Dawn

along the white beach
I walked barefoot and alone
chased by the licking waves

thoughts and green seaweed
tangled up my drowsy feet
slick and wet with dawn

like morning glories
I saw poems unfolding
petal by petal

Lisa S.

Inane, Insane, Asinine

I am America's Ass Extraordinaire.

That's ass as in donkey.

Yes, it must be admitted, I am the infamous Super Donkey. It's not like it's any secret. I'm one of only something like thirty superheroes that got sanctioned by the United States Government. What is that, it's undermined the whole idea of what a superhero is. They're supposed to be, you know, secret vigilantes and all that cool stuff. It's gotten so bad that wherever I go, I always hear, inevitably, some disgustingly reproductive women yelling at me, “We love you, Super Donkey!” It got really bad once the government issued me my suit. It's not like I'm opposed to some kind of “snazzy uniform,” but that big SD kind of ruins the effect. And so many people have asked me if I'm from South Dakota that I've started telling them, “No. I'm from Nepal. I was born a Sherpa.” The only problem is, I think some of the people go away believing me. No, America, do not carry me up 20,000 feet on your shoulders. I might not become a donkey.

See, I'm not one of those phony animal-type superheroes like Batman or Spiderman. I'm no Donkeyman. I'm Super Donkey. I'm super. I'm a donkey. Sometimes. It's completely random. Of course no one knows why. All you Super Donkey fans out there, don't worry. I'm the only one. But anyway, the government's tried to give me some sort of serum or something that makes me only turn into a donkey when there's some sort of, you know, evil force or whatever I've gotta go out and stop. Like my archenemy, Non Sequitur Man. I've been trained to morph whenever I hear his slogan, “13 + 29 = 42.” So far, it hasn't worked. I'm not transforming now. Though I do suddenly feel the urge to eat some fish.

See, this turning into a donkey stuff is sometimes kind of annoying. Like, I do have to be sort of secret. Not everyone knows in the government. Which is kind of strange. They must be really out of touch. Anyway, once I was invited to some sort of official meeting with, I think it was the CIA, and when it was time I felt myself transforming. So they called me to ask why I wasn't there, and I said, “I'm turning into a donkey.” They said, “What?” I said it again. “I'm turning into a donkey.” They said something like, “I'm sorry sir, that is not an acceptable excuse.” So I said, “I'm becoming an ass.” That shut them up.

Or that time I started smoking. See, donkeys aren't known for being that smart. Even when they're Super. And it's not like a donkey's brain and a human brain are that similar. Or you could probably splice them together and get something called, like, a hukey brain. So when I'm morphing, my human part and my donkey part don't interface very well. I get kind of insane. Trust me. Don't try it at home. So one time I thought, like, “Hey, it would be kind of cool to smoke a cigarette.” And before I knew it, I was addicted to nicotine and the government had to rehabilitate me for about, like, a month or something. See, the problem was they didn't know how to cure nicotine addiction in donkeys. Said it never came up before. Pff. Never came up before. That's what I say. Pff. So it got pretty bad. Non Sequitur Man almost took over Cleveland and Denver. At the same time. While having designs on the little town of Joe. They had to call in my replacements, Super Mule and Super Burrito (who was Super Burro before Non Sequitur Man got a hold of him.) It's not like they totally demolished him, but a good fish always beats a fir tree on a windy day.

Don't get me wrong, it's not like I hate being a superhero. Like, I'm living the stereotype here, you know? I mean, have you ever heard of someone hating being a superhero? No, right? Okay, it is sort of an inconvenient way to be one. I mean, sometimes I just can't turn into a donkey when Non Sequitur Man attacks. But the government, they don't cut me any slack. So I've gotta go up to his hideout and tell him in this shaky, squeaky voice, “Hi. Super Donkey is here, so beware.” And he goes, “You're not Super Donkey.” And I go, “No, I'm not.” And he goes, “You're going home to eat fish, aren't you?” And I go, “Yes, I am.” That's the most foiling of his non-sequitur-ish plans I can do right then. While he goes out and transforms the power plants into one-inch-tall-teddy-bear factories.

So that's how my life is. And if you ever feel your nose and ears getting really big, and your feet turning into hooves, and your tailbone projecting out of your body, accept it, totally accept it. Maybe you'll get more control than I ever did, and be, like, Donkey 64 or something. I'm still waiting for my first appearance on “The X-Files.”

(P.S. In case you're wondering where in the world Joe is, it's in the fourth largest state in terms of area. No fish in sight.)

Lawrence D.

Domineer

The deed was done so we sat around and waited
On that sweltering July afternoon, outside on the pavement.
My three comrades and I were anticipating
Exactly where we would be taken together
And then, as other unfamiliar people gathered around us,
As if waiting to see our appearances change,
It occurred to each of us singularly yet in the same moment
That our journey had already begun,
From the feathering light of the street lamps
That seemed to grow more familiar than before.

My brother bought us a single lime each that we ate
As if it were the ripest plum borne from the lushest garden.
Our thoughts were on a parallel as if one mind were
Only a fourth of the group
So we couldn't leave the others for fear of losing
The other parts of our minds.
We moved together like a family to the basketball courts
Behind the school and tried to communicate to the
Strange seeping faces all around us.
The police van that tried to ambush us enabled our foursome to flee
From the monotonous presence of the surrounding murky crowd.
We ran up the widest street and into the park
As we watched the pavement part for our scattering feet.
We played games, trying to chase each other up to the park,
Every-man-for-himself using double-footed patterns—
Triumph was trying not to get tagged.

Finally we reached the wooded silencer that left many contaminated
City souls fulfilled with the green and winding paths
And left others to be the prey of the aggressors who could not
Find freedom in the few acres of grass.
We found ourselves in a jungle and sought shelter on a picnic table
In the middle of the meadow that seemed to stretch
Past the shadows of its concrete borders.
My lover and I chose to play with a dagger that swayed
As we tried to master each reflex of the silver killer,
And without pain we sliced the heated air,
Happily understanding the art of the butterfly
Until the lesson was over and the knife was put away—
When we looked down at each other's hands
To find a pool of both of our red bloods
Dripping onto the wooden table below us.
The game had played us—
The killer had struck with only a reminder
That sharp objects should not be thrown from hand to hand.
The wounds healed quickly from my lover's remedy,
A circular movement that enticed dizziness
While looking at the brightest star in the sky.
After that we decided that the mosquitoes would be too full on us
To eat anyone else, so we all started to wrestle
Until I had to play dead not to be rushed across the grass
By the large Orion who could swoop and hurtle the best of all.
After the battle we returned to the picnic only to find another police
Vehicle plummeting onto our grassy groves.
It shone a spotlight that turned shadows into tree trunks
And screeched as if a faceless creature seeking out children
To “evacuate” the forest where we had all settled
And Orion crawled away without a sound
Into the concrete maze below us and the other three departed
Without fear but lost pride in our forced exit.
The three of us lay in the sealed-off road
And screamed that we “could never do this in the daytime”
And traveled back down to the streets that we had held
Idle in our minds so we could see green.
Our descent was somber, for the loss of Orion had aroused terror
For we had lost his share of our interconnected mentality.
My brother consoled me as we walked on parked cars.
In the middle of the night
We reached the place we had started from in the distant afternoon.
We waited down there for my brother
Who arrived with a tale of grief instead of the gifts he had promised us
For he had gathered some flowers in the same hand
That he had clutched our gifts, losing them among the fallen petals.
So we adjourned back to the basketball courts and
Set off firecrackers on the far end of the court, past the three point line.
My brother and I ripped paint off the schoolhouse doors
As we all searched for enervation
Until suddenly it hit me like a ray of the rising sun,
The exhaustion I had disregarded,
So I kissed my comrades and retired to my house.

I touched the pillows like foreign rocks,
So I lay with my breasts nestled precariously under my body.
I was smothered in sheets waiting to fall into my lost sleep
Until my lover called, the third of our foursome,
For he had also lost the urge and we
Talked until it might return to us
Like a combined effort in catching what we both required.
Our minds exhausted each other hypnotically,
So we finally reached sleep, with receivers recording each other's
Shallow breaths.

Anya K.

Fishing

The light falling through the cracks between the wooden slats above us is always
somehow fuzzy and peaceful and
very clean; rosy, like
the bright light of early morning that bathes us
when we watch the sun rise, as we do each day,
before finding our way, never on purpose,
down to the falling-down fishing shed
that may or may not have been built by your great-uncle
(everyone in your family has a different story about why he would have—
possibly to catch the famous 10-foot trout he was always talking about,
calling it the One That Got Away so people who didn't know him always
thought he was talking about an old girlfriend and got very confused)
that sits by the tiny stream that
shivers
and murmurs
through the muddy ground as we
shiver
and murmur
through time, summer after summer, each year a year later but still the same
the shed is the same
the stream is the same
and we are the same, coming to watch the sunrise
and sit in the abandoned shed, though nothing that ever happens to us
in our lives outside the summer is ever so clear as the light in the shed,
the same light that flows over us, around us,
bouncing off the stream as we peer into its waters,
sliding into our eyes and ears and filling our minds with the power to be free like
the fish we seek, and making us glow until even
our fingernails shine like the fireflies
that attract the more wayward fish to the surface even when they resist the teasing lures
we so carefully set before them,
and we wonder
why did your great-uncle build this place
and think
that he must have felt what we feel now and always have felt,
and then you say, what if it doesn't stay this way, what if one summer it is different,
and then time,
which has always pulled us back here to the bait of the shed,
each and every summer, always without fail,
will just-like-that be our enemy,
but your fear always vanishes
as quickly as the 10-foot trout that flitted away from your great-uncle
not to return until the next summer.

Rashi D.

Alex K.

Defiled Goddess

I

Edged green,
I first thought,
with misplaced piss
that had acidly corroded
my perfect porcelain.

But perhaps
it was your vomit.
An unearthly lime
that ringed my bowl.

Do your sweaty retches
still coat
the silvery hinges
with that aged
copper bile?

II

This time
I wouldn't have known
had it not been for the discreet
nearly adorable
red flecks that clung
to the bowl.

Almost the perfect crime
pure white, antiseptic
septic system.
How many flushes and brushes
did it take?

Of course, your trademark
macaroni still visible
in tiny just-digested pools
by the uplifted seat.
Who are you my
mysterious vomiter?


III

Your trail wasn't hard
to follow. With my posse
of rag mop and Mr. Clean
we tracked you, slightly gagging,
forced to pause and swallow
to the carefully placed
outbursts on the linoleum.

The dark bathroom.
I knew you, your presence,
by a larger accumulation.
Humus thick,
verging on brown
by the door jam.

Alas, like some startled wildlife
you had already fled your crouch
and left me to reel at
the almost liquid rejection.
I washed out the sour sponge
three times.
Why do you keep vomiting
in my bathroom?

Danny S.

As the mist parts, you glide into the city itself. The air is not cold, but rather composed of feathery comfort. I have been there during the rainy season when drizzles of happiness and torrents of melancholy drench the velvet hills and formica earth. When it snows, the entire city gets blanketed with serenity. I would not say the inhabitants of Is are invisible, only that when they move by, their thoughts can be heard like disclosed soliloquies. I only once saw a citizen; as his words reached my ears, I reached for his words. Grasping them, I ate and then perceived a man in a little gray hat, wearing a pair of yellow bathing shorts and carrying a black-and-white-checkered umbrella. We gazed at each other, blinking. But when he opened his mouth, he began to fade, and by the time he had started to speak, he was gone. If you take the carpeted stairs to the center of town, you come to what appears to be clouds but what at a closer look reshapes itself into a castle. Entering this castle through either of the two doorways of darkness brings you to a white hall with walls of marble and pillars of glass. The sound of a thousand hearts beating and the rumble of deep and even breathing suffocate the silence. In the courtyard of the palace a giant screen is set up between a silvery pool of reflection and a fountain of fire. The screen is sometimes blank, although I have watched it long enough to occasionally glimpse the pictures that suddenly arise and ripple the surface. These images change rapidly: a storm, someone swimming in the ocean, someone else falling down an endless shaft, two people making love under the deepening scarlet of sunset. The pictures flow and vanish in turn, leaving the screen quiet. You can leave the castle through a panel hidden in one of the glass columns. As the passage opens to the outside air, the echoes of snores and sighs melt into the distance. You could travel through Is an entire week and never meet up with your tracks. Those explorers who wander away never see the same scene twice. It is only when they stop walking that they return to the mouth of the purple stream and the entrance to the city. You see, entering Is can be easier than leaving. I might tell you, I have yet to find a path out. The river flows just one direction—in. It seems I have rambled into Is and have gotten myself stuck here. Can you come and tell me the way to Was or Willbe?

Melissa S.

Tequila Sunrise

So today is the day. Like the man walking headless in the park. A Dali in the hands of an art dealer. God, when the sun shines, smiling at me, I smile back. When I was twelve, I caught a fish, fly-fishing in a river, up to my knees, the cold spread through me, my spine of ice. When I caught that fish Dad said “Quite a catch.” We cut off its head. Mom cooked it for dinner. I was Vardaman that night. I was a Simpleton, a Faulkner-ette.

This man walking headless in the park, he bumps into me. Just like that. We are standing shoulder to shoulder, he smiles, says “excuse me,” and already I know him so well. He once like a nymph danced by a lake. And one night, late summer in Spain, after shots of tequila, kissed another man, a Spanish man. Since then he has tried to forget the way his tongue tingled like it was being used for the first time. He has tried to forget the way his spine curved and ceased to be effective holding his weight, when that Spanish man touched his back. Never in his life had he felt a feeling such as that. So now he is headless. After he returned home, hazy, he has not been able to shake that memory. He can no longer love women quite the same. So now he is headless.

After Mr. Headless, Mr. Big Macho Man without a head passes by me, I can't help but think. Sun above, shining down, don't let this man be this way, hate himself, put himself in prison. I think, but Mr. Headless is gone. And so me, me, today is the day is the day Dali will be sold. With a slam of the gavel, you've got a piece, a piece of work. You can be a part of history. All you need is money and some champagne, to celebrate. Such is a true masterpiece, the work of a true master. Such is my calling in life, my job, to facilitate this. You get the masterpiece and maybe a piece of ass too.

Oh Dali you master of the melting clock. Oh you master of walking the dog, flogging the log. How did you see so much through eyes half-closed? Oh Father forgive me, for I have trespassed. So big, so wide. I have reduced the master to this, a piece of ass.

Sun, nymph, ass, park, Spain, fish, man, headless. I want to be flat.

Lindsey G.

Monologue by Paris on His Decision Concerning the Golden Apple

I will ruin everything.
Yes, I know that;
I have sat for hours amongst the cows
so near to father Zeus
and thought of that one thing,
that I will ruin everything.
I am no fool,
I know my way,
I walk not so blindly as those mutterers and head shakers about me would suppose.
My fate, like a javelin in my father's side,
like a fire in my father's house,
will char our walls,
will run us through;
I will run my course and leave a trail of ash behind me,
and I will suck the milk of excess,
the heady wine of all-I-want,
and I will drink deep draughts of power
before I die, never chained,
brought down in shining battle.
I will live and die free, and unshackled.
This is what must be;
I do not seek to shirk my fate.
I had a choice of three,
and I could have chosen victory in war,
could have had all of Asia,
could have conquered everywhere,
could have brought great glory to my father's house, instead of downfall.
The gray-eyed goddess or the ox-eyed queen,
they would have made my conquests numerous indeed,
but there is all the world for men to conquer,
and it will still be there to conquer again when I am dead,
but there is only one Helen
and she will live but once.
And so I have chosen the prize that no other will ever know,
I have taken to my bed the beauty which runs the world and moves the minds of men.
Oh elders of Troy, you may hate me,
oh wives of Troy,
oh warriors of Troy,
despise me, for I am all your downfalls.
Oh brother Hector, speak harsh words to me, and hold the greater honor,
but I hold the greatest gift.
Oh Hector, no matter what glories the men of Troy pile upon you—
let them throw golden tripods and lovely women at your feet—
you will never have Helen, you will never match my prize.
Though I have not once lifted my sword in battle,
I have made the greatest conquest.
My glory is immense.

The men of years to come will look back on Troy,
and think me the greatest fool,
to cause that proud city to die for my selfish desires,
but they cannot comprehend the power of Helen.
I had no choice.
Aphrodite showed me Helen in a vision.
How could I say no!
She is beyond the scope of woman,
she is some force incarnate, irresistible.
How can anyone understand?
All of Greece cannot but sail a thousand ships across the sea
for that face.
How could I, just one man,
turn it down?
I could not.

Oh mother,
I have returned to you from the slopes of Ida after living all my life apart from you,
and I bring you only pain and ruin.
You should have had me killed at birth,
should have made certain I was dead,
checked with your own mother's eyes that the knife had plunged straight through my
         infant breast.
You will regret your pity.
Oh mother,
do not hate me.
Oh mother,
I only wanted to live.
Just for a moment to do something,
after all those years of herding cows.
So I took her from her house in the night.
I cannot fight like Hector.
I wanted glory all my own,
and I have found it.
More than Hector will ever know,
I will be remembered.
Do not exonerate me, I knew what I did.
But, oh mother, forgive me.
I have taken power unquenchable, and it will burn us all.

Max Bean