her face as thin lined dark
eyebrows
slightly raised, but he could only see a portion of the high
forehead
sheltered by the shadow of the hat's brim. Her nose posed
no
interruption,
it sat as if almost
blending
into the rest of her
turned face; mere shadows for nostrils. Black lace partially
enveloped
her high ivory neck, parting in the middle, plunging with
delightful naked skin to the mid point of her small breasts where an
inviting, casual knot was positioned. Occasional black tulip-like
design sprinkled the sheerness of the rest of the shawl which
smoothly concealed both back and slightly slumped shoulders,
descending somewhere behind her. A floor length ivory peasant











o
wn c
ove
r
ed the remainder of her upper and lower delicate frame.
~r
ms i
n her lap, ivory hands delicately crossed, Joe could imagine a
spr
ing
of lilac peering out between both hands which obligingly held
o
pen t
he small hymnal in her lap.
"But the Lord is faithful;
·
he will strengthen you and
u
a
r
d yo
u from evil.." Joe would guard her from any evils. There
~
eed be
no Lord above to do it, he challenged silently, interrupted
b
y
the
ris
e
of voice in the man of the cloth. He could envision her in
mu
lti
pl
e
precarious situations, where he, the dashing champion,
wo
uld d
elive
r
her from any debauchery. Her honor would be his
paramou
nt
c
oncern
.
But first, how to convince her to walk with him
after t
he
s
ervice? He would hold her delicate arm in the strength of
.
h
is own
,
s
topping occasionally in his unravelling tales of self, to
g
u
ide h
er
ey
e to the beauty of opening blossoms along the roadway.
S
h
e woul
d laugh lightly at his earnestness, letting go sweet breath
into the grac
efu
l
morning air. She might carefully remove her black
h
at and bob
pins
,
unfurling her long hair to the sunlight's pleasure,
the
n
leap h
ap
p
ily on the support of his sound frame as they strolled.
Roused from his personal rev
e
l
a
tion, Joe stumbled to his
f
eet at t
h
e l
ast words of the Benediction, making his way dauntlessly
a
gainst the
bustling shouts of "Good moming .. Oh, yes, it is a
wonderful
morn! How are the kids? And Thatcher's sick sow ... ?" Joe
finally reac
hed the pew she was still occupying
,
and let go a feeble,
"Emily
. I
'v
e come."
"Well, it's about time, Joe," she remarked pointing a
b
ony, a
ccu
si
ng finger in his face, strands of silver hair loosed from
its
b
un. "
Lord only knows how much blasted sleep
a
husband seems
t
o need
c
o
me Sundays. I shoulda known you'd be dozin' yer dem
life away ...
" she continued but, Joe had turned off his hearing aid.
S
ig
h
i
ng wearily and stroking his brow shakily with a handkerchief,
h
e t
hen e
a
sed her decrepit frame into the wheelchair.
As
he bent
aw
kw
ardly to position her gown, he could smell the familiar
mot
h
ball fragrance from her bonnet mixing with his own Old Spice.
"I promise I won't oversleep next week, Emily .. " he
v
o
w
ed ineffectively as he wheeled her slowly out into the glaring
sunlight toward home. The final chords of "God Moves In A
My~terious Way" serenaded only a few Sunday stragglers. "Blind un-
be-hef is sure to err,/ And scan His work in vain;/God is His own
in-ter
-
pre-ter,/ And He will make it plain ... "
Desiree
S.
Brennan



oh richard
oh richard
because of richard
stumbling over everything
mistaken for lovers
you've lost focus
judging books by their covers
oh richard
deceitful richard
he's got two faces
he'll spread his wings for you
pulling into his trap
thinking the illusion is true
poor richard
such a very shallow man
understand him if you can
he can be so very nice
or he can be as cold as ice
don't be fooled by his game
he can be so very clever
thinking that he's sincere
and never leave you ever
oh richard
beware of richard
he is so hard to see
so vacant and evasive
his purpose can be devilish
and incredibly persuasive
poor richard
such a shallow man
understand him if you can
he can be so very nice
or he can be as cold as ice
Art Cusmano











A Made-Up Man
You know not what I do,
How it
is
to live on the other side.
Yet, the other side
is
·
as fantastic to me
as the
"Normal
Side"
is
to you.
I soar in my beaded gown,
with my platinum hair
and electric studded shoes.
I entertain, not put down,
those who do not understand.
For you wonderful pink people,
full of warmth,
who do accept and care. ..
all our
"
deepest love
which pours from our hearts
like syrup
and sticks to you
in a sweet frenzy
...
You are all the more human,
all the more real
You POOR SOULS,
who do not see,
the real beauty .. .
the real essence .. .
inme.
You whose hearts are shriveled
like a burnt crumb.
The ones who judge me,
when I'm in all my glory;
but befriend me,
when I'm in your costume.
In reality,
my world,
is
the same.
It looks different with all it's
Brilliant bright lights ...
It's neon signs
..
.
The night spots ..
.
where your acquaintances go,
whether you know
...
or not?
They are there,
and it may surprise ...
Oh no, but its not to cry,
The world has changed,
such as man ...
In a made-up world,
lives
A Made-Up Man.
Jason
T.
Suttile








The Cat Burglar
I have lived in the city all my life, and I have never had the desire
to live in a more rural area, but I did on one occasion visit the country and hence
this story.
My father, mother and myself had an apartment in Queens, New
York. My grandmother on my mother's side had come to live with us because she
was unable to live alone and we couldn't afford a nursing home. She was a
strange woman who was perpetually afraid of someone breaking in while she was
asleep and stealing all of her worldly possessions.
My uncle Joe on my father's side had a farm in the country and he
invited us out for the 4th of July. Normally we don't celebrate the 4th of July
because it doesn't mean much to us. I mean, it's great that America won its
independence and all, but we weren't there so why celebrate? (of course, one
might argue that we shouldn't have celebrated Christmas either, for the same
reason, but we enjoy getting gifts so I guess it's a selfish holiday).
Anyway, uncle Joe and Aunt Ruth and cousin Emma and Grandpa
lived on the farm and invited us out so we decided to go see them. Grandpa on
the farm was on my father's side, so it's not like my grandparents were divorced.
My great-grandparents were separated, but that's not quite the same.
I was fourteen at the time of this visit, so when I got to the farm I
immediately focused my attention on cousin Emma. Emma was seventeen and to
say that
she
had come into her womanhood was an understatement. She had
steeped gracefully into her femininity like a ballerina might pull on her tu-tu just
before a big presentation of "Swan Lake" or 'The Nutcracker Suite: or something
like that.
Anyway, cousin Emma came bouncing out to the car with her halter
top
and
her
short
shorts and her wonderful womanhood spilling out all over, and
my attention was instantly funneled to her. That, sadly, is the way of the
adolescent male, so some of the story had to
be
filled in by my father, because I
missed it, being preoccupied watching Emma.
The first thing we did upon arrival (after the usual "It's been so
long," and "My, haven't you grown"), was make the sleeping arrangements.
It
was
decided
that
my parents would sleep in the attic room and Grandpa would take
Emma's room
.
Grandpa, who usually slept in the attic, said he'd sleep in the
hayloft in the barn. When that met agreement he started off to bed but stopped
when it was explained to him that bedtime wasn't for another four hours or so.
He grunted
and
said he was just going to investigate the loft to make sure the
hay was satisfactory. Last of all it was decided that Emma and I could sleep in
blankets on the living room floor. Everything met my approval quite nicely.
Emma and I walked around the farm a little and she showed me the
barn and the hayloft and all the animals. There were some sheep and goats and
pigs, but mostly there were cows. For my part, I missed all of it. Like I said
before, the human male in the throes of puberty is a sadly inefficient animal.
It was later, during dinner, that I got my first look at the family cat.
It was a very large tiger cat, kind of orangeish with black stripes (hence the name
"tiger" I would expect). Emma explained that Mo (the cat) had a habit of sleeping
in her room at night (which didn't seem like a bad idea to me, either). That's why
all the trouble started.
At about 9:30 we all decided to go to bed because we'd be rising
very early; Mom and Dad climbed to the attic, uncle Joe and aunt Ruth went to
their room, Grandma retired to Emma's room, and Grandpa went to the hayloft
with a triumphant "Hasn't been four hours yet!" Emma went to the closet to get













blankets and soon I was watching her fall beautifully asleep.
our
A
short time later I heard a soft "meow" from the door and I let Mo
me
in.
He immediately went to Emma's room for some rest. He jumped up on
c~
dre
sse
r and I heard the soft clanking of various cosmetic articles
.
t
e
Grandma immediately woke up, and, thinking
it
was a cat burglar
( he was half right) she threw the only thing within arms reach-her shoes. For
5
me reason women always throw their shoes. They could
be
on top of a gravel
SC:t and if they needed something to throw they'd take off their shoes and hurl
fhem
at
whatever the annoyance was.
Anyway, Grandma's first shoe made quite a crash, and her second
shoe hit
the
target. Mo let out a scream that sounded absolutely human and
bolted
from
the room.
Emma jumped up and I watched, enraptured. Mom, Dad, uncle Joe
and aunt Ruth all came hurtling (as well as they could) down the stairs. Uncle Joe
grabbed his shotgun and let a blast go through the window after the fleeing
"burglar
."
Then he went down under a barrage of senior citizen footwear.
However, his
shot
had startled the cows and Grandpa. The latter, believing that
the herd
was
beset by rustlers, let go about four blasts with his gun, stampeding
most of
the
an
i
mals, killing two, and breaking a lantern that started the barn on
fire
.
Uncle Joe was out cold and the other adults were all shouting at each other
to be quiet when Emma glided over to the group and melodiously stated that it
was the cat that started it and the barn was on fire.
My father immediately went to put out the fire and aunt Ruth went
to calm
Grandpa
while Mom and Grandma stayed with uncle Joe. When he came
to he
was
slightly enraged (that's a contradictory statement, I realize, but he
wasn't
entirely
enraged, it was sort of mild, hence the contradiction). He had lost
at least two-thirds of his livestock, half his barn, and Grandma had knocked him
out with a shoe.
We haven't been invited out to the farm since. I did see Emma once.
I was twenty-one and she was twenty-five and pregnant. I was glad
to
see that
she was beautiful even without the derangement of adolescence to cloud my
vision. We talked for a
'
while and then parted, both of us chuckling about the
night we had a cat burglar break in.
Paul
A.
Lawrence








Love Dwells Within
My house is my lover -
it waits silently through
each and every hour,
quietly certain
that I will return
with some evidence
of my affections ..
.
A broom, floor wax,
a scented candle,
caulking, a mouse trap,
potting soil.
I know others inquire
where
it
is I go,
so hastily, all aglow
when dusk sets in
.
I know they long
to peer within and chance upon
our love making.
But I secure the doors
and windows and draw
the curtains taut.
I will not allow
a division between us
.
We consummate our love
from twilight 'til dawn;
I lie sweetly embraced in the
comfort of my lover's wooden
enclosure and I awake
satisfied with the night colognes
that still mingle on
my naked skin.
Rising reluctantly, I lovingly
smooth out any wrinkles
between us.
Whatever clutter I
might leave behind
is a tender d
i
sorder
that lingers while I am
away. (We do not quibble
over the trivial).
For tonight, I may return
with a firewood bundle
and we will luxuriate
collectively
in the conflagration
of our affections.
Desiree
S.
Brennan






Master
You be me
I'll be
.
you
You slice
I bleed
You're the flame
I am the wax
You deceive
I believe
You don't understand
I can't explain
You pour the poison
I shall drink it
Janet DeSimone
Spirit
Sounds drift off the river,
memories float to the sky
as I sit here thinking, of You and I.
The wind blows .
..
spirits rise - up off the waters
and dance in a circle
..
.
making waves with their feet
.
The night is still
the spirits dance,
the river's rough,
Their wild dance.
The church bells ring
I open the door -
There, I see, on the alter, you lie.
The spirits have come to give you a name
of which You'll rise to glory and fame.
I kiss your feet. ..
my hands sweat
I endure the torment
of the deceased prophet.
Robin Martini
,




Sad Beneath the Tree's Blanket
Tiris looked, resisted and remained. Hid beneath a
neighborhood of leaves, brown, yellow, some wet others dry, he
clothed his -self from existence. Behind the blue boy's, blonde-eyed
eyes was a brain full of angst; anxious to bounce out, break the barrier
he built, and pride the airy energy of youth clouding his warmful
lungs. Instead he hung there, on the ground silent. Nothing but his
storm brewed.
To open his eyes: would courage then overcome the past he
saw? Give him a tempest of force to rid those men from whom he hid
.
He never did. He wanted to cry. He did. And saltfilled taste, sublime,
brought memories of his mother again. And he mourned and he cried
and he stayed, rotting in the puke of his own foul breath. This brought
memories of his mother again. How she choked on the men's same foul
breath ever-moments: and pitifilled she coughed again, and like Christ
she waned under the hands of ignorant men, prayerfilled, hopefilled,
and watching, as her face her faith bled, watching the diseased goals
of men plug pipes in her arse, and suck gold from her breasts. Tiris
knew the men knew her death. And he cried.
Sad beneath the tree's blanket, ever-sounds he heard where
internal: like the banty, eatish fume, tearing, drilly, excavate, searching
for more something, anything in the tissue-walls lined stomachs-high.
"Allwhere!" the menish gases mewd and the gashy men marred as his
mother woke and slept and woke and slept and woke and slept and
woke and moaning! melted, by old molds told new: "Ouch'erts!" Sad
below the tree's blanket, her blessed boy hurried bellowed thoughts
and licked his hallowed, hulled Mum.
Sean Creighton














fathers
I always
loved the
zoo,
watching the moneys fly back and
forth
f rn
on
e
branch
to the next, holding cups lip to the glass
that they desperately
ro
to grab.
Today there were a few new-born babies there and the mother was
~ryttling
other
females for possession. I asked an attendant about it and
he
said
/
was because
they were taking the baby so she would have time for herself, to
1
lean
h
er
self,
eat, maybe catch a movie or something. The other gals would gladly
c
jve the
baby
back once she had quieted down.
g
I wondered where the father was and looked over at the guy
rnonk
e
ys
hanging out in the corner, probably talking about last Sunday's game
or
something
like that, maybe kicking a few nuts around later
.
I wondered which
one
w
as
the father
and why he wasn't over
there
helping
his
gal out.
I
went to
the
circus yesterday. Mrs. Williams took me and the rest
of my brothers
and sisters. Nine of us
.
Kind of a strange number when you think
about
it
.
Most
people go for an even dozen, or a lucky seven or even a flat-out
ten
.
.
.
bu
t
I guess
Mom and Dad were happy with nine.
Well
anyway, we went
to
the circus and had the greatest time
.
I love
the clowns,
just
watching them work for a laugh. Isn't laughter
supposed
to be
the
be
s
t medicine?
I wonder if that was what Mrs. Williams was thinking. We all
laughed at
the
clowns and I decided that's what I wanted to be when I grew up.
Makin
g
people laugh and forget their problems had to be the best. Imagine that
feeling
of hundreds, of thousands, of people laughing
at
something you're doing,
something
that you want them to laugh at.
A couple of days ago Mrs. Logan took us all to the amusement park.
It
seemed
like all of Mom's friends were taking turns with the
crazy, fun-loving
nine.
It
was a hard week for Mom. But the McKennas dropped off a steaming
lasagna one night and Mrs.
Deleo
sat and played spoons with all the kids
another night while Mom kept busy, calling people and getting calls, signing
checks and hurrying from one thing to the next. Throughout it all, she stood
strong
.
I
don't
remember
her crying at all. I don't remember me crying. What a
long strange week it's been.
I did feel a little sad at the amusement park. Dad and I had always
done
the
bumper cars together. It was weird getting into the car and not knowing
~
single person around me, not seeing Dad breaking the rules and turning around
m his lane to ram me head first. I just drove aimlessly, getting bashed over and
over
again.
I guess all these fun things were suppose to make us forget
the
funeral. It didn't work. I wonder what Mom was doing at home.
.
I remember back in July just before our trip to Maine, Daddy went
mto the hospital. The trip had to be postponed. We all kind of bummed around
that summer, waiting for him to come out. He didn't.
I went back to school and somehow everyone knew. Mothers must
have told their kids to
"Be
nice to Billy. His father has leukemia." That word
always seemed to be said so quietly, like we were in a library or something like
that. I mean, he wasn't dead yet, people. I mean, I didn't care
if
you talked about
grandpa or anyone else. They WERE dead. But not my daddy.
But it was hard to visit him in his little room in the hospital. First
~fall, you had to be sixteen and none of us were, none of the kids anyway. We
ad to hang out at home, get the news from ma every day about what new
nurse~ were hanging out with him and what new
pain
Dad was enduring.
~cas1onally we had our special visitation rights put into action and the nine of
r s
Would
pack
into
the car and head off for the hospital, each going into the
oorn one at a time to have a short bonding session with Dad while the rest got












to sit in the waiting room and check out the magazines. Once I found these really
cool toys by Fisher Price. Man, did I want them.
When you went in the room, Mom acted as the prompter. Dad was
so small and skinny and pale. He wasn't supposed to be like that. No Dad
was.
Mom would look dumb, trying to pull us into a "normal" conversation. But
it
would usually end up with something about "Billy, tell Daddy about your
last
soccer game." And I'd ramble about my two assists and my major screw-up, not
passing back to the halfback who had open field everywhere and instead, stupid
me, centering way too early but that's what these leagues were for, Dad said,
to
make mistakes now and learn. I guess he was right
.
I mean, I had learned so much since the first year my father had
entered me in soccer and the coach put me at center fullback. We'd hang out and
play in the dirt until the other team came running down the field and all the
parents would start screaming. 'THEY'RE COMING!!!" We would get up and
brush the dirt off ourselves. What was the big deal.
So
they were coming. Didn't
Dad say it was only a game?
So Mom would prompt a little more and I would stutter a
few
sentences about my bad attitude in school and how little Terry, my gal, was
doing. Terry's great. We hung out the day my Dad died and had the best time.
He's been out of the house so long, it's almost like we've been getting ready
for
him to leave and do that "everlasting" thing.
•
Terry and I had the big problem of figuring out that everlasting
thing. I mean, how could it work? She was the only outsider there when Mom
told the crazy nine. Terry was practically the tenth anyway.
I had been jumping about the house to my brothers' Beatie album
but I quickly calmed myself down. Dead. That evil word leukemia, said so quietly
everywhere, had changed to another whisper, a shorter, colder one. I turned
around and walked out back. Terry followed me.
We sat on the back swing for the longest time, trying to see what
this would mean. But there's no way I could see that then
.
We talked and talked;
we seemed to be two of the deepest third graders I've ever heard of. But mostly
we just sat in silence and watched the sun go down, swinging back and
forth,
squee
z
ing hands. It was a mistake for all the Mrs. Logans and Williams and
DeLeos to make me try and forget that. Dad was dead. There was nothing else
to it ... and only Terry and I could fully understand the wonder of that moment.
Here I am now, some tw
e
nty five years later with an English degree
from Ohio State, a soccer scholarship long gone buy my coaching days at their
peak. A thirty-four year old father of three, in top physical shape for so long, just
laying here day after day.
Terry brought my youngest in, how cute she looked in her little
dress and pigtails. She had gotten all dressed up for me. It was only so often that
we did see each other these days.
"Come here, honey. Give Daddy a kiss." She pounced upon me but
stepped back, somewhat cautious, on her best behavior. I wanted just to hold on
to her, show her how much I loved her
.
.. but I didn't want to scare her.
"Go ahead, Elizabeth," Terry prompted. 'Tell Daddy about the zoo."
Mark Miller




no longer lost
hey little boy where have you run
to where are you now for there's
a ball and a swing, sleeping in
the yard but you don't play any-
more hey little boy where are you
now and what are you doing, for
your mother is calling and crying;
her little boy's a man see
the picture, the flash of a camera
hey little boy remember me, i don't
see you in these shadows but i feel
that we've met and did i ever tell
you that brothers love? come to me
softly, i'm having trouble sleeping
and trouble dreaming i need to be
reminded of your presence - am i
blind are you near i'm turning
madly in this world. could you be
lost? well i can't believe you're
being put to rest today, dust to
dust was to be several miles down
the road from where we dreamed of
heroes and of being men. i believe
in you, in your love and your dreams-
no matter where they lie you down
i'll love you because you are no
longer lost.
Andy
Moraitis








Welcome to Arizona
Looking at the faces
and the one with the forced smile.
Gleaming grin with teeth so white
yet eyes so preoccupied.
Almost as
if
she's waiting
for someone to rescue her
As she and the others pose
around the "Welcome to Arizona" sign.
Figures frozen still
but she can move
Or at least she wants to
raise her face to the turquoise
sky.
Looking for something she does not have
But what is
it?
that she does not have.
Don't know.
But she does look somewhat content
Almost as
if
she's used to it.
Jen McLaughlin






River Past
trickling down over the rocks
a running faucet to the world
bathing fertile soil
later on i join my brothers ...
Adam and Eve frolicked in me once
·
Indians of yesterday have spun legends around me
i am home for the salmon
a fountain for the deer
a reservoir of beauty for man
Andrea Preziotti
The Hunting Instinct
Wolves cry out in the night
A howling call, a screaming cry,
An instinct borne of blood.
Greeting each other
in
low growls,
The animals paw the pebble studded ground.
The wind carries them up heat and
blood scents from the coyotes below.
Bodies stiffen, and pulses quicken,
instincts sharpen, and appetites ripen,
like thunder.
Silently agreeing, they begin their swift descent
On feet that fleetingly pad the earth,
Down trails, passed on for generations.
But now they must cross the freeway first.
Unexpectedly, a Death Rider,
clad in plates of Detroit Armor, mowed
down a straggler.
The cayotes sleep on peacefully,
the danger never told.
The pack mourns the loss of a brother,
but still leaves the fresh kill on the road.
Ellen Mooney



The Surrender
Is it really feasible to lose one's mind? For one to totally sever that
thread-like line that keeps one connected to reality. To abandon all relations
dealing with the norm of society. To encase oneself in some sort of self-created
delusion whereas the only crisis faced would
be
contained on one's mind. To
struggle day in and day out with the chains that have imprisoned your thought
process; a fetter you chose to lock. Losing touch with the world's sober existence
and journeying to a land that is much more intense; a place where darkness i~
prevalent, and icy tunnels try to misguide you; sway you from the route of
recovery. I must admit
that
this world can be quite an exciting place, one where
boredom is practically null. You see, many people look at madness as a disease.
However, I rather fancy it and look toward it as something of a cure.
I once knew intimately a woman of such impressive disposition. lssabelle
Sarah Masterson was her birth name, but Madam Eye it became as time moved
on. Although I have yet to find out the meaning behind thisfuzzling nickname,
I do suppose it will remain with her for life, if only out o sheer habit. There
always was a certain air of mystery surrounding her, so in essence, the lack of
definition behind her pseudonym fits in quite well with her whole personality.
Madam Eye was a shadowy vision of beauty; physically, spiritually,
emotionally, and mentally. Her auburn hair cascaded down her delicate
shoulders, framing her ivory face like it was an artist's masterpiece. Her eyes
were the
castle
where her true spirit resided. They were a lustrous black. Those
eyes were as deep and as rich as the bogs found along the countryside. They
were wild like the stallion yet tame like a household canary. Her neck was long
and slender, much like her exquisite hands. The provocative pout of her
lips
could
bring warmth to the largest of icebergs, reducing it to a mere snowball. I
surely have not done her a bit of justice by my mortal and meager description.
Though I've tried abundantly to describe her freshness, you will never
understand or appreciate this wonder until you've met Madam Eye.
The particulars of our relationship have become somewhat fuzzy. But,
I
will
try to muster up as much of the circumstances my recollection will allow
me to. I can never forget the memory of unity, the feeling of utter contentment
I had when
she
was near. We were one soul bound together by chains of contra-
diction. Madam Eye
embodied
every quantum of passion and love I was ever
able of bestowing upon another existing spirit. Our path seemed to cross at the
strangest time. I was doing some research for my dear friend Edgar, who was
working on another one of his dreadfully haunting, psychologically terrorizing
stories. I was in the psychology library at Oxford, terribly fascinated by the newly
published manuscript of Freud's latest work, when she appeared.
"Excuse me sir. Would it
be
alright with you if I shared your table?"
I was so enthralled in this vision of beauty that stood before me, that the
words spoken seemed to escape my understanding.
"Sir!? Are you feeling a bit under the weather?"
A trance beheld my mind. All I could do was stare into the blackness of
her pupils.
.,
"Are you going to faint? Would you like me to get you a glass of water?
Her face was veiled with anxiety. "I'll get a doctor!"
Finally my comprehension level returned to normal and I was able
to
drudge up a sentence. "No-no. That won't
be
necessary. I'm quite good, thank
you. Please, sit and join me."
'Thank you. I was quite worried about you for a moment. I thought I










d witnessed a sudden death before my eyes. What a horrible event that would
11a
"
ve been.
Ila
"I imagine so. Dreadful. Simply dreadful."
"What a brilliant man he is."
I
looked around the library and saw that we were isolated from society.
Wllo could she mean?
She was quick in sensing my confusion and clarified her statement.
"I mean Dr. Freud."
Why of course that's who she meant.
I
had to get hold of my senses.
I
was losing my thoughts due to this ravishing lady.
"Yes, he does have an extremely fascinating intellect."
"So, why are you in this part of the library? Just
reading
up on Freud for
the enjoyment?"
"I
am lending a hand to a friend of mine.
Doing a bit
of research for the
dear chap."
Suddenly we were thrust back to reality. No longer were we the only
two people in existence. A third
'
sign of life appeared and contemptuously
scolded us for breaking the vow of whispering.
"I'll let you get back to your research
.
Sorry to have disturbed you." She
acted as if she was the sole cause of our reprimand.
This was my chance, my massive opportunity.
I
suddenly was overcome
by a st
r
ong urge to grab this flower in my arms and delicately plant a kiss on her
fragil
e
petals.
I
would never do this to her, because she was much too much of
a lady to even subject her to such lewd behavior, and quite frankly,
I
would
never have the nerve for such a daring act of passion. However,
I
had to do
something.
I
could not let her escape my affections, and my time was quickly
dwindling.
I
might never see her again.
I
couldn't
go
on then with life, never
having attempted a move. There was something that attracted me to her, like ivy
to a wall.
I
totally disrobed myself of familiar character and took the leap.
I
stuttered immensely, but it was finally understood by her that
I
would most enjoy
her company for a cup of tea.
We sat for quite some time sipping tea and nibbling on biscuits in a
quaint little cafe, that had quite a bit of coziness about it. We conversed about
most every topic imaginable. Archery, government, German streudel,
Machiavelli's "Belphegor" and classic cognacs were just some of the conversations
we delved into. She could dabble in any subject one brought up. Such a learned
woman she was. She would talk on any social, economic, or political issue
occurring in the world, yet when asked an occasional personal question, she
"".ould stop talking, avert her eyes for a moment, and start up again with a
diff~rent subject to remove attention from herself. There were a great many things
I failed to learn about her, but that didn't seem to matter. For the things
I
was
1?1°wledgeable about, such as her kindness, her free innocence; the way she lived
~fe, was far more precious to me than any other personal history could ever have
een.
For two reasons I shall not bore you with every last detail of the union
~f each event that we shared. The first being that I must plead guilty to a lack of
otal recollection (be it a self-induced memory lapse or perhaps a drug-induced
one.) And secondly, the memories I can recall would only appear trite and
h?pelessly romantic to one who didn't experience them. They would lose their
Vigor and freshness in the translation.
0
As rapid as my dream became truth, it was just as quickly shattered.
If
0
nly one had the power to predict the path the present will take. For then and
5
~Y
then could things have been modified into perfection. My love and I were
Ing by the Thames River, basking in the glorious sun of our sixth month pre-

















nuptial intimacy. We were savoring an extravagant French wine. Aliens to
all
outsiders. Then the stranger invaded. (I actually find my adored one and
Mr
Koma's acquaintance most ironic since it was I who initially introduced them~
one another.)
Ah, Mr. Ulysses Ronald Koma. I was surely no stranger to this
gallant
knight who had obtained medals of countenance. Ulysses was a dashing man,
not
quite resembling his age of thirty-three years. He was kind and sensitive;
never
even daring to think a bitter thought about anyone. I can continue praising
hint
or proclaiming him god-like, but it isn't necessary. I could like it to be known
that
Mr. Koma and I are the antithesis of one another. He incorporates every quality
I most admire in mankind and so enviously long to imitate, but can't due to
fear
.
I used to dwell on my inadequacies quite often, but since meeting Madam Eye,
all my shortcomings no longer mattered. However, now it seemed that every
seed
of confidence she planted in me has blown away.
As he approached our blanket, intimidation burned through me like 1
comet shooting across the sky. I introduced them, and Madam Eye was quick
to
invite him to join us in a glass of wine. They stared at each other, in much the
same way I had stared at her upon our first encounter. The difference being, she
now returned his passionate eye contact whereas
,
I don't believe she
ever
returned mine.
I've cursed that day ever since. After their meeting, Madam Eye
and
myself started having difficulties. I was lucky
if
I was able to see her twice in
one
week. And when confronted with coy excuses, I tended to become slightly
inflicted with paranoia.
It
seemed the more I pursued her, the more she longed
to liberate herself from my doting clutches. I decided to make a visit to my love
and beg for her hand in wedlock.
"Hello my dear." I moved to kiss her hand, but she gracefully slipped
away.
"Good day
,
" she said with a bitter chill in her voice.
There was a deadly silence that covered the room like a mourning veil.
It lasted for what seemed like infinity. I decided not to delay this any longer. I
should just ask her.
So,
I blurted out, "Madam Eye, I adore the air you breathe.
I would be most honored
if
you would share my remaining years with me
.
"
It was obvious by the loud gulp she made that my statement had startled
her and made her most uncomfortable.
"My dear friend, I think it is time we had a talk
.
I've wanted to talk
to
you before, but I was afraid you'd be destroyed." There seemed to be
some
warmth returning to her voice
.
My stomach ached from the knots being formed inside it. "What is
the
problem my love?"
"We've shared many splendid days together, and those days can
never
be forgotten, but I can't marry you."
The ache increased to an excruciating dolor.
"I will always feel a great closeness to you, but the intense feelings you
have for me, I can never return, for mine beiong to Mr. Koma, I am terribly son}'•
I never meant to bring you sadness
.
"
I was suddenly hit by a large burst of acrimony. ''You can't just
walk
away. We've shared so much, you have to give me a chance. I will love
you
immensely."
"Would you really want to marry me
if
I could never return all your
affection?"
"I can love enough for both of us."
'That wouldn't be
fair.
In a union, each member's feelings must
be
shared, otherwise the two people will grow in resentment of each other. I do 50
















t t
o
spare
you anguish. You are a very special person, and I hope that we can
wan
f.
d "
lo
se
nen s.
t,e
c
M
y head was throbbing, waiting to explode and let my frustration ooze
t Ro
un
d and round in my head circled the same phrase - I can't marry you
-
0\ .
I
•
marry - CAN'T. no! - No! - NO!!!! I could no longer stand this
s
uffering,
Y
0
1
s
tor
med out of her flat without even looking at her one last time. As I have
5fread
y m
entioned, the seventh month of our relationship was surely showing
a_ ns o
f
d
e
terioration. I suppose secretly I possessed the knowledge that would
5
\~ay
s fo
rb
i
d us from extreme blithe
,
yet I refused to behold the dastardly truth.
Titis
suppressi
on of my affection led me to extreme obsession. I should have seen
this c
o
m
i
ng. Mr. Koma is a pillar of strength, honor and integrity. I was nothing
great
er
tha
n
a
feeble shell, afraid of courage, intimidated by truth; destined
to
rely
on help
ex
tr
a
cted from bourbon and rye. Now I ask you: What chance does a
man o
f my
disposition have against a man of such moral decency? Quite a slim
one I s
hould
like to add, especially considering it was a romantic competition.
After
two weeks of trying to channel my idiosyncrasies into more
con
crete
affairs,
the obsessions I
tri
ed desperately to lock away, found a route of
es
c
a
pement. I b
ecame consumed with wanting Madam Eye to share her love with
me,
inste
a
d of
Mr
.
Koma
.
My concentration diminished, and every original idea
1
pai
n
s
tak
in
gly
conjured up was soon replaced with notions of her
.
My intuition
told
me to let
i
t go. Block it all out! But, it wa
s
far beyond release. I found myself
con
stantly h
iding in the bushes by he
r
flat, waiting to watch her return from her
even
i
n
gs wi
t
h
Mr
.
Koma, I'd follow them, staring hatefully at the two of them as
they
gallivant
ed around the town, oblivious to the scorn they've instilled.
Th
is
situation was taking quite a toll on my health. My face was
tran
sforme
d
i
nto a long, sunk
en-
in mask that hid my eyes in hollow craters. My
diet
consiste
d mainly of bourbon and tobacco smoke with the exception of a few
piece
s of
d
ry
toast that my companions would force me to digest. I'd pace the
nigh
t
awa
y,
fo
r as soon as I dared to shut my ey
e
s, their voices w:ere heard,
laugh
i
n
g
gaily t
o
gether, in a land of total bliss. I also avoided slumber, afraid
Mada
m
Ey
e
would call me, agreeing to my proposal, and I might sleep through
this jo
y
ful opportunity
.
My close acquaintance, Edgar, could no longer stand to
be
a bystander
in thi
s
g
ra
dual suicide. He beseeched me to see a professional who was more apt
to dea
l
with such disorders. I fully disagreed with him, but in an attempt to
humor
him,
I obeyed his wishes. I do not wish to dwell on my session with the
reco
mmen
ded doctor, so I will make this as brief as possible. He advised me to
f~rg
et all t
he voices I heard, block out every thought remotely connected to the
s1t~at
i
on, and start life anew. Advise that was music to the ears, but a shattering
noise
to t
h
e
mind. I then graciously thanked the good doctor and bowed out.
.
Even during my obsession, I always held tightly to a glimmer of hope,
long1
_
ng for a fluke to occur, enabling me to capture her heart. Alas, my dream
has finally been extinguished
.
Two months after Madam Eye and Mr. Koma met,
!hey were wed. I even witnessed this infuriating event, as I lurked in the choir
oft of the chapel. She had finally met the one soul deserving of her love.
After their wedding, I became a slave to the darkness. The days got
darker and finally merged with the nights. I refused to take my daily walks, the
?es I used to so enjoy. I kept my curtains drawn at all times and refused to greet
nends (how scarce the amount had become.) I no longer wanted to live life if I
~ouJdn't live it with Madam Eye. There was no reason to feel the sun on my face,
po s;nell the lilacs (she was so very fond of lilacs), or to breathe fresh air. I much
re erred the stale, smokiness of my room.
'
ab
I suppose there is a point leading up to madness and then there
is
the
Yss
.
In a final resqlution, I chose to end my life. I would choose a poignant way















of death. A scene that would remain with Madam Eye for the rest of her Yeai&
with Mr. Koma. I chose to finally open the door to my coffin and venture out
of
the tomb I had created
.
I paid a visit to the dear newlyweds, who had
been
married exactly three months on the day I chose.
At this point in the story, I'm sorry to say, but the specifics become
very
blurred. I can remember the feeling of comfort and ease I
felt
while I was riding
in my carriage on the way to their house. I can vaguely remember standing
hi
front of their love nest; a gleaming acute blade held in my right hand. I slashed
my left wrist first, not going deep enough. Some redness trickled out. I cut at
it
again, this time I succeeded. A watery-red fluid emerged, flowing freely
.
I then
took the red-stained blade and poked at the other wrist. The fist attempt was
successful. For a few moments I watched the blood ooze out of my flesh and drip
down the sides of my wrist. I started to feel a bit queasy, so I journeyed toward
my destination, and knocked on the door
.
Before I could knock again, I
was
staring into the luminous eyes I once knew so well, the eyes of the woman I
loved and lost. The white door frame was now streaked with the contents of
my
life; my wasted love.
The one thing I do remember most vividly from that night, was
the
horrified visage that radiated from Madam Eye's face. I reached out and touched
her face (the fearful glare that protruded from the bluntness of her eyes.) I
slid
my hand down her face and across her neck. Her face was stained with redness.
She could cleanse her face, but she will never be able to cleanse her soul. She
will
carry my blood around with her forever. She opened her exquisite mouth in
an
attempt to cry for help, but she was so stricken with terror that sound escaped
her at this moment
.
The events after that get extremely cloudy.
The n
e
xt thing I remember is waking up in a stained white room, filled
with a fetid odor, and I was quite unsure if I had succeeded in my attempt
at
freedom. Shortly after my awakening, a solid, rather large-boned woman came
in and forced me to swallow two tiny blue pills, although I couldn't put up much
of a fight, being that my arms were bound by some sort of cloth concoction.
I'm not exactly sure how long I've been here. It's not all that terrible
though. Actually, I rather enjoy it. I get to rest quite often and receive a good
amount of those blue pills. They help ease my mental suffering
.
I'm not expected
to live up to a societal level here. There's no pressure.
However, I do find one thing very distressing
.
The way those intellectual
eyes probe me; observing me once again
.
They think I don't notice them. Those
damn fools. The eyes are now joined by another set
.
They would pry into
the
very essence of a man's psyche - if they could. I long to sleep now. Once I settle
down, the eyes will find a new specimen to invade. I like to dream; dream about
the redness, the stained door frame, lilacs, and Madam Eye's face full of terror
.
But, for now, I must dream away reality.
Janet DeSimone



handsome
Can you see me
.
i'm so devilishly handsome
i wonder if you can see me
so many things i can be can you see
did you see me
i was dressed in the darkest gray
trapped in oppressed seclusion
a depiction of utter dejection
could you see me
i have lost my horrible shell of black
and brilliant on the inside
open you eyes and see
the resurrection of such
a handsome man
oh such a handsome man is a pleasant sight
so devilishly handsome
can you see me
i am your mother's pet
everyone loves such a handsome man
a boy at heart
so devilishly handsome
i have lost that horrible shell of black
oh so brilliant on the inside
open your eyes and see
the resurrection of such a handsome man
oh so devilishly handsome
oh so devilishly handsome
brush the petals from your knees
so very handsome
blinded by my smile
such a handsome man
oh so very
so very very
so unbelievably handsome
Art Gusmano








A Mosaic
play
sculpture
created
by
every-
body
(Inscription taken from the mosaics at Victor
C.
Wayras
Park
,
Poughkeepsie, N
.
Y
.
)
Special thanks to The Mind's Eye, for without them there would be
no
Literary Society:
Douglas Alba
Margo Barrett
Courtney Black
Amber Bosco
Robin Buckley
Joelle Feragola
Jena Firmender
Amy Foschi
Art Cusmano
Jen McLaughlin
Regina Pelliccio
Erica Romany
Pam Rossi
Tara Stepnowski
Peggy Timmes
Kristen Thompson





handsome
Can you see me
i'm so devilishly handsome
i wonder if you can see me
so many things i can be can you see
did you see me
i was dressed in the darkest gray
trapped in oppressed seclusion
a depiction of utter dejection
could you see me
i have lost my horrible shell of black
and brilliant on the inside
open you eyes and see
the resurrection of such
a handsome man
oh such a handsome man is a pleasant sight
so devilishly handsome
can you see me
i am your mother's pet
everyone loves such a handsome man
a boy at heart
so devilishly handsome
i have lost that horrible shell of black
oh so brilliant on the inside
open your eyes and see
the resurrection of such a handsome man
oh so devilishly handsome
oh so devilishly handsome
brush the petals from your knees
so very handsome
blinded by my smile
such a handsome man
oh so very
so very very
so unbelievably handsome
Art Gusmano








A Mosaic
play
sculpture
created
by
every-
body
(Inscription taken from the mosaics at Victor
C.
Wayras
Park,
Poughkeepsie, N.Y.)
Special thanks to The Mind's Eye, for without them there would be
no
Literary Society:
Douglas Alba
Margo Barrett
Courtney Black
Amber Bosco
Robin Buckley
Joelle Feragola
Jena Firmender
Amy Foschi
Art Cusmano
Jen McLaughlin
Regina Pelliccia
Erica Romany
Pam Rossi
Tara Stepnowski
Peggy Timmes
Kristen Thompson




\
I



!


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