\
Literary Arts Society Presents
The Mosaic
.
Fall
2002
Voices and Visions








A Special Message from the Chief Editor
The mission and purpose of the
Mosaic is to represent diverse views on all subjects, particularly
those that are controversial. The title
"
Mosaic
"
encompasses this purpose because a mosaic is
made of multi
-
colored tiles that form one picture
.
Some of the views presented in the magazine may be considered offensive or distasteful,
nevertheless they still have a right to be printed and read. Philosopher John Mill states that you
cannot begin to argue against an opposing point of view until you have read and understood the
other side's argument. Thus it is of the utmost importance that everyone have a chance to speak
and be heard. The history of art and literature has often been characterized by censorship and
intolerance. The editor of this magazine does not wish to continue this pattern of history. Art and
literature must teach and entertain. To deny publication based on "controversy
"
or "indecency"
is to effectively stop the learning process. Please consider this while reading the
Mosaic.
Before I conclude, I would like to take the opportunity to thank Timothy M. Brudereck and Dan
Buzi for all their help in putting together this semester
'
s publication
.
Their time and commit-
ment are much appreciated
.
Chief Editor: Ann M. Metz
Front Cover Art: MillaMiUa Falls, Australia,
Kelly Aymar
Shadow Woman by Lisa Federici
Advisor: Tad Richards
Back Cover: Cristine DiGirolamo
List of Assistant Editors
Dan Bu
z
i
Timoth
y
MBrud
e
r
ec
k
Kath
e
rin
e
Toal
e







Table of Contents
5
Meta poetry
Braden Russom
6
From the Diary of Christine Daae,
Diana Alvarez
Recollections of a Songasm
7
Untitled
Lisa Federici
8
Meteor
Mike Traynor
9
Misty Wood
Hem Borromeo
10
Hesitant Steps
Michelle Rosbozom
11
Green Soldiers
Jay Meyer
12
Spder in Web
Kelly Aymar
13
Old Fruit
Lauren Thatcher
13
Blue
Julie Barn of ski
13
Pear in Cup
Lisa Federici
14
I Hold in my Hand
Claire Casaccio
15
How the Fairy Tale Really Ends
Ann M. Metz
16
Girl
Christine Di Girolamo
17
Acceptable Risk
Sean Macomber
17
One Night
Sean Macomber
18
Everything's About Love
Karla Gareau
19
Wait
Braden Russom
19
Unique, Just Like Everyone Else
Michelle Rosbozom
20
Untitled
Greg Spears
21
Page 153, #7
Angela De Fini
22
The Kiss
Dan Buzi
23
How to Deconstruct a Blonde
Anne
M.
Metz
23
Triangle
Hem Borromeo
24
Stamp Out Conformity
Mary Tougher
25
Look at the Stars
Claire Casaccio
26
Winged Woman
Hem Borromeo
27
The Physics of a Life
Patty Tarantella
28
Double Dutch
Jeff Bemer
29
Inverse Double Handcuff
Lisa Federici
30
Forgotten
James Brearton
31
Waiting for the Night
Matt Dunning
32
3 Minutes
Pete Carberry
33
Acres of Glass
Timothy
M
.
Bruderek
34
In the Mirror
DanBuzi
35
Waiting for Jennifer Brown
Braden Russom







35
Hands
Christine Digirolamo
36
Untitled
S
.
Prinz
37
The Veldt
Mike Traynor
38
Mind Your Head
Kelly Aymar
39
Indicates Required Field
Jeff Bemer
41
From Below
Kelly Aymar
42
At a Standstill
Michelle Rosbozom
43
Untitled
Lauren Thatcher
43
Untitled
Christine DiGirolamo
44
Shipwreck
Patty Tarantello
45
To a Former Friend
Ann
M.
Metz
47
You're Only Silver
Timothy- M. Bruderek
48
I Got You
Karla Gareau
48
Back
Lisa Federici
49
Inner Thoughts
Michelle Rosbozom
50
Hippie Nude
Hem Borromeo
51
Little Left
Karla Gareau
52
Untitled
Diana Alvarez
53
Raven Door
Lisa Federici
54
Untitled
Jessica Campilango
55
You Shine
Timothy M. Bruderek
56
Amongst the Ivy
Lisa Federici
57
The Recreation of Odysseus
AnnM. Metz
59
Untitled
Katherine Toale
59
Parachutte
Kelly Aymar
60
Holloween
Katherine Toale
61
Forgotten
Katherine Toale
61
Sydney Opera House
Kelly Aymar





The Mosaic
Meta poetry
By Braden
Russom
Ever have a moment
where you see with such clarity
exactly what's happening
around you?
This happened today
as I read a book
and waited for you to arrive.
a poem formed in my mind.
This poem, actually,
that you are reading now
on this white page.
flanked by other records
of speeches never spoken,
lines that couldn't wait any longer
to be put to rest
in the ears of the ones
they were meant to love.
5






6
Fall 2002
-From the Diary of Christine Daae, Recollections of a Songasm
By DianaAlvarez
I felt as ifl had not pleased you
.
And time ..
.
time was by no means
a constant
,
because somehow,
you managed to hold it still,
almost as unaffectedly
as you held me.
No
,
I meant to regret letting it all go,
because lovers, as we all know, mustn't.
"We must love with caution;
enough will to love,
and enough discretion to maintain sanity."
Ah, yet love is such a mad practice.
So, I do not regret letting go the rubbish
of catholic-school-whim.
I do not regret holding you back,
though it was, at last, no easy task
.
You could not, I feared,
be convinced that my attempts
at passion were complete.
You wanted more,
and when more was what I thought I had given,
I found myself no closer to "more" than before
.
I did not realize at the time what
"
more" meant.
"Again"
,
in my mind, commanded repetition
,
not perception of some pronounced force
,
which is what you meant to show me.
No
,
when you wanted more out of me
,
you wanted a Nietzche-rejected enlightenment.
You wanted an effortless Me,
with no attention to breath marks or Callas
,
or damned repetition
.
You wanted a song; my song.







The Mosaic
And so, it was not until I
felt my own soul stunned,
shaken by my own force,
that I would make myself one with music,
and one, at last, with you.
My music pleased you when it pleased me.
I have known no lover like you,
who has shown me what music must be,
and so what love must be (for
aren't they
one madness the
same?).
Untitled
by
Lisa Federici
7



8
Fall 2002
Meteor
By Mike Traynor
Tonight I cannot bear
Even a moment
Of silence.
Outer space is so cruelly
In love with its axis.
The stars are far too quiet.
They sometimes jig and pivot
Out of arrogance,
But only for an instant.
They are drifters,
Though they may think themselves kingly,
A sextant for the seaward.
But I know who they are.
I know they are dead weights,
Staining the sky with their
White noise.
My body cannot hold
Such intrusion.
It seems so wrong,
That such emptiness would
Resound so terribly,
Echoing in the places
Where your hands
Have never been.







The Mosaic
9
Misty
Wood
by
Hem Borromeo









Hesitant Steps
By Michelle Rosbozom
Loneliness
encompasses me
-
I need to feel another's presence.
I
see comfort
at the bottom
Of
an endless cup,
But circumstances
don't allow
Me to
reach it.
So
I
continue
to try,
But it continues
to
fill,
And we continue
the dance,
Until it
s
tops
abruptly-
When you arrive.
I don't
do
well with
being
alone.
My soul cries out
For a kindred spirit.
But you managed to wipe away
Every
tear my essence shed
With each word that
proved
You understood me.
How are you able
To know so much
So quickly?
You claim
to
not have
The skill
of
a
mind reader;
Yet
you
somehow always know
What I want and need to
hear.
The dance we perform
Appears as if we've done it
Many times before.
The
aw
kwardness
of
An initial
meeting
Disappeared
but
a
moment
After we
met.
And it felt as
if
years
had passed
And we were old
friends
Catching
up
after a
long
absence
From one another;
Rather than
strangers
meeting
For
the first time.
Fall 2002
But a part
of
me remained unsettled
.
Self-inflicted
insecurities
Ate away at
my
confidence,
Despite
your efforts of reassurance.
I
feel
as if
I have nothing to
offer you,
And
that
you'll take
my heart
With
you,
when
someone
new
Catches your eye.
I'm trying hard not
to
doubt
you-
You've given
me no reason
to.
And every time
I question
you
You look
at me with surprise;
Unable to mask
the
hurt I've caused
.
Please understand that it
is
not you
.
You
have
treated me no
less
Than the princess you
think
I am,
And
ha
ve
worked hard
To prove yourself.
Please do not give
up
on me .
.
.
When you are not around
I ache
to
feel your
touch
.
When I am with you
My
uneasiness melts
away.
When
you
hold
me in your arms
I feel as if
I
am
released
From all the
tortures
within me.
And when you
kiss me
I
feel completely
,
utterly, free.
Please don
't
be discouraged.
Please don't feel like it
's
hopeless.
I
am
learning, like
everyone
else
,
How to be
okay
with myself
;
How to know
when to
trust others;
How to participate in the dance
Without really knowing all the
steps.








The Mosaic
Please take my hand and guide me
.
I willingly place
My heart in your tender grip
.
I just hope and pray
That I will not be misled
..
.
Green Soldiers
By Jay Meyer
11
This little kid is still playing in the sandbox
.
You'd think he would get tired of
just getting himself dirty and filling up his diaper with scratchy little particles
.
But
he
'
s still playing. I wonder if he even sees me from over here. He hasn
'
t looked up
from the mounds of sand in a while. Poor kid doesn't even have any toys to play
with. What kind of parent would just throw their kid in a pile of sand with nothing
to dig with or even one of those dump trucks? That must be the kid's mother over
there by those swings. She isn't even watching her kid! What do they call that
thing? Peripheral vision? That must be her technique of parenting
.
!could easily
just get up from this bench and snatch that kid and that dumb mother would be
thinking, "Oh, why me? What have I done?" I can see this happening right now.
If
I grab that kid, she
'
d be so upset with guilt and she would come sobbing to her
best friend. This mother would cover her best friend's shoulder with snot and tears.
And the best friend, in an attempt to add comfort, may say, "There was nothing you
could have done, dear." As if this one event had been determined to happen to her
alone, on this particular day
.
The mother would rack her brain with "what-ifs"
concerning her half-assed parenting, her choice of playgrounds, and "if only I had
left two minutes earlier". But in the back of her head, advice whispers, "there was
nothing you could have done." She would then see her life as a clockwork that had
been set in motion by the Big Man upstairs well before she plopped her kid in a
box of sand. Is she wrong in thinking this? I know I'm wrong. This kid does have
a toy with him
.






12
Fall 2002
It's one of those little military plastic soldiers. He's about the size of the
kid's palm
.
I remember when I used to play with those guys when I was a kid!
I'd set them up all over the yard like I was a decorated marine officer giving out
my orders
.
They had their weapons and I'd position them focusing their efforts
on some target of execution. Those little plastic guys were manufactured, each
with an individual purpose. Some were designed to lay horizontal, with belly-
side down. Some with legs connected by a smooth plastic pad that resembled a
golf putting green. No matter what you did, the ones that stood would never
lay down and the ones that lay down could never stand. They were made in one
way and there ain't nothing that will change that. I pity the green soldier that
was only equipped with a set of binoculars. No weapon. I wonder which one
this kid has. I'll just walk over and take a closer look. Let's see if this kid's
mom's peripheral vision starts to kick in
.
Spider in Web by Kelly Aymar






Old Fruit
By Lauren Thatcher
Old fruit and stale coffee
Start the evening off right
I'm seeing you in passing
Shaking off the rain
Not enough to keep me happy
But enough to keep me sane
Foggy mind and foggy weather
Strain your eyes so you can see
Through my bravest contradictions
Through my muted fantasies
So break off all this deadened skin
Let me feel a little more
Erase my need to feel so deeply
Half as selfish as before
I'll hold onto welcome phrases
Asylum green and dusty gray
But insanity's lost its luster
And addiction's so passe
I'll let winter settle in now
Let the rest of me go numb
And I think I' 11 face the truth soon
That winter's just no fun
The Mosaic
Pear in Cup by Lisa Federici
Blue
By JulieBamofski
Within teal haze she woke-
A soft cerulean
Old life. Awakened from
A dull and denim dream,
She rose and faced a sun
Of violet drippings; cold,
As she had been
.
A once
Green world without the warm
And yellow light, it's now
Her cool blue globe, alone
.
She sits and waits for days
Exempt of midnight skies
But when she wakes it's just
A navy muddled mess.
13
I






14
Fall 2002
I Hold In My Hand
By Claire Casaccio
I hold in my hand ...
The ability to alter a life,
or perhaps save one from strife;
The power to break a heart,
or perhaps nurture it from the start;
The capability to push one away,
or perhaps beg them to stay;
The capacity to put a relationship to an end,
or perhaps cherish each and every friend;
The potential to give up when the odds are against me,
or perhaps persevere and achieve what I hope to be;
The inclination to agree with the norm,
or perhaps a longing not to conform;
The tendency to watch those around me suffer,
or perhaps extend my hand as a shield and a buffer;
The proclivity to take the easy way out,
or perhaps take the more difficult path if that's what it's
about;
The desire to participate in the conflicts others seek,
or perhaps to smile
1
nd
tum the other cheek;
The
strength to belittle and cause another person's tears,
or perhaps stand proud and wipe away their fears;
As unassuming as it may be,
a hand holds immense power you see;
It can be a danger to you and me,
or perhaps a saving grace for thee.








How the Fairy '!ale
Really
Ends
By Ann M. Metz
The Mosaic
15
Rapunzel waited with a fluttering heart in the castle tower for her rescuer, the prince.
She arranged her hair into perfect golden ringlets, gave herself a fresh manicure,
powdered her face, and put on extra-long-lash mascara
.
When four days elapsed
and her eyes became blurred with fatigue from the long hours spent scrutinizing the
horizon, she made her decision: stop waiting and act.
If
she were to be free ever
again, she must climb down the tower herself. So she braided her long flaxen hair into
two sturdy ropes, then cut it with her own nail clippers
.
She tied the braids securely
to the bedposts (with Boy Scout knots of course), and descended to the ground. She
never looked back again.
Snow White ate the poisoned apple and she died. No, the prince didn't come and
kiss her to break the spell. By the time he heard about it, Snow White was six feet
under and it was beneath the Prince's dignity to kiss a dead woman's lips, no matter
how beautiful in life she had been. After all, who knew what vermin and diseases
were on that rose bud mouth? Suppose she hadn't died from a poisoned apple, but
theBlackPlague?You can't blame the prince
.
He had his kingdom to consider
.
If
he
were to die, his younger brother would take the throne, and bon voyage to Prince
Charming's illustrious reign as king! Alas ladies, a man's political career always takes
precedence over his love life. So Snow White stayed in her glass coffin and the
dwarves went on with the business of mining and making money.
What about the young woman who kissed all those frogs until she found her prince?
Well, she continued smacking lips with those slimy amphibians until one day she grew
weary of the monotonous process, and threw the last frog back into the pond
.
She finally realized she had been duped all this time by that old crone who told her
she was sure to find her prince if she just kept kissing frogs. Another elderly woman
had told the old crone the same story when she was a young girl, and consequently
she spent her entire life kissing
frogs. But of course, she never found a prince either. When she saw the younger
woman coming along, she decided to get even and tell the lie to her. This young
woman wised up after a year or two, however
.
She realized that the true moral to
the story was not "you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you kiss a prince." Rather
it was "kiss a lot of frogs and all you end
up
kissing is another frog
.
"








16
Fall 2002
Now we come to our last tale for the evening, ladies. It's not a fairy tale,
but a dramatic tragedy and a well-known one at that. We all know how
the tragedies end. Every woman goes insane and commits suicide. Except
in
Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare. It seems, in true masculine
story-telling fashion, after this pronouncement, Juliet rose promptly and
went to find her father. She sued both families, and with the combined
income from the civil suit, and the money from Romeo's estate, she was
able to live happily ever after.
The moral of all these tales is this: never take a story to be incontestable
fact. Stories are physical manifestations of dreams. Dreams are the
substance of illusions. Prince Charming and the Knight on the White horse
are illusions.
If
you search for them, you will spend your life in a permanent state
of
REM
paralysis.
But you have to wake up. Everyone does. What then? Your entire life was a fairy
tale
,
a dream, an illusion? A wisp of cloud punctured by a shaft of sunlight. A
helium balloon set adrift into space, only to burst before it ever reached the
stars ...
Don
'
t ask Sigmund Freud for an interpretation. He snorted cocaine and was
already strung out in his own dreamland long before you were born. Sometimes a
cigar is just a cigar, he said.
Men are always men. There's no heroism in it, ladies. Just sex.
It's a rude awakening, isn't it?







The
Mosaic
*One
Night
By Sean Macomber
spaghetti
strap underwear
visible
over a panty line
my mouth fills with wet hunger
for her
acceptable risk
rape is bad,
don't rape people
love,
Sean Macomber
p.s. censorship is worse than intolerance,
you cowards
the
atmosphere
of smoke and sex in the bar, shifts to me now
I only
see the red breast cleft shirt
and
the white of underwear keeping a tampon on the inside
of
her
my senses
heighten
to smell her cycle
happening
her perfumed
beauty
would
overwhelm
the deeply
religious
an
hour past I'm in the dorm
forcing into
her blood
pushing
the cotton and string
deep inside her
pain is hers alone
pleasure is for mine
even drunk, I hate rape
but I love sex
*Please
refer to attached note on the cover page.
Girl by Christine Di Girolamo
1
17



18
Everything' s About Love
By Karla Gareau
Fall 2002
Everything's about love these days
.
Everything
'
s about huggin'
Andkissin
'
Andmakin' out
Andmakin' love
.
I wish it would all just go away.
Just for a little while.
Just long enough for me to get my head on straight.
Just long enough for me to sink my feet into some-
thing else
.
But everyone's walkin
'
around,
Mourning for "the one" who got away
.
So how can I think of anything else?
"
There's life after love!
"
I want to scream
.
I'm sorry if you've found your soul mate
,
Mr. or Mrs. Right,
The love of your life,
Because everything seems to be about the one who
got away
Or the one they haven't found.
And they hope,
And wish,
And pray,
For someone to come and sweep them off their
feet.
Maybe tomorrow they'll wake up and someone will
be lying next to them and they' 11
Realize they' re in love
Their search will be over
And mine will go on
But I was never one to follow the crowd.






Wait
By Braden Russom
Let me sit here
one minute
and absorb
before the table is cleared
the plates are cleaned
and the crumbs swept to the trash
Jack Daniels Bottles by Stephen Pause
The Mosaic
Unique,JustLikeEveryoneElse
By Michelle Rosbozom
You look at me,
What do you see?
Just ignorance and youth?
So hard I try
To not comply
With society's "truths
"
.
Be new
,
not true;
Be happy, not blue-
God forbid imperfections show.
Have strength, be meet;
Be whom others seek,
But have a balance of yes and no.
Just ask for more-
But don't be whore
,
19
Don't let on to how much you've done.
'Cuz when all's said,
friends have fled;
the final race the enemy's won.
So how does it end?




20
Fall 2002
Untitled
By Greg Spears
I couldn't believe my car had broken down. Luckily it had happened on a
famil
i
ar road, in a familiar place
.
As I looked to the sky a few scattered clouds lazed by
the glowing moon. I was on my way to a house that I knew of nearby, perhaps some-
body there could help me. I would be there soon. Suddenly I heard a shuffle in the
undergrowth off to my left. Typically I would not have been scared. I knew where I
was, but the dark plays tricks on the mind. Trees that are beautiful by day suddenly
become gruesome, disfigured human forms reaching for you with their rattling branches
.
Your senses are increased
.
Every sound becomes magnified
.
Awareness becomes a
curse
.
Every passing thought leads to an awful vision. I heard rustling again, on the
opposite side of the road this time. "What is that?!" I whispered. I walked a few more
paces and stopped. Something was dead in the road. A deer. I avoided the mangled
body, and continued on my way, leaving the smell of death behind me. I could see the
house now. I would be there soon
.
Suddenly I heard a noise behind me, and turned
only to find myself back at my car. Back where I had started. Behind me the house
had vanished, but in its place appeared something far less explainable. A shapeless
form darker than the night, save its two red eyes, was drawing closer. I fumbled with
my keys to get into the car, but as I looked towards the lock I was frozen in fear. There
I was
,
lifeless in the drivers seat. Seatbelt around my neck, arms twisted in an awful
way. My eyes were glazed
,
staring but not seeing
.
A stream of dried blood ran over
my forehead. The car was wrapped around a tree
.
The corpse of the deer I had
stepped over just minutes ago was lying in the road forty feet to my right. What was
happening? The eyes came slowly towards me. I ran
.







The Mosaic
21
Page 153, #7
By Angela De Fini
Fat. A word defined by good old Webster as: 1. containing fat; oily 2.
fleshy, plump, too plump 3. thick, broad 4. an oily or greasy material found in
animal
tissue
and
plant seed. Synonyms of fat: beefy, chubby, corpulent
,
flabby, heavy,
obese,
overweight, portly, pudgy, rotund, squat, stocky, stout, tubby, weighty.
Everyone
is taught the word
"fat"
when they are learning how to describe
someone:
are
they tall or short, fat or
skinny.
We all know what
"fat"
means
.
Yet
somehow,
the
youth of America
seems
to have taken the word
"fat,"
misspelled it, and tried to
pass
it
off
as a
so-called "cool"
word.
P-h-a-t. A word not defined in
any
accepted
scholarly
dictionary. Pro-
nounced the same
way as the well known f-a-t, "phat" is
a slang
term being used by
the youth of
the nation as a
word
meaning
"awesome" or "cool."
Of
course,
"aweso
me"
and "cool"
are
slang words
themselves,
so "phat" is even
more unique
in that it
is
a slang
term pretty much defined
only
by other slang terms
.
Another
distinctive quality of "phat"
is that
it's not even a
word-it's
an acronym for
"
Pretty
Hot and Tempting." Who
knew that teenage America
would grow to love an
acronym,
and try to pass it off as a word?
"That's
phat." "You have a phat
car."
I personally will never understand
how "phat" can be considered an acceptable adjective
to describe
anything. Take
the
legitimate
"fat,"
for instance. This word is often seen as an unpleasant charac-
teristic. Using
"fat"
as a descriptive adjective is generally viewed as unappealing
and
most of the time insulting. However, replace that "F" with a "Ph" and
you
are
giving someone
the highest compliment.
Teenagers
have to realize that "phat" is a confusing term to use. Since it is
pronounced
the same way as "fat" when said in spoken language, it is often hard to
differentiate
"phat"
from
"fat."
It is easy to see the
difference
in written word,
however, if
you
were to read this aloud to someone, it's
likely
he or she would
confuse
the two terms. I
myself have heard people say
"She's
phat,"
and have
to
clarify that they are in fact giving
that
girl a compliment and
not
an
insult. How can
a






22
Fall 2002
term that you have to constantly verbally explain the meaning of be considered "cool?"
The increased popularity of "phat" has spread even further than spoken or
written banter between teenagers. Advertising America seems to have gotten word of
this acronym's popularity and decided to make money off of it. The recently established
clothing line called Phat Farm has further added to the hype. Now, teenagers can wear
jeans and shirts bearing PHAT in large colorful letters while using this so-called adjective
in every day conversation. Adults in the advertising agency are only adding to the
stupidity of accepting this as a verifiable word. But, of course, all they care about is
making a couple of bucks-who cares if it is at the expense of the deteriorating dialect
of America's youth?
Teenage vernacular is constantly changing, and will continue to change as time
marches on. Terms such as "groovy" and "rad" received the same amount of hype in
their generations as well. And how many times have you heard your parents say "I
can't believe we actually thought 'groovy' was a good word!" So one has to hope that
"phat" will take the same path as our good friends "groovy" and "rad" and eventually
become a retired catch phrase. However, hearing terms like "phat" makes me cringe to
admit that I am a teenager of the 21
st
century, when phrases such as "That's phat" are
uttered.
The Kiss
ByDanBuzi
It was a curdled milk kiss,
left a bad stinky fish at the harbor taste
in his mouth of
entirely too little feeling in the heart and
entirely too much in the gut.
The shit that morning had been good
.
Simple
Two ass cheeks separating, a little wet
,
Then back together again, with her disgusting tongue
Jammed vilely down his under-anxious throat
And he protesting, but the shit had come out all the same
And hardly needed to be wiped
Which he did after every new arrival of lip to face
The back of his sleeve was exhausted with the action.
And the paper hadn
'
t torn and
It was charming to wash his hands
Which he figured on doing just after he could push her away.









The Mosaic
How to Deconstruct
a
Blonde
By Ann M. Metz
Rip out her pretty Barbie Doll hair.
Strand by
strand,
Unravel
all that golden thread.
Slide
it
under the microscopic
eye,
View each
separate cell,
Every
building block
of
a model.
Tell me,
what
is it that
you see?
What
is
it you
see?
Is
it Pamela Anderson-Lee,
Or
a cheap
anorexic replica
,
Mattel-made fake
flesh
And painted red
lips?
What
is
it
you see?
Glimpses of
Rapunzel fleeting
across the
lens?
Clips of 'Sweet
Home' Reese?
Segments of
Donna Reed?
Excerpts of Athena, fragments of sun,
All reduced to cells, cells to one nucleus,
The nucleus of an atom.
An
atom
of Arian myth.
An atom of a lie.
Blonde is not beautiful.
Brunette is not beautiful.
There are no models,
Only naked women
and
one long runway
.
Triangle by Hem Borromeo
23





24
"Stamp Out Conformity"
By Mary Tougher
social norms ..
.
who needs them?
Fall 2002
i wanna walk on my hands backwards
i wanna scream out in laughter because of nothing
ijustfeltlikeitsoi did
i look at your toes when you talk to me but i listen
i heard you from 10 ft. away while i was vacuuming out my trunk
damn those banana peels ..
.
if they tasted good I'd eat them and they don't really
make you slip and fall ... so what?
i like the sun but sometimes i like the dark
not pitch dark but enough so its like you're in the shade
.
i like to drive
i wanna drive to the moon, eat swiss cheese and drink white wine grigio
you should all come
it'll be an adventure right now
i 'm tired, but i yearn for more to life
i love change but fear the leap to want a dream,
but to never act on it is the greatest self-injustice
so move for it but cherish those you're best with,
and don't pass them along
i 'm best with you ... you're best with me ... it's perfect!!
you make me live i wana roll in the mud but never get dirty
no wait... i love dirt why try to be what they want?
be who you want if it means rolling in the mud then do it
i want to be on a high rise and swing my legs
i wa]lt to fly if you ring me like a towel
i believe you'd get a rainbow with that you could find a pot of gold in my sleep
i slid down it with you we can fly in the ocean and float in the air
we can be
"Stamp out Conformity."





The Mosaic
Look at the Stars
By Claire Casaccio
Just look at the stars;
They represent a time of solace and an opportunity for reflection,
Beneath the gentle shimmer of the infinite sky
.
An overlooked phenomenon,
The night sky offers a glimpse of the unusually solemn Earth,
At rest from the day's toils and injustices.
The mystery of its extent,
Its incomprehensible lack of boundary,
Forever mystifies the mind and questions the soul.
The constellations and planets mislead the mortals,
As the truth regarding their immense size, if known,
Would surely sober us all.
Just look at the stars;
The millions of glistening dots illuminate the melancholy night sky.
They have seen the truth;
There is no escaping their bounds.
There are no secrets from the little giants above,
For their knowledge is sure to convict us all.
Their presence, taken for granted,
As they are assumed and expected to appear consistently,
Like God's greatest magic trick at the fall of dusk.
Location proves irrelevant,
As we all look upon the same mystical blanket
That wraps us in its gentle, outstretched arms.
Just look at the stars;
They are the beginning and the end.
Too often overlooked and seldom cherished,
Their power and significance are ignored
And will never fully be appreciated.
Not until that night when darkness falls
Upon the Earth and they are absent,
Will we rightfully idolize these miraculous beings.
The night sky unites us all and then leaves,
25






26
Fall 2002
Just as quickly and quietly as it first appeared.
If you don't believe me,
Just look at the stars.
Winged
Woman
by
Hem Borromeo





The Physics of a Life
By Patty Tarantello
The Mosaic
From its state of rest, beauty
,
small and insignificant,
develops, mastering the delicate balance of motion and force
.
Sensory overload
as the potential becomes kinetic.
Mass experimentation and acceleration
.
Energy.
Oscillation lacking direction means the search for more
death-defying thrills.
Friction brings a greater threat
of injury, skids and collisions.
Acceleration. Momentum builds
on the upward ascent. Constant energy despite
external resistance and unbalanced forces
.
Gravitational attraction between two bodies,
equal in magnitude but opposite
in direction. Sensation leads to creation.
Balance. Momentary suspension:
a state of mature inertia.
Substance resists change, clings
to built-in safety allowances
.
27
Slowing significantly, there are periodic spurts of motion sickness and difficulty
in maintaining pace. The gradual trajectory curve becomes
a downward plunge.
Decay and compression.
Kinetic energy is converted to potential energy;
no external forces act upon the body.
State of rest.






28
Double Dutch
By Jeff Bemer
you called me one afternoon
said "pick
me up,
I'm feeling
low"
Fall 2002
i was looking down, hanging words upon ragged syllables
watching girls run by,
their
lovers in tow
so
I, jumped in my car
and
ground the clutch
shit
I
said
this is
Double Dutch
we
drive
around aimless
following
only
the spotlight of
the
sun
you
hang one
foot
out the
window,
so casually
and soon,
weighty words
slow
to whispers of abberation
sol,jumpedin
my car
and ground
the clutch
shit
I
said
this is Double Dutch
the truth, the truth, your
kingdom
for the truth
but by this time, I've dropped
you
off at your door
the last words you whispered were "it seems rather contrary"
I kissed you sweet and soft, wished I could come in for more
so
!,jumped in my car
and ground
the
.
clutch
I looked
back
and said,
is this agony
too much
shit
I'm living Double Dutch







The
Mosaic
29
Inv
erse
Double Handcuff by Lisa Federici



30
Forgotten
By James Brearton
This existence is not enough
This survival is not enough
Fall 2002
I wonder ifl' 11 ever find the meaning oflife
Or if I'll ever find meaning in life
My years are burning up
Nothing left so I give up
Meaningless life went on for years
Empty heart floods with tears
I believe in nothing now
And I stop and think of how
Life passed me by
I am trapped in my own existence
With painful memories in persistence
To new days, and future years
With hope ablaze, and constant fear
So leaving without a mark
Everyone's lips without remark
I leave a failure







Wait For the Night
By Matt Dunning
The Mosaic
31
He looked at her and saw
wilderness,
unspoiled though not
wholly
pure. What may
have intrigued him most was that
she
made him
think far beyond the
prospect
of sleep-
ing with her,
though
the
thought
had
crossed
his
mind from time to time. He was both
aware and appreciative of
her
ability to occupy his mind on more than just
a sexual
level. She, in
tum,
was cautiously infatuated with his
ability
to challenge her
sense
of
truth without insulting her intelligence. They had a way of gliding effortlessly through
conversations
.
Where most people find only awkward silences, they found
things
to
say
without having to speak a word. In
fact,
perhaps
only
half of
all
their
conversations
were ever
spoken.
They often spent their nights singing and dancing around
each other
in a sort of insane demonstration of their
complete
freedom, however temporary
it might
have been. They'd flaunt around the room
wearing
nothing but
bed sheets and pretend
to
be
ancient
philosophers,
singing
their own
interpretations of
Plato
or Socrates. Some
nights,
they'd let Marvin Gaye or Jim Morrison
do the singing for them. The spirits of
dead
writers and
poets, prophets and beatniks
swirled around
the
room near the ceiling,
swooping
down and passing through
our
two
lovers' bodies every minute or so. With
each
passing, they
'
d feel the
chaos
of
a
flooding
river swelling
inside
them; the spirits
were the catalysts, the sweeping monsoons breaking
down
their dams
and levees,
inviting that
sweet
chaos to reign within them unchallenged
.
Our
lovers
did not
revolve
or even plan for their nights
.
Rather, the nights spun
and contorted
around them
.
The
world shrank itself down for them, consisting only of the room
and
our lovers:
the
twenty or so feet of floor space
under
them and the five or so feet of flesh in front of
them. Night came to them, swept them
up
and carried them off to a suspension high
above the
consciousness of the dull,
violent,
and uninspired people
below. When it's all
over, when
morning comes and pierces the
smoky haze the
room's
air has become,
the
two awake.
In
a
moment,
they'll
have
to
return to the
outside
world
.
It
will mean the
end
of the
songs
for a few hours.
It
will mean the
end of
the dancing
and
the
sex,
the
conversations and spirits. But only for a few hours. The day will
fade into
dusk,
and
he' 11 be drawn back to her room, taking one step towards her
for every inch
the
sun
sinks
behind the horizon. For the moment, though, our two lay still in the bed. Now
is
the time just after the night
and
just before the day, the last moment before they'll begin
again to wait for the night.





32
Fall 2002
3 Minutes
by Pete Carberry
What would I say?
Is speech even involved?
Sound would not re-verberate within my esophagus
Every movement challenged my senses
Every glance shattered my confidence
Reflection of what she thought began running free
Does she mind?
"You
know", I told myself
"My
hands", would it matter?
Does she set standards, and if so, what tools would I need to break that barrier
Ice-Axe? Jackhammer? C-4 explosive?
Was it my imagination that has created this scenario of thought?
Should I smile?
Should I break the silence of fear?
What would I lose?
What would I gain?
The problem with uncharted territory is the risk involved
Difference breeds uncertainty
Uncertainty brings discretion
Discretion, well, challenges risk
Moral crossroads have no direction
It is the gut-reaction that makes the man
I chose the lesser road traveled
I spoke
With a tear ready to roll, I broke free
This coma of grief
This silence of feeling
This prune-like heart, crumbled on the platform of my soul
Silence
She smiled, kissed my cheek, and started to cry
Cradling her in my arms
Resting my head above hers




The Mosaic
Breathing simultaneously
A moment of incendiary passion between two strangers
Emancipation of emotion
Acres of Glass
By Timothy M. Bruderek
I see you dance and twirl and shine
In some turquoise paradise
That I will never be a part of
Life had begun
Seldom leaves and dragon breath fire
Entrance you and leave my left eye to bum away
Your body looks more slender under a plastic finish
Not a marble ledge can cradle an edge
You can always peek over and contemplate the plunge
Your memory wi 11 not keep you afloat
Just buttons and foot tracks will be there for interpretation
Or short love letters that sank with the bubbles
Tiles like patchwork will feed your independence
So bits of paper with caricatures imprinted lay astray
While veined skin covers my shape
Only through acres of glass will you return to me
33




34
In the Mirror
ByDanBuzi
I see electron proton neutron
Shit being
Protein lipid carbohydrate
Fall 2002
Fuck machine
Cotton clothes wearer
Pink skin carrier
And a billion Whitmanic pieces I might
be.
See toes toenails toe hair
See feet see ankles and shins and calves
See knees with thighs and man-root and balls
See pelvis and torso
See belly and chest
See nipples and arms
See fingers and thumbs
See neck and head and tongue
See teeth and cheeks
See ears and eyes
See eyes
See eyes
See eye am not these
Things
Am poet
AmDaniel
Am vibrant
Amsinging
Am typing
Am verb
Amme
Amyou
Am e
.
e. cummings








The Mosaic
And Wfutman too
(And not for
some
passing down of parts, but holy fragments of the mind)
AmKant
AmMoses
AmJesus
AmBuddha
Am wild holy man grappling desperately at my reappearing God
Amfather
Am mother
Am holy spirit too
Amsinging
Am
screaming
Amglowing
Am burning
Am passion
Am charging through
hairy ape skin thing
Deoxyribonucleaic acid fuck machine
Not this or that
TI-IlNG
Am words
Am
thoughts
The calamity of thoughts
The depth of thoughts
The juxtaposition of thoughts
The back
and
forth reciprocity of thoughts
Am God's own thoughts
Am beauty
Am
every bit this poem
Am
true
Am every bit me
Am
every bit you
Hands by Christine Digirolamo
35




36
Untitled
ByS.Prinz
Stick it in.
She screams.
Fall 2002
She's turned on.
I have to hold her steady.
Even though she doesn't know it.
Otherwise she'll run away,
Never looking back.
Taking me
with her.
Sometimes I don't even know her power.
Sometimes, neither does she.
Sometimes I let go,just for an instant. Since she's my slave, I go,
Thingis-
She does what I want.
If
she doesn't,
I spend more money on her
I push her too hard.
She snaps-
That's the last I see.
.. .like a sex crime victim
bound to a tree ...
clothing tom and inside out -
It
works both ways.
Until she satisfies me.
She turns and cries.
The red in my face
.
She goes.
Then the white shoots across.
I'm gone- a statistic .
A master forgetting how strong SHE can be.







The Veldt
By Mike Traynor
Out here,
lam not who
You think I am
.
The Mosaic
I have plucked you from your
Valence shell,
Far from your mother's apron.
This is no place for
Paper tigers,
No place for such
Lukewarm playthings.
I have tossed you,
Carelessly, into the
Thickest of hemispheres.
The air here is sluggish,
And you wallow piglike in it,
Nude, pathetic,
Unable to sound the alarm.
It makes me
ill,
voodoo doll,
How you cower.
We stand, twin towers slightly apart,
In the open globe,
A reverse Manhattan.
Yet
still
you struggle, laughably,
To hide amongst oxygen atoms.
Somewhere in this
Swift Indian summer,
I have changed.
I have stood up, feral,
Empowered.
I am poised to attack, and
Your flesh will yield to my talons,
First white, and then that
Dark color.
37





38
Here there are no victims,
Only prey, and when
Fall 2002
You've drawn your last breath,
Know that I have stolen nothing;
I have only returned
The favor.
Mind Your Head by Kelly Aymar







The Mosaic
Indicates Reqmred
Field
By Jeff Bemer
You know those research companies - the ones in the mall that entice you to
take their consumer-appointed surveys while you're walking in to take a crap or
something.
39
"Would you like to take a survey?" the woman in the black pants with the
clipboard blithely intones. She's looking at you. Sure, why not, I'm only 14, you say to
yourself.
So you go in and sit in some fucking drab office, with a bored looking secretary
filing her orange nails. There's the ugly grey/green cubicles -you sit in one of them, in a
chair that is moderately comfortable, but not enough so. Clearly, they designed it that
way, so as to make you feel at home, but with that slight bit of uncornfortableness that
keeps you on edge and elicits better answers from you. OF COURSE. That shit is
planned.
It's all fucking planned, so American Industry (god bless it) can massage the
CUSTOMER'S SECRET INNER RAGING DESIRE TO BUY A LOT OF STUPID
SHIT, USUALLY ON CREDIT.
The woman picks up her clipboard, frowns, and points to al photo of
a
strangely outsized bottle, with a shiny label that reads "Kosaba Orange Infusion: Make
yourtastebuds WHACKY!"The guy on the label kind of looks like KID YID, from the
Burger King Kids Club. She motions towards a cup on the desk in front of you.
''Taste
this consumer sample of a new fruit drink and tell me what you think."
You look at the cup. A simple clear plastic (but hey! it LOOKS
like
glass,
giving
the illusion of American glamour as dictated by COSMOFUCKINGPOLITAN
magazine) cup filled with an orange liquid
.
Now look, You don't WANT to drink this unholy amalgation of fructose, citric
acid, red and yellow# 5, and god knows what else, but you just signed the FUCKING
CLIPBOARD. Your signature is basically your bond, which prevents you from punch-
ing this woman in the face, stealing the entire bowl of butterscotch candies on the
secretary's
desk, and retiring to your longawaited stall in the mail bathroom.
So you raise the glass to your lips -why in the name of GARY FUCKING PUNCH A
RANDOM MALL SHOPPER IN THE FACE COLEMAN does this taste like
cinnamon! It's ORANGE COLORED, which means - according to your admittedly
skewed logic anyway - that it should resemble an orange taste. Any time now boys, you
say to your taste buds. BRING THE BAND ON DOWN BEHIND ME, I'm waiting
for the delicious influx of orange fruit juice mayhem.







40
Fall 2002
It's
gomg
to be pos1t1vely
WHACRY F0CRINGDOODLERosabaOrange
taste,Just as the
shiny
label intones. But instead,
you
get this terrible onslaught of fake cinnamon flavor, like you
just stuck your
tongue into the potpourri basket on top of the toilet tank in your mother-in-law
'
s
bathroom.
Now that's a product I want MORE of!
Despite
your obvious and
hideously
rampant
dislike
for this
faux-orange potion
at
hand
you exclaim,
'Ye
ah
,
it's alright."
Feign that enthusiasm, tiger. You fucking liar, you
say
to
your-
self.
But
this much can be excused, for
when
you
don
't
care about
the
situation - you
rationali
ze
it
as
this
-
you're perfectly eligible
an
d legally
clear
to LIE
YOUR
FUCKING FACE OFF.
The lady
shifts
in her seat
a
nd
glares
at
her clipboard
.
All
of her
energy
is
focused on
this twelve
dollar an hour task of ASKING YOU
HOW YOU FEEL. Would
you
buy
this
product
if it was readily available to
you
in stores and
supermarkets
?
Well, who
knows really. What
'
s with the
REALLY
FUCKING SHINY
LABEL
on
it,
anyway? The American
public,
for
reasons obvious to most,
ca
nnot
resist anything with a
REALLY
FUCKING SHINYLABELon it. Can
you
imagine thecorporateBLOWHARDS
sitting around a
boardroom table
at this
drink company, tossing around ideas such as
this
?
'Hell,
you never know what they want
these days, those kids
an
d
their
Pokemon
and their
goddamn L.A. GEAR (he takes a few
hearty puffs of his cigar). Tell
you what
Jim, put
somethin'
reflective on it and the kids will go
APESHIT!
'
You finish
the
interview, buoyed by thoughts about
KID VID's
mysterious appearance
on the label and whether or not you're truly going to get
those butterscotch
candies on
the
secretary's desk. Falling asleep that night, you think nothing of
Kosaba Orange.
The world
keeps turning, all is well.
A few weeks later, you find yourself
in the local gas n'
go,
with
intention of pickin
g
up
some
liquid refreshment. Something fruity, you say,
with a little
zing
in it. Staring at the
freezer
case,
you're
s
ubject to
an almost frightening
barrage of new fruit flavors - KOSABA OR-
ANGE?
WHAT THE
FUCK
IS THIS SHIT? You' re not gonna grab this shit even though it
has the
aforementioned
REALLY FUCKING SHINY LABEL on it. No, Jasper, you'll
stick
to
something
else, something familiar.
Poland Spring, please.




The Mosaic
41
From Below by Kelly Aymar







42
At a Standstill
By Michelle
Rosbozom
If
he wants to find
out
What
life's
all about,
She can
'
t hold him back
,
Since she
loves him
(that's a
fact.
.
.
)
She wants
to hold
on
,
But
knows something's wrong,
'
cause she can't force
him
to stay-
but
doesn
'
t
want
him to
go away.
So she
lets him
go
,
It
'
s the right
thing
,
she
knows,
Even
if it breaks her heart.
But
at
least
it
'
s a start.
It
's
a start
to
finding the
new,
Fall 2002
And figuring out what she
wants to do
.
It
'
s
the
start
to learning how to live by herself,
Learning who she
is;
(invaluable
wealth)
.
He
'
ll
go on
,
wanting
her
again.
She
'
ll
go on, wondering when.
When
he
'
ll be back
to
hold her in his
arms;
When she'll
have
someone
to
save
her
from
harms
.
He wonders why she
let him
go.
Her reasons
will he
ever know?
For
he
wanted
to know
what
the world had in
store,
But
now realizes
with
her he had
so
much more
.
Will she
run back
and say she was wrong?
How
long
will
it be
'til
he tells her-how long?
When
will she see
how he wants her
so?
When will
he
see
how
she
needs him to
grow?
They
'
re
at a standstill
,
who's move is it now?
There's got
to be a way
for
them to both win,
But
how?





Untitled
By Lauren Thatcher
high
stakes
and fast
choices
crossed fingers and closed
eyes
future fades so quickly
far away from nashville's
sky
its a million dollar coin toss
The Mosaic
dictate stars from shallow ground
while free souls brave stormy weather
hide my face here, safe and
sound
but my gaze looks far less true now
softer landing from vacant
fall
my mind is half made up now
but this ledge stands twice as tall
drunken mind won't well remember
choices
made that last
september
Untitled
By Christine Di
Girolamo
She
closes
her
eyes
and
lets the
music take her away
Leaves her
life behind
And
drowns
in someone else's pain
smiles at another's joy
and
lives
vicariously
through the
lyrics
Of
someone else's song
43






44
Fall 2002
Shipwreck
By PattyTarantello
Water
violates
the grain of trees-
fingering the knotholes,
forcing its way into the crevices and cracks of the planks-bodies,
bent, distorted, and rootless,
forced into the submission of sailors,
of explorers.
They try to tame nature- to own her fertility,
to conquer her life-giving fluids, to steal her children.
They call it exploration.
Now the sea explores
and the tired ship splinters,
releases its restraints, and quickly collapses to the sea's violent urgings.
Men cry out for God's mercy
.
"Father,
help us!"
they demand again and again, but
nature's shrieking overshadows their pathetic whimpers and
they succumb to her. Breathless,
a young woman looks on from
shore,
mind numbed by cold, hair flailing
like the waves
she
watches,
alone on the rocks longing to rip off her blue dress and join the blue green water;
she sees
the ship wrecking,
hears the men dying, feels the sea
'
s roaring, and mourns
for the trees.






The Mosaic
45
"Think where man's glory most begins and ends; And say it was I had
such
friends."
--W.B
Yeats
To a Former Friend
By Ann M. Metz
A
mere cacophony of echoes
Strike the eardrum with malicious weight:
Crazy, angry, insane, Antisocial bitch, an emotional drain.
So easy to impose this gossip
On your friend's face
And ignore her whispering lisp as she
Asks for your support.
No, it's better to ignore
The f arniliar voice,
And wait for the resounding
Criticisms to disfigure her features.
It's easier to believe in
The
shadows
flickering on the wall
Than in the bony form hobbling in agony behind you.
It's much too easy to avoid the pain,
Remain locked in the chains,
Forged in iron with the Others.
It's better to denounce the Samaritan
And
strangle
the daylight
With your flawlessly manicured hands.
How could I have ever expected one
So easily ensnared by the shadows
To follow me outside the cave?
Go on then, my old friend!
Follow the dancing shadows!
See what truths they tell you!
In a hundred years the fires
Will choke on thejrown smoke.






46
Expire, and engulf you in
One giant shadow.
Fall
2002
What then? Will
you ask
me to light a match?
I
will
have to reply that you
Seized my fire and used its light
To project
your
own illusions
.
Now I have nothing but
screeching
bats,
Dripping rock
caverns, and
one black night
To
give
as a cover against
the
cold.
You eclipsed
my
sunlight
With
a
n
imp
ulsi
ve
wave of your fist.
Now I hold sign
language
conversations
With deaf walls that
throw back my
words
Because there is no light to interpret my messages.
The finger words are strangled before
they
speak,
Aborted before the day of their
birth
.
There's no communication here, only the
sounds
Of
echoes
punctured by a monstrous silence.
I wanted to
show
you the sunlight, the green fields,
The wildflowers, the outside world.
What is the point now?
You love your shadows,
You embrace the acceptance of one thought,
One group,
One mindless desire.
The darkness never
hurt
your eyes.





The Mosaic
You're Only Silver
By Timothy M. Bruderek
You're only
silver.
When sun emanates its sparkles
and a swollen river collects them,
you don't reflect me
.
Your eyes are partially serene
and your touch can roll down my face
like varnish
.
It turns my tanned skin
to silver.
Your chorus
is
partly spoken
and your feigned touch is an instrument.
They can play their guitars with golden
strings
in perfect pitch,
while you only play in silver
.
I can
see
above the taller trees
as you swing further below,
with starshine the only color in your hair.
When you smile
,
I stop and look away,
because you're only silver.
47






48
I Got You
By Karla Gareau
I got you
Under my fingernails
Under my skin
And I can't get you to go away
No matter how hard I try
I
s
mell you
In my clothe
s
In my
s
heet
s
A
nd I
ca
n
'
t
g
et
y
ou to go away
No
m
a
tt
e
r how hard I try
I feel you
In
my arms
By my side
And I can't get you to go away
No matter how hard I try
I see you
In my dreams
In
my life
And I can't get yo
u
to go awa
y
No matter
h
ow hard I try
I got yo
u
No
m
a
tt
er
h
ow
h
a
rd I tr
y
No
m
a
tt
e
r how hard I try
Fall2002
Ba
c
k by Lisa F
e
derici






The Mosaic
Inner Thoughts
By Michelle Rosbozom
bite lip
keep from crying
do not show them
that they are affecting you
do anything in your power
to stay strong
to keep calm
to remain care-free
with a smile plastered
on your face
block the harsh words
and false accusations
and cruel lies
don't give them the satisfaction
that a piece of
your self esteem
has just crumbled
you are beautiful
you are smart
y
ou are someone
who will go far
you don't need their friendship
y
ou don
'
t need their approval
y
ou are okay
just the way you are
keep breathing
it will
be over soon
then you can go about
picking up the pieces
and trying to find some semblance
of the way they were
49







50
eyes glisten-
NO
!
don't give in
fight the fight
Fall 2002
this may
be the toughest
you've ever had to endure
but
you
will make it
you will be okay
and one day
they will see
how much they lost
when you
discovered
that you didn't need them any longer
Hippie Nude by Hem Borromeo





Little Left
By Karla Gareau
There is little I can do
About the little that's going on
.
There is little I can say
To little old you.
And who saves the hero
When he gets into trouble?
Who helps him out
The Mosaic
When he needs a saving grace?
Is he just shit out of luck
Because he fell flat on his face?
And I wish I had the answers to your questions,
Wish I could give you the cold, hard truth.
But I don't know the answers
And I won't tell you lies.
How come you never say goodbye?
There is little left to write
About what we've been through.
So this is for you
.
And who saves the heroine
When she gets into trouble
?
Who helps her out
When she needs a saving grace
?
Is she just
s
hit out of luck
Because she fell flat on her face?
And your questions can't be answered
Because no one knows the answers.
And there's little left
That I can say
To you
.
51








52
Fall 2002
Untitled
By DianaAlvarez
We're the same,
when you want us to be
,
and when time allows us as much
.
We
'
ve walked the same lines,
cut our knees doing it,
and have the scars to show for it.
You and I, who had met but one pure night ago
.
You pulled me to shore
,
that night
,
when I'd cut myself down to my last chance.
I might have lost soon, if it hadn't been for you.
I'd have drowned in my own pity
,
choked on my own pride,
or floated for years without direction ...
If
you,
eyes open to mine,
had not caught my soul.
I fell into you.
It
wasn
'
t what I wanted
.
It
wasn
'
t what I expected.
But somewhere, buried, it is what I dreamed
.
You were me, locked in a stranger.
I was me, but not until that night.
Somewhere
,
with your words, with your eyes,
you unleashed me, set me free from doors.
The door was opened that night,
and from then on
,
my life winded freely,
road bent, upon river upon road,
without a care as to where it went,
just as Jong as, evermore, it went on
.





The Mosaic
Doors became nonexistent
for a while there, when you were true
.
We didn't need doors;
we knew,
trusted each other,
after that one pure night: We were not strangers.
It was nice, loving you.
I don't know where it ended
,
the magic of that night.
I don't know where you stopped loving me;
when you started locking doors again.
Raven Door by Lisa Federici
53





54
Untitled
By Jessica Campilango
The sun setting behind the cliff
The sky a pale orange hue
A magnificent place of beauty
A soul so pure and true
The leaves have turned their colors
In
s
hade
s
I have yet to see
Thing
s
I don't know how to feel
A person I'm not sure how to be
Fin
d
in me
the
c
olor
s
of the leaves
Fall 2002
A
nd I
wi
ll mov
e
you to the calmness of the
s
ky
I will soothe y
o
u w
ith my voice
And sing to you my so
lemn lullaby
Beauty's not so flee
t
ing
If you know to look i
n
si
d
e
You will find that whe
n
yo
u
search yo
u
r so
ul
There is rarely any place for you to hi
d
e





The Mosaic
You Shine
By Timothy M. Bruderek
You clap like a tambourine
,
Like symbols that clang and bang
and like a horn
Or blowtorch that blows
And like a lantern that glows.
You radiate like a light bulb
But you never want to screw.
Yours truly listens to songs with
No words
No light
And no gestures or written lines.
Songs can be like pages
Of a paperback or sheets pulled from a clipboard.
Your skin is so soft that it can still bruise me
.
Your power,
It
can pour blue into me.
So go to sleep like a motherless babe with blanket
Over face, or a
Twinkling mobile that is just two hands out of reach,
Or something that crawls across the
Panels of the ceiling.
Leave your wet shoes out by the door
.
You're welcome
To wipe your holey socks on the soiled carpet
And not to trip over the white stones
And the marigolds.
Protect that backdoor
like a Zulu guard with no sword shield or facemask.
Leave the key under the mat.
Let the dog bring in the newspaper
And sweep it beneath your feet,
Slippers in his teeth.
55





56
Fall 2002
Find me and fine me
A dollar or quarter or half a pound
Or half a pint.
Talk to me through Atlantic Oceans and
Long Island Sounds and throw my girlfriend
At me. Coffee and cigarettes no longer
Exist when fresh air is your morning rush
.
You silence me
And strike me
And motion accordingly
.
Out the door. Into your house. Into
Two more years of craziness and barefoot on the grass.
We will see if you dip your feet into the blades
Or if they will only cut you
.
Amongst the Ivy by Lisa Federici




The Recreation of Odysseus
By Ann M. Metz
lfl
were your love
And you my lover,
The Mosaic
Into the untouched forest I'd take you,
Where the threes are gathered close
And the branches clasp each other tenderly.
I'd take you to a singing stream
Where waterfalls pour melodically
Over the glistening tops of slippery brown rocks.
I'd guide you to the edge of the water
And strip off your old clothes.
I'd remove all the aged layers
Of woolen sweaters,
Straight button-down shirts,
Faded gray cotton Dockers.
Every piece of foreign fabric
I'd tear away from your beautiful body
With delicate, caressing hands.
My fingers would comb
The locks of your soft hair;
My teeth trim away that mustache
Concealing your manly face.
My lips would plant love
In the tangled grassy fields
Of your broad, strong chest.
No place on your body
Would lie thirsting, untouched
By these kissing fingers.
57




58
When I fini
s
hed,
I would lead you to the waterfall
,
Watch
y
ou step into its sheet.
Of reju
v
enating ra
i
n,
Rejoice as each droplet splashed
Down your naked frame.
I would observe the dirt and mud
Of mortality wash away
,
Fall 2002
Leaving you a young man more handsome,
A young man with midnight dark hair,
A young man with molten lava eyes
.
You would be my creation,
Y
o
u would be my lover,
Yo
u would be my god
.
And when you e
m
erg
e
From the waterfa
ll
's
t
ouc
h
,
I'd weave a cloak of oak leaves,
Green and moist wi
t
h sap
.
Over your body, I'd s
l
ip t
h
em
To conceal the glory of your form
Because only I could ever see you
Naked as the day you were born.






The Mosaic
Untitled
By Katherine Toale
A gumball machine filled to the brim
A quarter away from a smile from him
He can't reach the slot to grace him the glory
Of chewing that gum with excited
furry
He can envision the color on his tongue
And the feeling that he won
If
only a few inches taller
His problem would be solved
What color would it be
If
that quarter revolved
Parachutte by
Kelly
Aymar
59



60
Halloween
By Katherine Toale
pierced flesh
projectile blood
warms the wound
pumpkin gut
litters the exposed
tendons which
pulsate in distress
the hand shakes
eyes are drawn
to the sight
of the repulsive
intrusion
the knife falls
instrument of
destruction dammed
for all time
banned from the
kitchen she cries
herself down the
stairs and the
car awaits
chariot of the
stitch
itchy swollen
mess
the artist
retires
now a novelist
only writing in
Fall 2002
crayon
a dull tool
never using
colors
such as red or
orange










Forgotten
By Katherine Toale
Rain collects in tear soaked
shoes
Sandals worn thin
frayed laces
thread separating from thread
dirt caked
faded color
fermenting stench
bug filled eyes
ripped rubber
lo
s
t soles
the stoop is over occupied
The Mosaic
--
---------
--
~-
S
y
dn
ey
Op
e
ra Hou
se
b
y
K
e
ll
y Ay
m
ar
61




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