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SPRING 2000ManuscriptsLately I'm getting better,Wish I could stay sick with you,But there's too many egos left to bruise ...--The Faa FightersButler UniversityIndianapolis, IndianaVolume 68, No.2Spring 2000Manuscripts StaffSenior EditorAaron Black*Junior EditorsAlison Beard*Erin KellyFaculty AdvisorFran QuinnEditorial Staff/ Megan AlexanderJohn BlumReagan DeFlorioEmily DolezalGwyn FoxRyan LancasterRebecca Richards*Pamela Diane SallingCarla Sanders*Elizabeth SidleyJohn WatkinsMark Wuellner* Denotes members of Sigma Tau Delta,National English HonoraryTable of Contents(1) Jessica HatfieldRest Tricia Stratman"Kiss me God damn it" Brea ThomasParable of the Ducks Melanie CarterSelma, Alabama Brea ThomasAll else failing......... . Nicholas ReadingA Teriyaki Night. Phillip DewaltThe perks, my love? Kimberly CampanelloTo my legs Jessica HatfieldBrussels, Belgium #1 Phillip DewaltDartmouth Green 8:00pm Jessica HatfieldInnocent Subversive Brea ThomasIn Prayer · Brea ThomasWhat I thought Garret BeattyTrolling Atlantis ··· .Ryan LancasterI -dirnensional Brea ThomasGod and Darwin Tricia StratmanVisual Art by:Tyler DurdenMark HunterAnd the CaptainCover Art by and by(1)We walkthrough the woodsthorns scraping,leaving long cutsand youapologize, ask if I want totum back.Ikeep on my path,Iam discoveringas Igo.Through the treesis a clearing,a fieldof tall grassesand prickly plants./(2)We surrenderour naked legsto the unruly meadowwhere your aunt and unclespent their wedding nightin a bedyour fathermade.We plod though the brush,this is noteasy walking.We stop halfwayto baskin the sunlight,to admirethe newly paintedreds and golds of autumnto kiss,to breathefor more than sustenance.We breathebecause the crisp airfeels so good.We breathe forpleasure.(3)We arriveon the other side,enter into the woods againand a wide pathappears.This is where you played as a child.You were kingof this forest.It feels different nowbecause I am here?Because you have beenbeyond these woods?Or becauseyour fondest memoriesnow belongto the meadow.-Jessica HatfieldRestI want my headresting in the nookbetween my love's shoulder and chest;my fingers playing with his wild, black curls.He wrote me a Haiku."They are easy,"he said:"Pine needles remainEven through cold harsh winterSo too is my love"-Tricia StratmanKiss me God damn it forPete's sakesI've waited seven days and seven noEight nightsAnd My Godit's Only a kissso why the hell are youLooking at me like that?-Brea ThomasParable of the DucksOne stands at the edge if the canal,just where the water and grass meet,shakes her brown feathers from her neck to the tip of her tailas she waits.Standing at the top of the slope (just before the ground heads downangled toward the water) is a green duck, a beautiful deep green.He twists his neck backwards and dives his beak into a nibblingfocused on an itch that doesn't subside for two minutes.She can't see him, but she knows he is up there; she won'tgo into the water without him. He knowsshe is waiting, and although his itch has been relievedhe discovers bread crumbs in the grass. He pecks at the leftoverswith a casual nonchalance, unhurried and indifferent.Other ducks are swimming already; brown ducks white ducks greenducks black ducks gray ducks, headed in rows of clumps organized by color-She still doesn't go in, and I want to shout at her,tell her not to wait for him ... but she wouldn't listen if I did. Even thoughhe's a no good duck and she knows it too;even though she wants to swim with all the ducks-she complacently sits and waits as he fills his belly on crumbshe doesn't really want and doesn't want to share and she still waits.-Melanie CarterSelma, AlabamaAll else failingThey picked him upand quietly spread him outover the cityin red white blue poorJimmy Lee Jacksonwith your brains blown outyou will be rememberedby this hole in my stomachI'm digesting thisageless hateAnd fighting the ghosts who hangthe confederate flagover those southerner's eyes.Even the black folks.I thinkThat at leastMy poems could always flyIn paper airplanes.The precise creases forming a bodyAround the poem,Serving as the vehicleWhich will carry my poems to the world.Could be worse for a young poet,At least.-Nicholas Reading-Brea ThomasA Teriyaki NightSo we're in this sports-type bar for a few drinksAnd to watch whatever game might be playingAnd I feel good because I had my friends and myteriyaki wings. So I go for the brew of choice-cheap, big, and keep 'em' comin'A pitcher' 11do, a special on some Milwaukee macrobrewthat tastes like piss but that's okay I sayBecause we got the teriyaki wings for tasteAnd a good brew would just confuse the day.Besides at these costs, we can be drinkin'All night- and who's gonna stop us.I light a smoke and bum three to friends who don'tand we sit here in a thick cloud of MarlboroWith our big as buckets beers and then a bunch ofgirls we all know come over to us and we getreal loud and I bum three more to these girlswho don't smoke and our cloud of Marlboro gets thicker.Now we're all real happy and the beers keep coming andGoing and Pete starts talking about masturbation,But that's okay because Pete can get like thatand the girls are drunk anyway so theyJust laughed. I keep eating my teriyaki wings and someone says,"Shit Phil, how many them you gonna eat?"But I don't answer because I am eating andit's rude to talk with your mouth open.But I do say later that I love this sauceThat the teriyaki tastes so goodI could lay in it, rolling around withMy lover covered in teriyaki.Through the smoke, everyone looksAt me as if I've lost my mind, althoughI'm not sure where it could have gone.and then one friend says,"Shit Phil, that sure is funny."-Philip DawaltThe perks, my love?for Lesley Carroll, a fellow suffererwhere are the perksI ask you I ask myself I ask othersin a transaction in a commercethat hardly exists.(save 15 minute phone chats or tragically tastelesslove poems inspired bythe lyrics of 'our songs')perks, like the special additions to any business dealthat happens while poetsand other sensitive typesare unawares and avoiding positivismespecially if they don't knowwhat it is, and because they like to keep wisdom and experienceunsubstantiated, like you and meI want some perks.to be able to notice a shifty expressionin mid-sentenceto be able to touch the real youand not just the chimera I've been lugging around in the rainfor the past six weeksI want to pick up on some sidelong glances intimatingour naught ideas if we're standingIn the hall outside a public restroomsof endless possibilitythe fact isno public restroom has rows of stalls spanningfor hundreds of milesand there'd be driving for both of usif I were to meet you in oneso when I try to find you after perkless months and monthsin one of the huge truck-stop potties and after openingdoor after door of women's restroomsI finally barge inon the springtime limbs of a stranger withyour highest voice, raised two octavesdon't be sadwhen I'm 15 minutes late finding you in the men'sthere were bruised knees involved-Kimberly CampanelloTo my legsI foolishly tested you in my childhoodOne of you could not take it, and so gave way,sent me crashing down in an unnatural heap of odd angles.You look complete now,seven years later.You are strong, and impressively slim.My beauty is secured in you.Women and men alike, pay you complimentsbut they do not know your internal struggles.How you ache in the cold and damp,How you hate confinementHow you crunch and violently protest stairs, and runningHow you used to be praised for your strength in competition.You and shoulders were a team that won many ribbons and trophies,long since forgotten.You have been neglected for so long,the middle child of my body.For this you may rebel and someday become a useless burden.And if that day should come, I will mourn for you.I will cry out the deepest sorrows from my soul,not for the loss of beauty, but simply becauseYour are the legs on which I stand.-Jessica HatfieldBrussels, Belgium #1Walk two blocks south of the Grand Place andOn the corner of Rue du Chene and Rue de l'EtuveYou'll find a small fountain that mesmerizesNewcomers and makes a good franc in trinkets.It is called the Manneken Pis,But I call it the Man Who Can Pee,And what's wrong with that?This small statue of a boy pissingInto a fountain that never overFlows with a stream that neverRuns dry (what do you suppose heDrank) is not embarrassed. This smallBoy just smiles to the tourists.-Philip DawaltDartmouth Green8:00pmThe mountains at dawn,in their silent haze,do not capture methe way they dowhen I am heresurrounded by"intellectuals"The Bellsover the librarychime,and Iwonder,on whose earstheir upright ringfell before?too busy to noticethe worldthey claimto study.Iam a strangerin this town,but, Istake my claimas a summer local.And as this day closes around meand the bars begin to fillIhear a jazzer crooning,S ""Our Love is Here to tay.Icome here to escapenature's toll.Once a weekImake my wayfrom the lakesideand the tent that is my"home".Iknow this dayhas served its purposebecause all Iwant to dois swim in the rainand sleep to the night musicof the mountains.The music of the streetsfeels like a rebirth,though it is notthe civilized world Ilong to be part of.YetI know tomorrow ,I will long for the bell tower sstately chime.-Jessica HatfieldIf I shaved offAll my hair andHailed Hitler,Pierced every inchAnd tattooed "Anarchy"Across each breast,Wore bandanasAnd made gang signs,Or kissed other women,Chose to work in a landfillAnd ate octopus every day,Drank ecoli water for lunchAnd bathed only twice per week,Believed in nirvana,And lived in a cardboard box,Begged you for money,Wore red contactsAnd refused to get braces because I likedThe crookedness of my teethThen, would youhang my picture on your preciousconstitutionAnd ask me to give speechesabout what it meansto be free?Innocent Subversive-Brea ThomasIn Prayer"Before we had you, I prayed,"my Mother said.There is comfort in prayer?There isComfort inPrayer.SoDear God,I'm thankful for everythingButThis heap of thrashthat Somebody's burningsmells likehate andflesh,bones and the left-oversof Civil Warand South Carolina's adding more charcoalmore charcoaland the hooded figures on horses prancearound, mockingburn fire burnso hoteven the devil won't come nearGod,Did You knowthey shot him, they killed him, theylynched the preacher, they bombed thechurch, theymurdered the children, they raped thewomen,OhMy Godand Selma' keeps asking"Shall we overcome?"• Selma, Alabama-used specifically inreference to my trip to the 35111 AnniversaryCelebration of the Selma to MontgomeryVoting Rights Marchwhere are You Godwhereare You and wherewere You?Who created black and white?God,Would You say bothWould You say neitherWould You say stopWould You say keep onWould You tell me to put out the fire?There is comfort in prayer?There isComfort inPrayer.We shallOvercomeas the night sky blackensand the white stars peek outto see the gray smoke cover the land.-Brea ThomasWhat I thoughtI think my brainJust split in two.One voice here.out here.OneI am desperate to writeTo put on paper my thoughtsMy visions.I want to go outside.I don't want to writeI can't do it.What's wrong with sitting hereIn this chair, thinking? . . ?How can I convince you to stay inside'.I don't know if you can at all,Unless there's a way to compromiseWhat if we stay, but exploreExplore outside the normal thoughtsExamine hate and love?Examine life and dreamsYes we'll stay out andWork things out.-Garrett BeattyTrolling AtlantisThe calm of the ocean wind swirls around me as 1 face the salty sea air.So many years have 1 seen this ocean, but never before was it mine to behold alone.The Mother's claim had held it for so many generations; all had given in to it.The silent submission of siblings and father had allowed it to be lost forever to a past Ihave never known.No longer will I allow that hold to bar me from what so rightly could be mine as well.The moon shines down on the tracks my bare feet have made in the sand.This beach is myself, alone.The stars agree with my acceptance as they sing the wind's song all around the island:Proclaiming my freedom and ...A memory of my own that no longer holds her wishes,The smooth glass (1 so joyously ignore) cuts my feetand I bleed out her ever-present hold on my heart.This is my life and forever more will I remember that.Not daughter, not sister, not friend, not lover,Je danse seul.-Ryan Lancaster"I-dimensional"/On cloudy daysI have to stealinto your eyes lookingfor images of myself. I remainWaiting like a thiefin your retina, pryinginto the blindness,hoping to catch a glimpse of recognition.But there are only involuntaryblinks-firstthe left, then the righteye. Sightless movements.Without depth, 1waitfor the clouds to clearand the electrical impulseto reach your brain.-Brea ThomasGod and Darwindo not get along becauseGod is female. She is.Although I am also female,I can't be expectedto loveonly God becauseDarwin is tooDag-Gone Powerful.You see,he climbedinto my mouthwith two black-haired white handsand bare black-haired white feetand a gorilla shaped headwhen I was twelve.And now he sits cross-leggedon my heart,making me do stuff.I try to separate the two,to make Darwin stop sitting on top of God(Imean, why not?My brain wouldn't mind the company.),but he refuses to move,sitting there complacently pullingthe strings of my life.So they don't get along.When I listen to Darwin too much,God grows numb underneath him(God is at least polite).But when I listen to God,Darwin throws such a fit,jumping up and downthrashing his arms aboutspitting everywhereand yelling loudlyuntil I fmally pay attention to him again.It's so sad, but oftenGod and I need his permissionfor some female bonding time.It's so hard to keep Her happylike this,but I do my bestto make Her understand thatalthough She created him,it is now his world.-Tricia StratmanAuthor IndexGarrett BeattyWhat I thoughtMelanie CarterParable of the DucksKimberly CampanelloThe perks, my love?Phillip DewaltBrussels, Belgium # 1A Teriyaki NightJessica Hatfield"(1)"Dartmouth Green 8:00pmTo my legsRyan LancasterTrolling AtlantisNicholas ReadingAll else failingTricia StratmanGod and DarwinRestBrea Thomas" I-dimensional""Kiss me God damn it"Innocent SubversiveIn PrayerSelma, Alabama

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