MOUi□[
Fall
1998
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Literar\J Arts SooieflJ












A
Brief Word From The President
A Word
From The President
Reflection's is
a magazine of transition
.
This year we
have
fresh new officers
,
which
has helped the Mosaic
evolve to what you see now.
We
hope you like the new
look. This
is actually a magazine
full
of a
mesh
of
old
and
new ideas
.
Hopefully we
will give
birth to something everyone
can
enjoy.
-tleather Clarket
List of Editors:
Heather
Clarke
Jamie Veley
Eric
Dahlen
Chelsey Ferrigno
Joe Patriss
Donna Jackson
Mark Bielaweic
Amy Spero
Amy Snider
Jaime Scott
Chief Editor:
Scott Neville
Front Cover Art
Donna Jackson
Advisor:
Richard Grinell
Back Cover Art
Org

















Table Of Contents
l
Jumping the fence
2
To Answer Your Question
3
Insp~on
4
Insane Anger
5
Dark Comer
6-7
Secret Sanctuary
8
''Unwanted"
9
You entered my life in a casual way
...
10
Unentitled
11
Specific Response Procedures
12
Con~te
12
Note to the Errand Boy
12
Royal Trash
13
Room&Board
14
Visions
15
"
Eye of the Beholder"
16
The First of September
17
Just
O{tce
18-19
Ansia (Longing)
19
"The Tower"
20
Can You Sense It?
21
"Fireworks"
22
Angel With
Black
Wings
24
Purity
25
Shadow Dancers
26-27
Drive
Safely
27
Sleep
28
Betray;il,it lwrts.doesn't it?
29
As
I stare at the flame ...
30
Welcome to a vivid pastel world ...
31
The Canyon
of
Oblivion
32
2000
33
The
Old
Mill
34
The Follower
of
the Pack
35
Spotlight
36-37
Dead
at Thirty,
Buried
at Seventy
.
..
38
TheSea
39
Can't Stop Me From Trying
40-42
Blood.Bath
43
Just
Another Fallen
Angel
Jaime Smith
Jamie Veley
Jeannine
Burrus
J
.
Pisano
Heather Clarke
Scott Neville
Heather Clarke
Katie Baronowski
Jeff Novakouski
_
Jaime Smith & Scott Thompson
Morgan Edwards
Morgan
Edwards
Morgan Edwards
Jeff Schmitt
Melanie Rago
Sue Goodwin
Kara Cerilli
Jen Williams
Sujey DeCoo
Scott Neville
Adam Weissman
Adam
Weissman
Donna Jackson
Scott Thompson
Mandy Liles
Jaime Smith
J. Pisano
Katie Baronowski
Amy Spero
Joe Patriss
Heather Suydam
Jason Palladino
Joe Durham
Jeff
Schmitt
Donna Jackson
Scott Thompson
Jason
Palladino
Christien
Tenczar
Jim Revello
Jennifer
Knobloch











The
Mosaic
Jumping the fence with
snapping jaws at your heels and your heart
is
knocking
.
The rain dripping from your face as you run.
She's sitting
at
the table when you get home.
There's
a
pot of coffee and a half-empty mug in her
hand
.
Sorry I'm late
,
you
say
.
You're late? like she didn't not
ice.
I
am.
Telling the truth because
to lie is obvious.
Your pulse is
thundering;
you're still
running, running.
She's nodding, looking into her cup
and
you're staring, standing,
teeth
gnawing at
your
heels, biting
,
drawing blood. You wait.
Where were you? she asks.
And the words fall from your lips.
The office
,
you say. Ahote1? The office.
With someone? No, alone. Alone? Alone
.
And you're running
sprinting
barefoot over gravel.
sharp teeth wounding your heels.
Leaping fences, bushes, construction cones.
Running up hills that are mountains.
What's her name? she asks.
I was alone.
Her name? Michelle.
At a motel? No, a restaurant.
A restaurant'? A motel.
How long?
Too many questions, you think
,
questions you should answer.
Grass strewn with knives,
piercing
the soles of your feet.
Running across the pavement,
the road is strewn with bibles.
How long? two
weeks.
Weeks? Months.
Racing time, the jaws
chewing at your toes
leaping the guide rail.
How many before her?
How many? None.
None?Two.
The race starts
,
the jaws snap.
And close around your ankle.
Caught.
You fall. face down in the grass.
Bleeding
.
Three'?
Three.
Why?
Your mind, screaming. Why.
Why?
Aloud: I don't know
.
She nods, looks into her mug.
You stand, caught, spent.
Now what? you ask.
I don't know.
You don't?
No. I don't.
Jaime Smith









2
Fall 1998
TO ANSWER YOUR QUESTION
BECAUSE THEY MISS ME, BUT INSIST
I
STAY HERE;
BECAUSE l'YE-1.0ST CONTACT WITH HIM YET AGAIN;
BECAUSE HE DOESN'T REALIZE l'M GONE;
BECAUSE THE ONE
I
LOVE IS NOT HERE AND CAN'T BE;
BECAUSE MY POCKETS ARE EMPTY;
BECAUSE MY SHOES HURT MY FEET;
BECAUSE THE SOUTH POLE IS BORING TO LEARN ABOUT;
BECAUSE l'M OUT OF PENCIL LEAD ...
BECAUSE THE ORGANIZATION TOOK MY SOUL;
BECAUSE
I
GET PERSISTENT HEADACHES;
BECAUSE THE ONE
I
LIKE JUST DOES
N'
T GET
rr;
BECAUSE SHE NEEDS ME AND
I
CAN
'
T REACH HER;
BECAUSE
I
NEED HIM AND HE DOESN'T BOTHER;
BECAUSE WORKING-OUT IS UNREALISTIC;
BECAUSE MY WARDROBE SHRUNK;
BECAUSE AC ISN'T GOOD ENOUGH ...
BECAUSE
I
CAN'T SLEEP ENOUGH;
BECAUSE DEADLINES COM
E
TOO QU
I
CKLY
;
BECAUSE THEY'RE HAPPY
;
BECAUSE l
'
M A NAZI;
BECAUSE HE'S NEVER THERE, ONLY HIS WALLET;
BECAUSE
I
CAN NO LONGER WEAR MY HALLOWEEN SOCKS;
BECAUSE HE WON'T FLIRT WITH ME
;
BECAUSE
I
SAID SO
.
JAMIE VELEY













Inspiration
Is tlie 6[ur
'Iliat ruslies
6y
you
(Bumping
'Your arm anti scattering
<Your reason.
:
My
ideas springfortli
Pfinging tliemsefoes
Prom my moutli
Pree anti flying
Ta~n
6y
tlie winds
)I way tliey escape
(]3eyona me.
CEacli wora stings fortli
Prom my moutli
In a string
'Iliat tangfes in
Vpon itself
:
My
words run too fast for tlie
<Page to catcli tliem,
S[ufingfrom its surface
'Iliey liit tlie ground anti sliatter
Into a miffwn
Pieces
.
'Yet stiff I try
To
capture tliem
Sta66ing eacli syffa6[e
'Witli my sliarpenea pencif
The Mosaic
)Ina stu:~ng tliem to
'I1ie
sfici_,surface
of
tlie
(Bare page
'W/iere tliey
fie
Stiff and pinned
L~ a 6utterfly coffection
)Ina I wonder
'Wliy tliey fooi_,so pafe
(J)eadenea on tlie paper
Instead
of
617fJlit
'Witli tlie cofor tliey
/iaa
'W/ien first tliey
'Were uttered
'Iliey speed even too fast
Porcomputer 5-,eys
To
transfer tlieir
:Meanino
.
'Ilie daci_,ing i_,eys sauna
'I1ie
caff
of
tlie ancient
Locomotive
'Iliat i.s trying to
~ep
up
'Witli tlie Concord of
:M..ymina.
Instantaneous i.s Inspiration
)Ina gone 6efore
It
may fea·ve an impression
Jeannine (Burrus
3




















4
Fall 1998
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The Mosaic
'JJark Gornflr
P(l(lring into th(l dark(lst corn(ln; of th(l clos(lt
I S(l(l things about m(l,
'{'1bout you
I can't
Won't l(lt b(l brought into th(<'.: light
You
us(ld m(l. I us(ld you
On th(l (ldg(l of madn(lss I lay,
Gur!(ld up lik(l a child
You
r(lach(ld out
Gonf us(ld, lost and hung(lring for aff(lction
I was th(l t(lnd(lrn(lss you could n(l\?(lr r(lc(li\?(l,
Gould n(l\?(lr giv(l out
You
W(lr(l s(lcurity I could not find m mys(llf
I kt you gain confid!ZnC!Z and a S!ZnS(l of sdf off my with!Z,ring soul
You
off~.r(ld m(l sin
\7ulnizrnbl(l l lay in thiz palm of your hand
'
Rirnching out for thiz confidiznciz that glowizd about you
;But as I brought it to my brsrnst it withizrszd and blackiznizd
You
wizriz izvizrything to miz
;But I was a m(lans to an (lnd
l low::d you
You
said you lovizd m(l
;But tossizd m(l asid(l whizn I r(lf us(ld to siziz through your (ly(ZS
I am fault
I am always at fault
In your world I am aff (lction you n(l(ld
/':lot a p(lrson
You
do not lo\?(l m(l
5







6
Fall 1998
Secret Sanctuary
The tires screeched to a halt seconds after I jumped on the brake of my beat
up Ford Bronco, sending empty soda cans flying into the passenger side wheel wells
.
My mind was racing, envisioning hundreds ofimages darting in and out of clarity,
blurring my vision
.
The thoughts were useless, all of them but one
.
When my truck was stopped, I threw open the door and bolted around the
front ofits sputtering engine and dashed onto a trail. I knew this patch of forest very
well, since I grew up swinging through its branches as a child, hiding with a sweet-
heart to catch a quick kiss as an adolescent. Even in my thirties, I could be caught in
these thickets just off the trail that I was now bounding down, an old man on the
s
cent of treasure
.
Sweat beaded up on my fifty-year old forehead, the truckloads of cigarettes
that I've inhaled all squeezing my lungs like clenched fists
.
The lack of oxygen being
drawn in by my wheezing gasps made the scene more surreal, fading in and out of
focus like poorly made home videos
.
I didn't care, though
;
my destination was close
.
I realized suddenly that Nature had begun to take back its territory as I
crashed through new growth creeping onto the worn dirt path my feet had memo-
rized
.
The thorny brambles tearing at my leathery legs scratching at my withered
cheeks reminded me of my mother's hands-on-hips look as she prepared to attack my
shredded body with peroxide and cotton balls. Mother always knew best.
The path gradually followed the swell of a hill
,
rolling gently downward
,
before a gentle tum at a rotted tree trunk
.
The path's dip offered a moment of relax-
ation
,
allowing my feet to pound away as my aching legs followed the motion. They
enjoyed the hill for three or four steps before being interrupted by an angry tree root
,
which snagged my right boot and sent me hurling to the ground.
Everything went black. Light crept in slowly, the taste of copper and salt
flooded my mouth, a split lip that my tongue quickly explored with a morbid feroc-
ity
.
The woods slowly came back into view, the serene greenness of the leaves calling
me back to consciousness as the sparse tufts of unhewn grass tickled me
,
urging me
forward again. My senses returned, as did my urgency
,
so I jammed my foot into the
cracked leather boot that had been still stuck under the root grabbed me, and dashed
off again
.
The root's malicious deed bloodied my lip and tore the knees to my pants,







The Mosaic
7
but more importantly almost caused me to miss what I'd rushed so hard to witness
.
The last hundred feet of the trail, a gradual incline towards the hea
v
ens, appeared a
mile to me as I trudged forward recklessly
.
Nothing was going to stop me now.
The hill disappeared behind me as I rose to its height
,
gasping again as
reached my destination
.
My weary legs gave out, dropping me to
my
knees on a
patch of soft moss, a natural pillow to catch my bony cadre
.
It
wouldn't have mat
-
tered
,
though
,
since what enveloped my senses would have drowned out the pain of
kneeling on glass
.
The landscape before me seeped into my veins as I surveyed its beauty
.
The
trail had risen to a clearing of moss where my body had collapsed, a spot that looked
from a high perch over a glistening cove set ablaze by the waning strength of the sun
.
The waves
'
relentless pounding had subsided momentarily in the calm, creating a
placid, glassy film on its surface
.
The fiery rays of sunlight danced on the glass
,
penetrating its murkiness a few feet before being extinguished
.
The deepening orange rays also burned down on the covering of trees along
the
s
horeline
,
nestling in against one another to create one constant, fluffy blanket.
This tree line continued back from the shore, pushing its green splendor back against
the stark gray cliff's face that surrounded it on three sides
.
This entire scene, complete with the faint scent of salt and pine, crept into my
nose and calmed my beating heart
.
I didn't miss the moment. I sat for a minute
longer
,
closing my eyes to the serenity before me, listening to the gulls' haunting
cackles as they floated by on the warm air currents as I felt the sun sink ever closer
to its watery horizon. The beauty of the scene
,
Nature
'
s perfection, made everything
that I endured seem so minuscule, so unimportant.
Within minutes
,
the sun
'
s heat paled on my hot cheeks
,
flooding the sky with
a pink haze and then a cloak of cool blue as I reopened my eyes
.
The moment of
tranquility passed away, allowing the wind to breathe again
,
pushing the waves
against the shore rhythmically again and again
.
With a loud creaking in my back, I slowly regained an upright position,
feeling the sting of my split lip and bruised knees as I walked back to my truck. I
clung to the images of my paradise
,
memories that would have to keep me sane in
the flurry of civilization until the next time I could return to the splendor of my secret
sanctuary
.
Scott Neville





8
Fall 1998
"Unwanted" - Heather Clarke




The Mosaic
9




















Fall 1998
Unentitled
(lights down. Lights up, a bluish spot, center stage, a little up. A person stands there,holding a cigarette,
facing the audience, while another sits on the ground facing him/her, a few feet downstage, with his/her
back to the audience
.
Both look bored)
One (standing)
:
'An
so I sez to myself, self, what am I doing here?
'An
of course, my stupid self doesn't
answer
,
cuz it likes to keep me hanging. So I pester it. I pester it and pester it.
'An
finally it gets annoyed
enough to answer me
.
Spot switches to red
.
The transition must be fast.
"You're
worthless," it sez
.
"You
lack the conviction to follow through on your plans
.
You complain about
things and never do anything about them
.
You claim to espouse values that you never defend beyond words
.
YOU
are a hypocrite. And a damn funny one at that. Now leave me alone
"
Spot switches back to blue. The transition must be fast
That
's
what myself says to myself. Contradiction
,
you say? HAH. Contradiction
has
everything to do with
point of view
,
and you don
'
t hold my point of view
.
You CAN
'
T hold my point of view. Partly because you
can
'
t and partly becaude
I
won't let you.You can only have it for a second, and then
I
change it to escape
you.
I
won
'
t let
you
be like me.
All
of you.
You all make me laugh. And
I
make me laugh. Because I'm worse than you are
,
but
I
know it. You don't.
They
don
'
t.
They
can
'
t.
They won
'
t let them.
I won't let them
.
'
An
I
can stand here, all day and all night, in the dark, with a cigarette in my hand,
rambling on and raving about madness
,
and myself, and all sorts of strange things that hold no interest to you
whatsoever
,
and they may hold no interest to me whatsoever either, but I'll never get anywhere, and you'll
never
get
anywhere
,
and when
I'm
done
,
we
'
ll all still be standing here in the dark ...
or sitting. Sitting is good.
It
'
s
better than
standing,
I suppose. But then
again, better is relative
.
Me
standing
here
is
RELATIVELY better
than
sitting
in a trench in the middle of the Somme in
1916
.
But from the point of view of a his/hero
,
it might
not be. To him, I'm a coward, and nothing more.
Do
I
really want to be anything more than a coward? I'm not sure
.
I
don't think so
.
Cowards live longer
,
I should think
.
You know,
I
SHOULD think.
I
really should
.
But
I
don
'
t.
Or do I? I can't remember anymore
.
..
Just..
.
Just
forget it.
Steps out of spot.
Je.ffNovakouski









The Mosaic
SPECIFIC RESPONSE PROCEDURES
SHE SAW, STANDING AT THE GATES-
WHITE STERILE WALLS, FLOORS, PEOPLE:
WOULD
I
BE STERILE AS WELL
SHE WONDERED
-
SHE WAS NOT
WHEN SHE ENTERED - UNALTERED -
POINTED TOWARD A STAND
SHE WAS, STERILE WHITE THE BOOK,
STERILE WHITE THE STAND
"SPEC
I
FIC RESPONSE PROCEDURES"
THE COVER (STERILE WHITE) SHE EXAMINED
-
FIRST PAGE
11
OPENED, LOOKING FOR METHODS OF DOCTORS, LAWYERS
,
FIREMEN
-
UNCONVENTIONAL, THE WORDS
SHE READ- LISTING (ALPHABETICALLY)
EVERY EMOTION EVER HAD-
FLIPPING PAGES
;
CURIOUS
SHE WAS
-
AFTER THE INDEX, A TITLE:
"SPECIFIC RESPONSE PROCEDURES"
AND THEN A DESCRIPTION, WHICH
SHE SKIMMED
,
SEARCHING THE LAST FEELINGS
SHE FELT
-
LOVE ANGER HATE HUG JOG LIFT SEX -
PROCEDURES DIFFERENT THAN MY OWN
SHE THOUGHT - WHAT HAVE YOU FOUND:
SAID
Goo,
WHAT DO YOU THINK THAT MEANS?
I
DON'T UNDERSTAND
SHE REPLIED - THEN HE SAID:
DO YOU FEEL WORTHY OF HEAVEN?
l'M HERE, AREN'T
I
RETORTED SHE
-
J SMITH AND S THOMPSON
















12
Concrete
If arm finally
I no I
leave then finally
the face clear
mountain my finally
I
is
I
am more entangled
the my am
blocks is
clear
i t more
finally
takes
my
I
Morgan Edwards
Qa1c~
...
Fall 1998
NOTr. TO TM[ [RMNb OOT
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...
I wo~e ap w1tfi tfie tatte of metapfio:r 111
my
moatfi bac~ from tfie daapfJ.111.
1':ra1l111g tfie
colode,t
dean tmdl
affl1ct1011 of a witfie:red gray mona:rcfi
pfiantom tw111geJ of addlct1011
Morgan Edwa:rdt







room&board
the
walls
are dull
The Mosaic
i wont decorate
the carpet's dirt
can
'
t
be
swept away
faux-wood
everything!
every expense was spared
do
you
smell that?
dust collects on my toothbrush
i' d rather it didnt
annoyances abound
in the air and on the ground
the roaches are there
you
just can't see them
they
'v
e been stealing my fruit snacks
Jeff Schmitt
13































14
Fall 1998
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I
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l"
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e)
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of
ev
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.see,
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~
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R ~



The Mosaic
15
''Eye of the Beholder" - Sue Goodwin
Dedicated to Sue Goodwin for her years of artistic contribution.









16
Fall
1998
The First of September
Wires dangle from long metal poles and a bluish-green curtain divides the
room. On the night stand sits a light brown Pooh bear, a small wooden vase of violets
,
and a stack of before photos. In the comer of this mystical space, stands a small
plastic dome that would catch anyones eye. Inside
it
,
bundled in a smooth turquoise
blanket, lays proof that one of life s miracles had begun
,
just hours before
.
The first of
September, what a memorable day!
Exhausted family and friends gather around to observe their newest member,
who is the most fatigued of all. In a calm
,
nonchalant manner, he opens his blue eyes,
attempts a first yawn, and then sticks out his tongue. Staring up at those looking
down,
it
is a wonder to all what he is thinking. Stretching his small legs and purple
toes
,
he closes his eyes to go back to sleep
.
Dressed in white pajamas with a tiny
beige cap, this newborn makes life seem so simple
.
Shortly thereafter, it is time to wake up. Irresistible
,
though fragile, one must
handle with care. The innocent infant i
s
propped up in moms arm with the palm of
h
e
r hand to support his delicate head. The newborn lounges there peace.folly, waiting
for the time to come when he can go home. What luxuries one earns the first day of
life
.
Each day that goes by, he grows so much bigger and adds a new story for his
parents to share. Each day brings a clearer picture of who he will be
.
He cries less
and less
,
and almost sleeps through the night
.
He even waves his arms in the air to
the familiar tune on his mobile
.
It sure is amazing how quickly they grow; for it has
not yet been eight weeks and already he smiles
.
Kara Cerilli








The Mosaic
17
JUST ONCE
I'd like to get away from
everything
I'm supposed to
be:
brainiac, logician, house psychiatrist,
The brooding, depressive
centerpiece-a
crown or a fruit bowl
on
the kitchen table
of
Innocuous bulls**t and French toast and maple syrup,
I'd
like
to
get
through the day without sedatives, without gin and caffeine and nicotine and
compulsive
lying and Excedrin and four-hour midday naps and Kool-Aid and Kraft
Macaroni and Cheese
and
random thoughts of sex in airplanes and glass
elevators,
I'd
like to wiggle my toes in fresh
cement
at the edge of the planet, to make some sort of
tangible
imprint
in this earth, so that my
existence
will leave a blemish, a scarring dent in
the world, so that when I'm dead and rotting and making friends with maggots at least my
foot will have meant something,
I'd
lik
e
to save my
cigarette
butts in a giant cardboard box and count them and lay them out in neat
little rows, Lincoln logs of tar and foam and paper, just to see how many minutes of my life
I've
wasted by simply
sitting
on my
ass
on stone walls and front steps and kitchen chairs
and vinyl diner booths just breathing,
I'd
like to drive
in
a
straight
line over no trespassing signs and fresh-cut grass and porches and
mailboxes and white-picket fences
and
suburban idealism and the American dream, over
steeples and churches
and pew until the windshield is smeared with wafers and wine, and
drive until
I
run out of gas just to see where
I
end up and then refill the
tank
and start over,
I'd like
to live a day as the shallow, plastic, silicone-infested, scantily clad ideal woman and
be
splashed
across magazines and billboards and beer ads and the sides
of
metropolitan
buses and
on subway
walls, splashed across the minds of horny teenage boys,
acros
s
college
dorm-rooms and the hoods of foreign sports
cars
in calendars hanging in auto shops,
I'd like
to think that words on paper mean something
other
than wasted
ink
and graphite,
other
than
nonsensical bulls**t
and fodder for high school English classes, other than a sick attempt at
Prozac-induced
depth that goes unnoticed and clogs the nation's landfills and wastebaskets
and
toilets until someone lights a match and destroys it all, and the literate few of us
become nothing
more than a smoke signal rising up form a planet in distress.
Jen Williams
























18
1
wci111,ted l::)DIA. to viold l'¾e_
Col'¾
fort l'¾e_
Grcidte l'¾e L111, l::JOLA_r C!rl'lAS-
SC!l::J tvicit l::)OLA_ wci111,ted l'¾e,
cis V\,\.LA_CV1 cis
I
wci 111,ted l::l ol,(_
'B,l,(t 111,0.
ALL I got,
WC!S
to
see
l::)OLA_ WC!U~. C!WC! l::l
rtow cci111, l::)OLA_ Lecive?
f-tow CCIII\, tJOLA_ SC!l::J,
tvie tviL~ l::)OLA_ sciLd;
·FrLeMs."
wvicit Ls tvicit?
1
Not WV1C!t I WC!111,t.
To
feel l::)DIA.r
viecid l,(po111,
1'1Al:'.J
sviol,(Lder
ci111,d
tvie111, to see l::)OLA_r Lecitvier-cLcid bC!CR,
C!S l::l OLA_
WCI
LR C!WC! l::l ·
yol,( tore l'¾e cipcirt tvicit 111,Lgvit
1
tore
V\,\.e cipcirt tvicit 111,Lgvit
ForgLve V\,\.e
Lf
I cicted LLRe SLA_CV1 ci
bLtcvi.
'B,LA_t,
cci111, l::JOLA_
bLciV\,\.e V\,\.e?
yol,( tviL111,R
l::)OLA_ vicid
do~ 111,otviL~
wro~.
"B>LA_t
l::)DIA. dLd.
yol,( do111,'t wci111,t w..e.
TeV\,\.per
fLcires,
ci~er boLLL~ L111,sLde.
f-tow dcire l::)OLA_ Mt wci111,t l'¾e.
1
jl,(stwci111,ted l::)DIA. ...
wci111,ted l::)OLA_ to vioLd l'¾e.
Fall 1998
A11t,sU:~
( Lo
11\,g
l
ll\,g)
Wvie111,
I
broRe dow111, C!M crLed
l::)OLA_ ccil'¾e bcicR
ci111,d cisRed w..e wvil::l.
No strciLgvit C1111,swer
cci V\,\.e fro
I'¾
l'¾e.
I
cwLd111,'t Let l::)DIA. R-111,ow,
I
fL111,ci LLtJ reci LLzed
tviere wol,(Ld be 111,otv,L111,g betwee111,
LA_$.
I wci111,ted to tell e.x.cictll::J
V10W
I
felt.
1
dLd
for V\,\.OSt of tvicit 111,Lgvit.
'B,LA_t tvie reciso111,s
for
1'1Al:'.J
crLes
col,(Ld 111,ot spLLL
OLA_t
wLtvi
1'1Al:'.J
teci rs.
Tuel::) SC! l::J,
111,ever tell ci gl,(l::l
e.x.cictLl::) viow l::)DIA. feel
or so Ls
V\,\.l::l beLLef.
'B,l,(t cifer tvicit tC!LR wLtvi
1'1Al:'.J
frLeM,
svie
told V\,\.e
l::JOLA_
LLRe
sow..eo111,e,
111,ot
l'¾e.
1jl,(st
vicid tviLs
C!tA_rC!
of
ci~er
.
yol,(
felt Lt
ci111,d l'¾C!de
l'¾e
co111,fess.
1
told l::)OLA_,
Mt everl::ltviL111,g,
jl,(st l::JOLA_ co111,fl,(se 1-1Ae:





















l1ow
1
),,ave 111,tVer beel'\, LI'\,
tl1Ls
sLtuahol'\, before.
"l'vv-.
)jOUrfrLel'\,d."
TvtC!t's
etll
)jOU
could
SC!)j.
I
sl1ould
l1ave told )jOU
ol'\,e
vv-.ore
tl1Ll'l,g,
whi::J I
e,yfo;(_
1 wi:i
i,1,tecl to
blurt
out
'l'V1A e,y-1::)Lv..g
bewuse
I
WCli,1,t
i::JOU
Cl
,,.._c(
i::)OU cloi,1,'t
wi:ii,1,t
V1Ae
Cl
,,.._c(
they-e's "'-Ot
i:i
}:)ClV1A"'-
s"'"'t
Cl"'-1::)0"'-e
e,ni,1,
clo cibout
Lt!'
I
wi:ii,1,tecl
to C,Y-1::)
Li,1,
i::JOUr Cli'V1A.$
WClY-V\A Cli,1,cl si:ife
fY-oV1A. the
wortcl.
1
~eclecl
to
toue,h
i::)Ou
o,,..,e,e
i:igi:iLi,1,.
Feel
i::JOU
hei:it.
SV111.ell
i::)Ou
se,ei,1,t.
°R-ut
"'-0.
I
got
""°~
of
thLs
thi:it
i,1,Lght.
AV111.
1
j
ust i:i
fool
to
be
so
Li,1,to
i::)OIA.?
so
Li,1, f
i:itui:itecl
7
TheY-e
wLll
be
V1A.Cl"'-i::J other
to e,0V1A.e,
I tell
V1Ai::)Self.
Whi::J
ctnve
V111.i::Jself V1Ai:lcl
oveY-
i:i
fool
LU~.e
i::)Ou7
°R-ewuse
I wi:ii,1,t
i::JOU ...
sujei::J
r:,ecoo
The Mosaic
19
"The Tower" - Scott Neville






20
Fall 1998
CAN YOU SENSE IT?
CAN YOU SENSE IT IN THE AIR?
THOSE WAVES OF VICTORY AS YOU COMPLETE A DARE.
CAN YOU FEEL IT GROWING NEAR?
CAN YOU SENSE IT IF YOU OPEN AN EAR?
HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE CHAMPION?
TO ACCOMPLISH GOALS SO FARAND DISTANT.
BUT IN REALITY IT'S BECOME SO CLEAR
HOW DOES IT TASTE; THAT GENTLE TEAR?
AS IT RUNS DOWN YOUR FACE,
WITH THE GRACE OF LACE.
IT STARTS FROM YOUR EYE
BUT BEGINS TO VEER
A SIGH OCCURS
;
A DIFFERENT EXPRESSION
;
AS IT WAS BEFORE OF THAT GREAT IMPRESSION.
THAT PERFECT PICTURE IS PAINTED HERE,
AND AS THAT TEAR BEGINS TO DRY SO CLEAR
THE SORROW PASSES AS IT GROWS NEAR
THE FEELING OF TRIUMPH HAS RETURNED
.
THE WORLD IS NOT BAD.
IT IS THAT YOU HAVE LEARNED.
THE WAY SOME THINGS MAY APPEAR,
CAN BE DECEIVING AS THEY GROW NEAR
BUT DON'T JUDGE THINGS FOR THE WORST.
STOP, THINK, AND LISTEN FIRST.
ADAM WEISSMAN





The
Mosaic
21
"Fireworks" - Adam Weissman
















22
Fall 1998
Jlngef tDitij :Bfack tDings
lln innocence 6ome witfj
a
50~
gra1> smife.
il
fu\,
meets
a
girf for
a
fittfe wfjife.
ii>e tfjinfui sfje's
alT
fje'IT ~er nee6,
1/t~er expects
fji5
fjeart to 6fee6.
ii>e f alTs
in
f°"e; sfje won't f et go.
ii>e's
in
trou6fe; 6oesn't
Im.ow.
1'.)ou fjan6 °"er trust fike
a
ten6er ffower.
1'.)ou gfoe me '1)our fjeart -1>ou are un6er m'1) power.
ll sweet '1)oung girf tfjat 6oes mcious tfjings;
I
am
'1)our angef witfj 6f ack wings.
ll 6f ack
wi6ow
spi6er witfj
a
fjeart of stone
t:faims 1>our fjeart an6
sour
just
as
fjer
own.
1'.)our f°"e I 6eman6e6 witfj ml' coIB fjan6.
I woun6 witfjout
a
repriman6.
llse '1)0U up an6 6um 1)0U out;
tire of '1)0U - toss l'QU out.
t:offi an6 fjeartfess
as a
snake;
Just fook
at
wfjat
a
me55 I make.
~unning witfj
a
6emf, toucfj an6 go,
J?,en6
in
m1> torrent to
an6
fro.
§u6mit
to me an6
alT
is fost.
.f..°"e me an6 6e cfaime6
61'
tfje frost.
Jl
sweet an6 ten6er fittfe girf
In
a
sweet an6 ten6er fittfe worIB.
U)fjo's ki66ing wfjo? It's
alT a
fie.
tear out '1)our oouf an6 swi~f1? ff1>.
§o
manl'
times I'-x>e torture6 men,
.f..ea-x>e corpses fl'ing
an6
start
again.
llnotfjer mctim notfjing new.
ll:>on't '1)0U see wfjat I 6o to 1)0U?
It's just fifie wfjat I
6i6
to fjim
lln6 fjim an6 fjim
an6
fjim
an6
fjim.
It's ratfjer sa6 tfje patfj I ra3e
Is 6foo6'1), messl',
in a
fja3e.
t:onfusion
an6
anguisfj
alT in
store;
Is tfjis
alTI'm
fimng for?
iburt anotfjer tfjen ~e on.
ii>ow
mucfj more must I take on?
I cannot stan6 tfje fjelTI mafie;
t:oIB an6 fjeartfess
as a
snake.
1'.)ou fi~ me up
as
fjea-x>en16om,
J?,ut
can't
1)0U see I'm 6emon;torn?
ll sfjining fjafo f a6es to 6arfi.
tfjere n~er was tfjat 6rilftant spark.
ll gfowing angef wfjite an6 pure
Was alT
l'QU fjope6
an6
waite6 for,
J?,ut
pain
an6 torment are
alT
I 6ring.
I
am
1>our angef witfj 6f
acfi
wings.
ll:>onna
Jackson





The Mosaic
97,
The hole in my chest,
was a year ago left,
I filled it with twigs and leaves,
but it still would not rest.
so I numbed it with wine,
found a needle and twine,
and sowed it up.
I sowed it my best
.
But that cradled of flesh,
too thin it's strings test,
and it all came apart,
and the twine all undressed,
revealing my heart,
no, the hole in my chest,
the one where your love,
had once made its nest.
Jason Pallidino
"Evan Napping" - Scott Neville
23









24
Fall 1998
Purity
liear tlie rust[e of ants in tlie fieGf-
sunf[ower seedy bubbfe.gum grass
tlie c[eats tread on to catcli so fast-
b[eaclier seats untaryed
·
c[ean air c[ean fiving-
yurity-
see yurity
in front of bud [iglit [ogos
in front of tlie gay
in front of you-
tlie irony is a[most too mucli-
watcli tliem
from armcliairs of gfory
and wliat wou[c[ liave liayyened
if
on[y-
droning tube ffickers
in fone[y rooms
against yosters-
,
on a summers eve
I
see tlie syliere in f[iglit
tliinking
ef
tlie on[y tliing
america got riglit-
Scott 'Tliomyson








The Mosaic
Shadow Dancers
Two young souls
.
.
.
flying through their realms
entering each other ... wrapping around
feeling each fiber of the nonphysical existence
searching through a quest of mystical explorations
travelling up winding steps, standing before silver doors
behold! they have a master key, which unleashes more
deep fascination of flying above dark trees in twilight
when the
moon rises to complete two crescents of blue night
they slowly descend down until reaching the greenish ground
flashing senses to nature, discovering the earth bound
they transform to the crystal-eyed creatures with a growl
feeling each other without a touch for they are nocturnal now
the wind
rises as the clouds join, circling a mass of dark gray
forming changes in the white storm of magick and lightening rays
their metallic staves collide, creating a crack in the mist
they fill with electrifying energy, transferred with a kiss
25
as they are floating down the dark path, waiting for the next flood
finally free to swim in every ocean of clear blue and
crimson blood
the fluid is flowing over the valley through veins of pumping heat
gliding in the dusk liquid past the evil arms, alas! overcoming defeat
a tale of two young souls, eternally wrapped around one another
dancing in the depths of spirituality as the two greatest lovers
Mandy Liles







26
Fall 1998
Drive Safely
I recall the day beginning
with
a clap of thunder and a bolt of lightning, though
when I speak to others, they assure me the sun couldn't have been brighter or the sky
bluer
.
They tell me the temperatures soared into the eighties, which was uncommon for
early May, but I suppose that would explain why my car window was rolled down. Yes,
that sounds about right. I can see logic there.
So I guess I should say the day dawned bright and warm. But in my mind it didn't.
It began the way it ended. I don't remember the sun or the heat
.
I do remember the
music
.
For some reason I find it hard to forget, though I haven't heard it since
.
"She's
addicted to nicotine patches
.
She's afraid of the light in the dark. Six fifty-eight are you
sure where my spark is here
.
" Selective memory is a fascinating thing. Too bad I can't
r
emember the day itself, without the details of the event. I'll have to suffer those the rest
of my life, but I deserve it. Anyone in my position would.
It was raining out
.
No
...
wait
.
It was sunny. That's right. It was warm and I was
driving
.
The person I cared about most in the world was sitting in the passenger seat
beside me. We were discussing something. No we weren't. That's a mistake
.
We weren't
talking at all
.
We were listening to the radio. He had his head tipped back and he was
gazing out the windshield, just watching the road
,
I guess. Mile after mile, that double
yellow line curved endlessly ahead of us
.
Mile after mile, we were silent, the radio
expressing its thoughts to us.
We'd never been more comfortable in the silence. Or had we been arguing? No, we
weren't arguing
.
We had nothing to argue about
.
We simply sat in our silence. Except in
wasn't silent. That's right. The radio was playing
.
Scenery passed like flashes of green and brown. I paid no attention to signs. Or
maybe I was observant
.
I know I saw the last one. It was marked with the symbol of an
"
S-curve" and a large black "30
.
" I ignored it
.
How foolish of me
.
I took the curve at
fifty-seven
.
Tried to, that is
.
Of course I didn't make it. I jumped it
.
Skidded down a
hill. Tori Amos sang to us as the air bag exploded in my face and the car rolled over. It
came to rest against a tree
.
The passenger side air bag never went off. Maybe I didn't have one. I really can't
recall. But it didn't matter. The passenger door was practically resting in his lap. There
wasn't any blood
.
That didn't matter
.
It's just something you know
.
The radio still worked
.
"How many fates turn around in the overtime?" For a long
moment I sat there, just looking at him, his beloved face so still in the silence. The radio
was on
.
It wasn't silent in the car.
I didn't cry. I laughed.
Maybe that's what drew the couple who found us. My hysterical laughter. I was

















The Mosaic
27
shrieking with laughter that was later described to me as horrible and inhuman.
After that
I
forget.
I
remember that he was wrapped
in
a blanket they found
in
the
back seat of my car. I wonder why they didn't cover his face. When the ambulance
came,
I
was sitting
in
the grass, feeling the rain that was left on my face by the sun.
I still
don't understand how the sun could leave rain on my face
.
They told me it didn't rain
that day, so I guess the sun was the reason my face was wet.
I
walked away uninjured.
I
never think of him though. Not when it's sunny out
anyway.
I
think of him when it rains. But
I
don't cry.
I
don't laugh either.
I
wonder if he
forgives me for what
I
did to him.
I
guess he would. And
I
wonder if
I
would have
forgiven him, had he killed me instead of the other way around. I'd like to think
I
would.
He comes to see me occasionally, at the institution. He says he worries about me.
It's hard for me to understand that
.
What's to worry about? He's the one who walks with
a cane I'm the one who walked away undamaged. Right?
In
;fl
W<5rld. Cf tflllilcy
;ffod.
Lies
There Is
;fllWf!YS
Toe C<5mfort
Cf
;fl
Wf7fm 1?
Lflnket.
Toe ~weet f.seflpe Cf ~leep,
Toe 1>mk 1?utt<5n Jtrt
;flt
Toe F.nd. Cf Toe 'Df!Y.
This i?lessint Is Toe Only llefute
t<5r One L<5st In
;fl
'Mfl.Ze Cf
C<5DtUSi<5D
f!Dd
OnfultiU.ed.1>r<5mises
.
This llep<5Se,
;fl
'D<5uble-f.rlterl f.x.efllihur
Tom
em ri~t
Off Toe W<5rld's Tr<5ubles
Cr
T<5<5
~(5(5!)
C<5ndud.e Toe 'Mfltk Ct
Toe 1>erfect 'Dfl)'.
Jaime Smith




28
Fall 1998
Betrayal, it hurts doesn't it?
yes it hurts, bad.
like a knife stabbed into my soul by the one i believed in,
but no more
as I stood on a stool ready to hang myself, you were the one
who came and kicked the stool from under my feet.
Trust, that must be a hollow word to yon now?
yes, hollow, no meaning
I say it and it rolls off my tongue only to fall to the floor
where yon stumble upon it, I will not catch you
as i stood on a bridge about to jump yon were the one who
pushed me from behind.
Courage, that must be a useless word to you now?
yes, useless
I don't even know what it is and my stupidity haunts
and tortures you to no end
as I was on the threshold of time you were not the one to
pull me back before I slipped away.
Katie Baronowski















The Mosaic
J\s
I
stare
at
tfje ff
ame
tfjat ffkRers
an6
tfje poof of
wax,
mefting aroun6
it
I
feef
as
tfjougfj tfje can6fe
is
mucfj fiRe my fife
wfjicfj mefts
away as
tfje ffame 6ums
'tfje ffame
is
afways
in
motion - 6ancing, jumping,
momng from si6e
to
si6e
It
creates ever,cfjanging sfja6ows
in
my 6arRene6 room
'tfje fittfe gf ass fjof6er seems
so
fragife
fiRe tfje fjeat wiff
6reaR it
:But
it
6oes not an6
afTI
fjear
is
sifence
as
tfje ff
ame
continues
its
6ance
I
won6er
if
my fife wiff tum out
fifie tfje can6fe
U>iffit meft
away
sifentfy, stea6ify
fiRe tfje wax?
U>iff
I
6e fiRe tfje ffame,
6ancing
afwa1>s,
creating
.6eautifuf sfja6ows?
miff
I
6e fiRe tfje gf ass tfjat
appears
so
fragife,
yet
remains
strong an6 stiffi
<l:>r
wiff
I
6e tfje wicfi tfjat gets
eaten afive
.6y
tfje fjungry, 6evouring ffame?
I
finow not tfje answer
as
tfje ffame
6ies out, tfje sfja6ows
6isappear
J\n6
I
am
fe~ ....
in
tfje 6arfi
29




30
Fall 1998
WELCOME TO A VIVID PASTEL WORLD
PEOPLE LIVE LIFE BEHIND THEIR EYELIDS
IT'S A SUMMER WORLD WHERE TWO SUNS SET
SOMEWHERE INSIDE THE CASTLE GARDEN
A SMALL GIRL AND A CASTLE GARGOYLE
PLAY GAMES AND CHASE PURPLE BUTTERFLIES
ON THE BEACH THE TWO SUNS ARE SETTING
THE SKY IS COLORED WITH WARM COLORS
A FAIRMAIDEN SLEEPS ON THE PINK BEACH
WITH HER SOFT SKIN ON THE WARM SAND
OUT ON THE JETTY STANDS A WIZARD
CALLING HIS PET DRAGON TO COME HOME
JOE PATRISS











The Mosaic
'Tlie
Canyon of 06fivion
'F{ying liigli a6CYVe reafity
soaring past, 6eyona tlie reafm
of sanity
lianging off tlie feage of aff tliings
tangi6£e
.ftna focus no fonger cfouas tlie 6{ur
of meaiocrity ana confusion
qrasping for tlie ne~ 6rancli
on tlie 'Tree of 'l(nowfeage
¾oping tliat mCYVing up ana up ana
up wiff 6ring some sort of
untferstanaing
'Tlien slipping ana fa{f;ng
,
floating, 6ouncing on tlie
coffiaing currents of
faffacy ana perfection
ana fanaing gentfy on a coo{ 6ea
of pine neeafes that sticl
tlirougli an.a into tlie s~n
6rea~ng tlirougli tlie refease from
reafity
returning {ife to tlie forefront
of
mma lieart
+
sou{
restoring wit
Ii
a picl ana a arop
of
6£ooa
tlie sane ana tlie orainary unti{
tlie ne)(J trip
anafaff
into tlie canyon of o6ffvion
31
1featlier Suyaam






32
Fall 1998
2000
We're sipping moselle,
celebrating well into the Newt millenium.
Brown paper bags with yellow arches,
quite the combination.
No matter, we're bringing in 2000 at any cost.
The bottle now vacant, we proceed to the bedroom,
writhing in rythmatic fashion.
The television static momentarily clears,
casting the room in an electric blue hue,
making our bodies seem virtually flawless,
shadows against a movie screen.
The tube is Times Square,
the ball is about to drop ...
and so am I.
The countdown begins:
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2 ...
And i t ' s over.
Purged and exhausted,
we kiss, you put your arm around me
and gently press your lips into my back ...
just another night in New York city
Jason Palladino









The Mosaic
The Old Mill
There was a grain mill once on the western shore of
Cayuga Lake
.
Don't look for it
_.
it's not th.ex:e anymore
.
Oh sure, the stone shell can be seen for miles
,
but it is no
Longer the pillar of a young colonial town
.
It went
Out of production over a century ago and was left to rot
By the lake that had provided it with a passport to the world
.
As children
,
the mill was an enchanted public playground
,
Not a hidden aging eye-sore
.
Sure, it was all boarded up, but
We knew where the cracks in its armor were
.
Once inside
Our citadel of stone
,
imaginations fueled games of conquest as
We alternately expanded and then defended our frontier
.
In
the summer months
,
the mill guarded the best swimming
Spot for miles
.
It had conveniently allowed many of its stones
To fall into the lake, providing a submerged path for diving
And playing king of the hill
.
The stones that had not
Made their way into the water baked as each day grew
Longer to furnish cozy nests in which to sunbathe
.
As
we grew, the mill was the place where first cigarettes
Were smoked and first beers drunk.
Wrth
each passing year
,
Its walls witnessed the increasing deviant behavior of an entire
Generation of kids growing up in a small town with little else to do
Or places to go
.
When we were of legal age, the mill still presided
Over late night skinny dipping when we could
drink
no more
.
Then developers came to exploit the mill property. Modem
Machines even succeeded in tearing a few stones from the
Empty hulk
,
but we stopped them from doing little more
Than that. Forced by an injunction, they left a broken
Shell which still rests there today
.
The stones that they took
Are the ones that formed the playhouse of my childhood.
As
I said, the mill is no longer there.
33
Joe Durham









34
Fa
ll
1998
"th
e
f
o
llowe
r of
th
e
pack"
a few years ago, i was underage
"delinquent" behavior could get me
thrown in a cage
conformity has been my savior
now an education
lS
complete
a great feat
for
I
didnt learn
the way to think
the way to love
the way to be
from a college prof
or from tv
future past and present flow under me
the past not dead
the present blood red
the future left unsaid
durn turn
but tear the page
allow yourself
to feel blind rage
Jeff Schmitt










The
Mosaic
Syot{igfit
Crasfi of thunder
JYasfi of figlitning
'Burning &right into the night
Sudden instant
jfare tfiat's dying
Syotfigfits tfie fire
Syotfights tfie carnage
Syotfigfits tfie crumbrtng of mankind
'Eartfi's eye oyening
jfasfiing fiot{y
j'{ashing angry at tlie men
Scurry andscuttfe
Scutt{e and scurry
Sfusfi tfie throats of fe{fow men
:Need to be
:Need to win
:Need to stay
:Need to thrive
:Need to
ki{{
to fee{ afive
Structure crum6{es
Into
rub6{e
'Buries a{{ in 6food and dust
Wfii{e :Jvlan's dy_ing
:Nature's watching
Waitingfor a cfiance
to
bui{d
On tfie 6odies
Of tfie many
'Broken
Gy
tfieir fe{fows' fiands
Watch tfie s{augfiter
1Vatcfiing waiting
Crasfi of thunder
j'fasfi of figfitning
'Burning brig/it into tfie nigfit
1Jonna Jackson
35











36
Fall 1998
dead at thirty, buried at seventy
(our generation's pseudo-legacy)
I
in the tents
before the tension
before their rents
they couldn't mention
a fraction of
a
faction
whose number, an abstraction,
taking action towards the just
solution
,
towards a fusion -
but they forgot the lesson
and they forgot to mention
the corporate invention
a
workweek
extension
they labor ti! their pensions
-
so why the pretension
that we are not a nation
,
that
yuppie
saturation
bore our generation -
not easily defined
our
essence
is insoluble
baud-speed is our time
our heroes arc all fallible-
we are the first generation
to drink bottled water
a prozac nation of sin-
church told us so for those that went
in prose that christ called heaven sent
our college funds
were
spent in tithes
which left in tides
-
in tangible hoards
material whores
head towards oblivion again-
my stereotype is kenwood
i'ma nascarracist
i feel like ck one of you
when given any voice-
economy
of scale
has ruined choice-
Ill
we are contemporary poets,
our children are post-modern
-
our temporary poems
post-mortem might be read
like Kubla Kahn, like Illiad
on the shores of Lethe
we read and see
sea of contempt
-
we arc finally home -
Iv
Images
:
A pseudo beatnik poser
with a gothic posture
writes rhymes so ineffectual










he
'
s a pseudo intellectual -
he actually hears snaps
behind him at starbucks -
meanwhile flower child
pseudophile
writes flower poems
in sans script
day trip to walmart
dress too smart
psuedo middle class
bitch without a cause
pauses for stoplights
brakes for loose change
daughter of yuppie
still cries at weddings
and for roadkill puppies
somebody save me
take me to old navy
fashion crisis
rising prices
suicidal drama princess -
wannabe shakespeare
minimalist clothes talks in iambs
,
writes in prose -
minimum wage
,
minimum effort
minimum life
-
what's it for
,
he asks the sage
who never emails back -
The Mosaic
broken by a girl
,
soft-spoken in his world
he prays for the normal
to the non-responsive masses
so he takes drugs
in poet classes
and calls it being alive -
V
give us our bed wet jet set lectures
-
call it culture
give us beatles lyrics
,
call it wisdom -
y
ou n
e
v
e
r get through
being cool
it
'
s not enough to grow up
,
to group up
,
to urbaniz
e
cornfields
for those that have fled
the l
e
ss scenic urban
li
ve
s that the
y
'
ve led-
VI
w
e
a
re those who open mouth
s
wi
th nothing good to sa
y -
plagues
a
nd prec
e
d
e
ntial
beings
,
caught up in toda
y -
but like our parent
s,
given time
when our
y
outh has passed
will find us in
t11e
s
uburbs
,
the dissolved middle class -
37
S
cott Thompson












38
Fall 1998
Thrz dag was dark and drrzt1rg.
Or was it bright?
'(lh,
I
rrzmrzmbrzr,
twas was
thrz
darknrzss drzvourrzd light.
that samrz drzvilish darknrz.ss
whrznst eamrz
that
trzrriblrz night:
You wrzrrz
rzngu
lfrzd
bg thrz srza,
rzn
tanglrzd
notfrrzrz,
gou absorbrzd its' saltg
srzcrrztions
and brzeamrz
somrzthing rzlsrz,
a blistrzrrzd and bloatrzd Jrzsion.
~t:Jlt against
crz/ls,
thrz swrzJJing,
thrz
fis
sion,
whilst thrz
octopus
brzJo~v
mt1dr:
its Jilwl drzdsion
and
tor
12
and
gnashrzd
with rzaeh
prrzcisrz ineision,
splitting
gou in half
with a bloodg division.
'(Ind wh12nst gou
startrzd
to sink
and blood b,ecam,c:
ink
and
as
your
12grzs grrzw
blaek,
th12
onlg
thou
gh
t
I
cou
ld
think,
was
that
gou
w12rrzn
'
t
eoming baek.
'(Ind
so
it
w,c:nt
and
so
it
b12.
that night
to this
dag
still
12ntanglrzs m,e.
Thrz
night
of
whieh
I
will n12v12r b12
frf2f2,
th12 night I Jost gou to th12
s12a.
Jason Palladino








The Mosaic
39
CAN'T KEEP ME FROM TRYING
Can you feel me?
I know I'm not exactly what you want me to be.
You won't touch me.
Sometimes you have to look a second time to see.
-
you don't listen to what anybody tells you
-
they always give advice but it don't never ever get through
-
i always try so hard to get at your attention
-
but when you notice I'm too nervous to mention
-
if
I had a dime for every time that you ignored me
-
Maybe you would love me for the rich man that I would be
-
i try so hard and I'm always going nowhere
-
it makes me wonder
if
you ever even really care
I'll never have you
It
isn't our fault
I'll never have you
But you can't keep me from trying
I've racked my brain.
And a solution for this problem never came
I've tried, I've tried.
And always failed but at least I have retained my pride.
-
you'll never be my significant other
-
you're too worried you'll grow up to be your mother
-
it's not our fault it was never really meant to be
-
i
can't have you, and likewise you
can't
have me
-
i won't stop to think
-
i've worked so hard that I know I have deserved this drink
-
stop tryin' to try
-
i' m not a prince but I think that I'm a nice guy
I'll never have you
It
isn't our fault
I'll never have you
But you can't keep me from trying
Christien Tenczar















40
Fall 1998
BLOODBATH
I had met him only once
.
His
name was
Calel
,
whether that was a first name or a last name
I
don
'
t know
.
I had been studying patients for a few
years
it
was
to be no different a day
,
just a
ca
lm little stroll into
the
mind of
a
murderer
...
"
Do
y
ou give blood
?"
I heard a slight chuckle
,
h
is
frame
shook
a
bit
a
nd then he began to cough rather loudly
.
His
whole body threatened
to crumble
like
aged
stone but held
by
mere thre
a
ds
. "
More than
you
can
imagine
,"
he
w
hispered.
Strands
of black hair
danced
about
his face
covering
his eyes as he
bent over in the chair
.
When h
e
finall
y
looked up a tinge of
red
tainted his lips
.
I took hold of my
tissues
offering
them to
him
.
His pale hands were small and delicate
,
they tore but one from the
ca
rton
with which
he began to dab o
ve
r his lips
.
He handled the tissue
carefully
like a delicate flower
.
Small stains of red dotted the center
of
the cloth before he unexpectedly
crumpled
it within his grasp
.
His face became a bit more
colored
and visible
,
the
lips
soured
and
his eyes squin
te
d
.
His body turned to face the
trash
can at
my side where
he
tossed
the used tissue.
"
You have a fascination with blood,
"
I
commented
.
"
More of a
curs
e
I
do believe
."
"
Excuse
me?
"
"
Fascination is an innate
curiosity,
a curse is more a reluctant
gift.
"
"
Interesting that
you
would use the word
'
gift
."'
"
That is what I was given.
"
"
Please
... tell
me about it.
"
I felt my body relax. I had an upper hand a ground at which to
study
him without worry
.
Never had
r
felt such a pull toward this one
.
Though
young
I have long had
experience
in judging people
,
placing them in their respective categories
.
"I
was
sitting there like
you,
alone
.
Protected from everything that could harm me
.
I had a soul
once. Granted it was tainted with murder and
trinkets
of the sort
.
Cleaner than the one who gave me
this present.
"
He held his hands out revealing where the skin had begun to peel. It was like one of
those
withering flowers shown in speed frame on national geographic. His
body
lurched forward
as
he spoke
.
"
He told me that it was my turn to carry the plague.
"
"
According
to all the blood tests and physical examinations in this report you're in perfect shape
."
I even turned the paper over to show him but his eyes only wandered down to his hands.
The palms turned over revealing deep red spots. His body heaved in a deep breath.
"
Perfect indeed."
I shifted in my chair and motioned for the tissues. He simply refused and sat still again in
his chair.















The Mosaic
"Aren't you at least curious why I'm telling you this?
"
"
I'm a
doctor
it's my job to listen
.
"
"Then listen to what I'm tellingyou
...
Mark. Both ofus are going to die in here."
"All I require are
your
ears for this
part, the rest will come in time
."
He paused lifting his bloodied hand as if recalling a thought.
41
"
It
has been a long time since I've considered telling this story. Whenever there is an end there is
another beginning and that is the genius of this
gift
.
The human race is tainted with people like
us Mark. After the nightmare had visited me I awoke in a puddle of blood
.
Cold unfeeling
blood
.
You can imagine my surprise," he chuckled.
"
You were found inside the Red Cross with two beret pistols in your hands lying in a pool of
your victims blood
"
I told him taking a moment to gauge his reaction.
"
I failed" he miserably whispered
.
His eyes sank from my view as he attempted to hide himself
in the
open
chair. "I could not fight it Mark
...
all I wanted was an end
."
"
An
end to what Calel?"
"
To my existence
.
Oh Mark, you can sit in that chair and ponder all
your
psychological books
and use all your mental skills to explain my being here
.
I've
watched this world flourish and fall
for too long
.
I dare not watch it any more
."
His
body
perked up a moment
,
unsteadily rising within the confines of his chair. His
fingers held a deathlike grip over the armrest and his neck
extended.
His eyes were focused
deeply into my very
body
.
"
My blood is a poison. I am merely a vessel in order to claim more victims
.
Mindless
zombies
to
be further inherited
by
the darkness that gave me this
'
gift
."'
His lips turned
into
a sneer and he
sank back against the chair
.
"I
have forsaken them
."
My face contorted into an expression of pain that evidently shown too on Calel
'
s
.
Whatever tortured existence this man had led it was true
in
some fashion or another
.
Then he
quietl
y
revealed his distmbing last few thoughts to me
.
"
A few days ago I donated 3 pints of my blood to the Red Cross
."
I leaned forward in my chair
peering at him. He nodded his head breaking a thoughtful smile
. "
Even as
we
speak somewhere
out there
,
I can feel it in someone
'
s veins the
tortured
cries as they are punished for m
y
sins.
"
Slowl
y
his eyes lingered upon me
.
"Why
..
.
wh
y
are the innocent always punished
...
why
must the
gui
lty
walk
free with this curse?"
His
body
spasmed and became fevered. He
searched
franticall
y
with
his
eyes about
the
room
. "
I cannot live with myself
,
there is but one
way
to escape the nightmares of my
existence.
One sure way
,
I must pass on my curse to another!
"
His breathes became labored and I found myself sitting beside his chair attempting to
pat the life into his lifeless arms
.
He was horribly cold
;
it nearly burned my
warm
flesh
.
"I'm
going to call for a nurse
,
" I said as I stood up abruptl
y.
"No!"
he hissed
.
His skeletal fingers curling painfully around my arms
.















42
Fall 1998
Blood rose up to his lips as he spat
, "
There is but one thing left I must do
.
.. "
His voice faded My eyes locked upon his
.
They bore fires that spoke untold tales of centuries
passed What sinister point to this plot had I?
His hands pressed behind my head and I was forced to my knee
'
s
.
His frail
body
which
had only a half-hour ago been in perfect physical shape was withering
. "
This is my
'
gift'
to you
Mark." He pressed his bloody lips to my forehead and gave a hollow exhale
.
I found m
y
self
suddenly
freed
and with one motion tossed Calel from his feet. The frail-lithe like being cracked
and crumbled upon the ground. M
y
mind suddenly felt on fire and I let out a
shrill cry as I sank to all fours
.
My
body
coughed
vi
olently and I receded to the cold white floor
.
There I felt th
e
horrible
words hissing in my ears
..
.
.
"Both of us are going to die in here
.
"
"
ButMark
...
your quite all right.
As
I have said to you over and over
y
ou
'
re perfectly fine
.
I see
none of the symptoms that this .
.
. Cal el person apparently had
."
I sat there pondering the balding psychiatrist. His little name read:
'
Dr
.
Peterson
'
on the
desk. M
y
lips couldn't help but curl into a smirk.
"
I never discovered what happened to the blood
Calel donated
.
"
"
Of
course not Mark, he didn
'
t donate any blood According the police report this man was a bum,
he had no name or a record
.
When the nurse entered your room there was no
body.
Just you
Mark .
..
just you.
"
I sighed reluctantly turning my head from his pitiful face. I could hear him close a book
and begin writing a few words down on a sheet of paper
.
"I want you to listen to me Mark and go
home
.
We
'
ll continue this session next week and I'll prescribe you something for your night-
mares
.
" I stood up abruptly and stared at him.
"
It
won't work," I responded
"It
never does
.
"
Soothingly I whispered to myself
"
There
'
s only one thing that can relieve the nightmares.
"
I thought a moment about the
part of me that Calel had indeed killed. Something was dark
inside me now. I could feel it inside my veins, clawing its way to the surface
.
The
'
gift'
that had so
frightfully been bestowed upon me grew with each passing day. Calel was right, a young girl in
Santa Fe received a portion of his blood and I could feel her agonizing cries each night as she was
being eaten alive
by
the
red essence! I could hear all of their twisted voices in my nightmares.
Hundreds of thousands whispering to me why they were picked, why they had to suffer? I know
the nightmare is over when I can only look into their tortured eyes and not answer them.
My
body
froze abruptly as I
stared up at the white and red sign in my travels. A soft
chuckle began to reverberate within my lips. It grew louder and I felt like spilling over into the
street. I could feel my blood tum over in sweet victory as I opened the door to the Red Cross
building trying to sustain the
deep
dark
laugh welling inside the pit of my soul ...
Jim Revello




















The Mosaic
Just Jlnot6er fa[en Jlngef
I
can't 6e 1)0Ur
frienS
6ecau.se ~u want so mucfj more
.
I
can't 6e -wfjat ~u nee6
,
an6
it
Burns me
to
tfje core.
I
am
not tfje one for ~u, an6 ~u are not for me
.
}>ou are 6etter off -witfjout me,
I
just
wisfj tfjat ~u couf6 see.
I
can not 6e tfje go6Sess, not tfje one tfjat 1)0U 6eserce
.
I
can't just 6e
1'0Ut'
fo-cer;
I
6on't care -wfjat 1>ou've fjear6
.
I
can't cross tfje -worf6 for ~u; 1)0U can
'
t 6e tfjere -witfj me
.
}>ou'lf fjcroe
to
-wafK
ctWal).
}>ou just can't stap-witfj me
.
I
am
not tfje
scroior
of tfje fji66en 6reams
in
~u
.
I
am
not tfje fjero, for tfjere's notfjing
I
can 6o.
I can .6ring 'POU no safvation on tfjis :patfj tfjat
~
fjcroe gone.
I
can offer~ no free6om from tfje tfjings tfjat ~u've 6one wrong
.
I
can not 6e
a
folfo-wer of tfje 6reams tfjat 1)0U fjcroe foun6
.
I can
'
t 6e -witfj ~u
af'Wa'l)S
an6 fet 1)0U fea6 me aroun6
.
I wisfj tfjat I couf6 6e for ~ . I wisfj
'
I couf6 6e tfjere
.
}>et
I
just
6on't compfete ~u. an6 1)0U realf1> sfjouf6n't care
.
I
am a
scroior
out of
:practice, a
fjero faffing 6o-wn.
tfje safvation an6 tfje free6om, tfjere
is
none for us
,
I've foun6.
}>our 6reams
,
I can not fin6 tfjem, I can not set tfjem free.
Just anotfjer falf en angef, ~u -wilf fjcroe
to
f et me 6e.
I can't trust tfje -wor6s ~u sai6, or -wfjat 1>ou're saying now
.
If~ Know -wfjat -wilf cfjange tfjat, pf ease just telf me fjo-w
.
I
am
not tfje angef, tfje one
to
spare 1)0Ur souf.
I
am
110t tfje one tfjat can mal\e ~ur 6rof\en fjeart f eef -wfjofe.
I'm just anotfjer falfen angef, caugfjt up in 1)our -we6
.
..teft
fjere alf
confuse6
an6 twiste6, fost from -wfjat ~u•v
e
sai6
.
I
fjcroe gfoen ~u m1> fjeart 6ef ore, 1)0U tfjre-w
it
6acl\
at me
.
1/to-w
~
5a'i'
~u want
to
fjcroe
it,
tfjat's
a
s
i
lf1> fantas1).
2'na'1>6e tfjere
is
a
-w~, som~
to
make
it
6e
~ut
I
can not trust ~ur :promises, tfjere
is
no guarantee
.
In
-wfjat we've
6one
togetfjer
,
~•ve 6one more tfjan 6reak m1> fjeart
.
I
6on't know fjo-w
to
fix
it.
I
6on't know -wfjere
to
start
.
§etting
fire
to
tfje -win6, -we
'
lf-watcfj tfje fire 6um
}>ou can't sacrifice ~ur fife, ~ur fjeart -wilf
start
to
tum
I
gcroe up alf tfje 6reams we fja6, an6 I set fire
to
our :past
.
If we ever are
to
6e
again,
I must know tfjat
it
-wilT
fast
.
Jennifer ~no6focfj
43






GET A JUMP ON NEXT SEMESTER'S MOSAIC!
If you have any poetry, prose, photography, or other
artistic expression that you would like to submit for
possible publication into the Spring 1998 Mosaic,
please drop a copy of the work in the Literary Arts
mailbox in the Council of Clubs room, located in the
Student Center, or get in contact with Scott Neville or
Heather Clarke for more information. All work will be
returned in its original condition. Watch for deadlines
posted around campus during the spring semester.




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