Issue One
March 1992
Quote of the Month
"Free your ass and your mind will follow."
- George Clinton
The Break Up
There was a note on the bathroom door:
"Caution! Broke a glass jar.
Try not to get hurt."
So, I wore either sneakers or slippers
each time I entered
to protect my poor feet.
But I don't like to wear shoes all the time.
I wanted my feet to feel free,
Free to move and Free to stretch.
I wanted to talk in just socks
or roll out of bed barefoot
and not have to worry
about broken glass on the floor.
After a week or two,
I decided that the floor must be safe.
So I tried to pretend that nothing had happened
and I ventured in like before.
But there were still small fragments of glass on the floor,
So small I couldn't see them;
Didn't even feel them at first.
But if I walked in a certain way,
I was quite aware of their presence.
And I couldn't help but feel the pain.
And now I have shards of glass in my feet,
And sometimes I feel them,
And sometimes I don't.
Each day it gets easier
and I feel the pain less and less.
Because my feet are now tougher,
The skin has gotten thicker,
And I'm not as easily hurt.
- Jen Barr
there
peering out the window
glaring
at the hazy, gray
comatose suburbia
years contently pregnant with prosperity
readily prepared to abort originality
little towns
with even littler imaginations
(let alone nonexistant tolerance)
where the narrow streets take
like routes
to narrowmindedness
there
relying on deceptive illusions as a crutch
faltering
wailing
inconsolably
like an injured infant
the crutch has been snatched away
crippled, one wanders
alone
vigilantally combatting desolation
yearning for support in
comatose suburbia
little towns
with no imagination and no tolerance
where the increasingly narrow streets
have lead you on identical routes to oneness
single narrowmindedness
there is no support worthy of yearning for in
comatose suburbia
- cathy heard
WELCOME. EXQUISITE CORPSE IS AN OLD SURREALIST GAME THAT GOES LIKE THIS.
YOU GET A BUNCH OF PEOPLE. SOME PENS AND PAPER. EACH PERSON WRITES A
TITLE AND THE FIRST LINE OF A POEM. THEY FOLD THE PAPER SO NO TEXT IS
VISIBLE AND WRITE THE LAST WORD OF THEIR LINE SOMEWHERE ON THE PAPER
(USUALLY ON THE NEXT LINE) THEN EACH PERSON PASSES THEIR PAPER TO THE
NEXT PERSON WHO WRITES ANOTHER LINE AND REPEATS THE PROCESS. WHEN
YOU RUN OUT OF PAPER THE POEM IS FINISHED. EACH PERSON THEN READS THE ONE
THEY ARE HOLDING ALOUD. THE END.
What Hour?
There comes a time in the day's occupation known as the candle
rarely burns for thee.
The English language is obsolete. Planned obsolescence like my love
for you, oh how obsolete it has become.
Where am I going?
Where am I from?
the simplest of all joys to the greatest of all lives, a cry of hope,
of sheer, smooth, perfect lies of the clock (?Tick-tock, tick-tock,
tick--He sang of simplicity, simplicity and nothing more or less).
Cathy Heard, Jen King, Trevor Lohrbeer, Mark Davis
Psychedelia
Colors swirl madly.
It was worsened by the constant flickering of flourescent lights.
Like a carnival. Smells of popcorn, cotton candy and candy apples
with a nice twist of lemon.
Sour and best over tea.
I drink with jam and bread,
which wil being us back to
do re mi fa sol la ti do.
Girbles and squeals from an audience of four, five little,
six little, seven little indians.
The buffalo are all gone.
Cathy Heard, Laura Johnson
At sixteen, I find it impossible to fathom the hypocrisy in a world
that has created so much beauty yet, because of fear and closemindedness,
attempts to silence its own voice, its own brilliance, and sacrifice it
for a void, for the conventional. This, in essence, is suicide. The
beauty I speak for isn't possessed by any particular race, religion,
creed, or sex to express alone. Beauty represents the black man
repressed, still subtly shoved to the corner of American culture, yelling
out in anger about the rights denied him. It belongs to the gaunt,
filthy, cold woman you passed in the street in disgust (or was it
fear...hopelessness?) when you were warm and full from the lunch you had
in a heated building. It's an honest call that cries out from the
darkness of our country, a shrill, yet emotionally powerful chorus of
misfits without love, without an accepted position to latch on to in
society, such as the homosexual dismissed by former friends and family
as disgusting, sick, unhealthy. Its jumbled noise exists in everyone.
These roars, moans and yowls combine to an explosion of music, whether
it be rap, classical, heavy metal, folk, jazz, or postmodern. To mute
this spirit is to cut off a main outlet the human soul has to express
itself and to experience the unknown. Some want society to reject these
original notions because they may shock (or God forbid, utter the truth).
I say shock! Dismay! Terrify, if you must! Americans, do what you can
to stop the avalanche slowly stripping us of our rights, and BECOME ONE
OF THOSE VOICES! If we outnumber them, the establishment can't gag and
blindfold us. They can't kidnap our individuality.
-cathy heard
"Close your eyes."
I did so. I heard him move for a second. There was a russle. Then.
Silence. He did not speak. I waited. Then some more. I felt my heart begin
to pound harder. A faint crackle sounded in my ears. He had lit a
candle. I felt his hand lift mine. He cradled it in his palm, turned it
over, then squeezed it for a moment. A tinge of fear and excitement
rushed through my body.
I waited in eager anticipation. I heard each breath of mine, each breath
of his, each crackle of the candle between. Then..... suddenly..... pain.
A burning spot of agony ablaze on the back of my hand. Blood rushed through
my body. Electrochemical pulses boiling my nerves. My hand pulled away
in a rush of excitement. My eyes opened as a slight trembling overtook
my body.
"Ouch." He was staring deeply into my eyes. He was calm and I felt a
total sense of security. His hand reached over to soothe mine. The pain
was gone, leacing only a tingling sensation behind. I squeezed his hand
hard and looked deeply into his eyes searching for the reason he would
cause me this pain. But his eyes, like his lips, remained void of answer.
"Are you okay?" he asked. I nodded my head, still slightly shaken.
"Did it hurt?" I offered a faint yes. He simply smiled and said "Good."
"Now this time keep your eyes closed. When the wax hits your hand, you'll
want to pull away. Don't. Let the wax burn you. You'll begin to feel
pain as the heat enters your hand. Take this pain, the feeling of pain--the
rushing of your blood, the burning of your hand, the slight queasiness in
your stomach. Take these feelings, amplify and feel them more. But don't
feel them as pain. Feel them as ecstacy. Let your body become a vessel
of pure pleasure, filled by a single drop of wax on the back of your hand.
"Now, close your eyes."