ANGEL'S FLIGHT

vol. 5, number 1

./ '

Fall1979-Spring 1980 ANGEL'S FLIGHT is published twice yearly , in December and May. To ensure consideration for an upcoming issue send Mss . at least one month prior to publication date. All Mss. should be accompanied by a self -addressed stamped envelope

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ANGEL'S FLIGHT c/ o CSUN English Department 18111 Nordhoff Street Northridge, CA 90330

Published by ANGEL'S FLIGHT with the cooperation of the California State University, Northridge, English Department and funded by Instructionally Related Activities, CSUN.

All Copyrights revert back to Author or Illustrator upon publication. No material may be copied , in whole or in part, without express writ­ ten permission of the Author, Illustrator, or their bona fid e represent­ atives.

Cover photo courtesy of Security Pacific National Bank Victor R. Plukas, Bank Historian

Copyright 1980 ANGEL'S FLIGHT ANGEL'S FLIGHT Staff

Editor Louis Di Giacomo

M anaging Editor donna Rozelle

Poetry Editor Fiction Editor Maria La Ganga De nnis Anderson

Secretary / Treasurer Lisa Carlson

Editorial A ssistants

De lla Farre n Joe Nardoni Ginny Hare Dort/10 Weste rb eck Mary Louise Rawn Carol Drotman

The Editors w ish to thank • *Dr. Arthur E . Lane w hose presence * • has made us all better Table of Contents

Walton's Thumb 8 Roommates Terence Martin 9 1953 Greg Boyd 11 Trying My Hand at Business Donna Beckman 12 Perkins Family Picnic at the Hollywood Bowl 18 found love (found poem) Arthur Lane 19 The Ari Poems Scott Bowdan 21 The only thing around here 23 Everyman in magic's icongraphy 24 three birds & a crick~t Gary Greenberg 25 Rights Dennis Anderson 26 Fairy Tale 31 The Red Ledge 33 False Apocalypse David Trinidad 35 Mysteries of Afternoon and Evening 39 The Convict 40 With Child 41 Philosophy and the Sunday Funnies 42 Premonition 43 Lilith 43 Love Poems 44 Occupation 44 Don J. 45 Names of Children 46 A Vision 47 Oblivion 48 Fear: The Garden 49 The Ruin: A Visit 50 The World in the Evening Rachel Sherwood 51 Desert Weekend Mike Meyer 52 Argument Charlotte A. Hoyt 59 Why Do You Ask Carol Stager 60 Absurd 61 T hose Hippies Up at Brookings H art Schulz 62 this morning's ghost 63 ni ght prisms Bob Tomli nson 65 The Swin g 67 Fin al Season 68 Desert Fruit De ll a Farre n 69 T he Ha nged Man J oe Nardo ni 70 the californi a condor peter cashorali 77 Dear Desperate Bill y Co ll ins 78 Rumors and the Awful Truth 79 The Night Ca n Be Lo nger Than Even Your G ri ef Fra nces Wolf 80 Compline Margaret Williams 81 This issue of Angel's Flight is dedicated to the memory of

Rachel Sherwood

1954-1979 Terence Martin

Walton's Thumb "Be quiet and go a-angling ." - Izaak Walton , The Compleat Angler

Be patient until the evening distances the drone of the last boat. Wait while flies scramble like commuters for the final shafts of sun . When your hand rises in its shadow Present the lure It flutters into life dances on th e lake disappears like a word cast upon sil ence.

8 Terence Martin

Roommates

Due to a severe housing shortage Dracula and Narcissus, unable To get work, have become Roomates, The Count sleeps throughout The day, whil e his Greek friend Spends his time staring into the Mirror . But lately, Narcissus Has had the disturbing feeling That the face in the mirror Isn't really his own . No matter How long he stares into its depths He can't seem to make it real. Familiar, yes. But difficult. In fact , The opposite of what it should be. Whenever he frowns, his double Seems to grin like a fiend , The corners of the mouth Breaking into a rictus Of uncontrolled laughter and When Narcissus smiles, his Counterpart grimaces In a vaguely uneasy way. So he stands, sometimes For hours, trying to figure it out.

Dracula has begun to notice His friend's preoccupation , And now, late at night The caped man slips into The bathroom to see what obsesses The Greek to such a degree. But he doesn't see what the problem is.

9 There is nothing, in fact , In the mirror. Nothing but The room where hi s face Should be, only the sad Bodies of objects, the chair Getting soft at the middle, The comb, lying o n its side, Sprouting grey hair like an old man . Even the chrome fixtures Refuse to acknowledge him.

Now The roommates have begun To resent each other. They spend Hours arguing. Each believes His own situation is worse. The Transylvanian feels he deserves Some sort of identity, that even pain Is an improvement over immortality. The Greek is sick of seeing Exactly what he is not. Their lights burn late into the night. From their rooms, the sounds of desperate Voices, and of glass breaking.

10 Greg Boyd

1953

it's 1953 somewhere there's a man sitt ing on the edge of a bed , face in the shadows smoking. a strand of blond hair crosses the shadow. she's moaning through her lipstick. i can't stand how it's all been done before .

11 Donna Beckman

Trying My Hand At Business

Being poor was something I never expected. My father was a used car dealer and I was married to an aerospace engineer. When I was lit ­ tle my parents told me stories about the Depression - how people had to wait on line for soup. After a while I stopped li ste ning. The stories were always the same, and the Depression sounded boring. College didn't teach me how to be poor. In Economics we defined poverty. In psychology we learned how economic deprivation affects the psyche. In English classes we read Charles Dicke ns. I was studying when the phone rang. It was Melanie: she was coming over. I wondered why she was visitin g me in the m orning. Before I went back to school, we saw each other almost every day. Now we kept in touch by phone. I was serious about getting my degree. I considered trying my hand at business but my children were too young for me to go to work full time , so aft er my divorce 1 went back to coll ege. Melanie knew all about how to be poor. She had been divorced for three years and she was resuming her career as an actress. "You have to use what you've got," she told me over and over. Melanie was the one who helped me fill o ut the food stamp application in Spanish. S he could write checks before she deposited money to cover them and they never bounced. She knew how to collect une mployment a nd work at the same time. Melanie's latest stint was at the Rub 'em Good Massage Parlor. It was on Lankershim Boulevard , between a Laundromat and a Win­ chell's Ho use of Do-Nuts. She kept me abreast of the highlights. lik e the midget who had bullet scars down his back. The last tim e she visited me, she told me that a cli ent turned over with a hard-on a nd of­ fered her $15.00 to make the massage total. She said yes, and a new business exploded into being Morning was not the usual time for a visit from Melanie. By 10 a.m. she was usually at the Parlor up to her elbows in baby oi l. The slam of my back door announced her arrival. Melanie always came in without knocking. I found her in the kitchen. First she filled my kettle , then she began to fo ld my laundry. "Why aren't you at work?" I asked. 12 " Oh hi. I've quit," she answered. She reached into her purse and pulled out a lid. I gasp ed . " Where did you get that?'' " A woman is only poor if she wants to be.'' M elanie replied . "But no one wants to be ." I protested. " Good, I'm glad to hear you say it. I've got a propositi on for you. I'm starting m y own business with m y full massage cli ents from Rub 'Em Good. Why sh ould I give them a cut of w hat I ea rn with my own two hands. " " Listen , M elanie. I'm not interested in business. I hate capitalism , anyway . I agree w ith M arx that it is essen tially corrupt. " M elanie glared at m e. "You are full of shit," she said. " I want you to be m y p artner. " " And do w hat?" " H andle the overflow." " M elanie, isn't it illegal? Who would take care of m y kids if I went to jail?" I asked. " W e won't do any poli cemen, " M elanie answered . " I'm just not the type," I protested. M elanie could get away with it. She could walk in high heels w ithout breaking her ankle. She looked good w ithout a bra. " Y ou do all ri ght in bars ... when you want to," M elanie sa id. "Com e on , help me o ut. I'll m ake you a full partner." M elanie rolled a joint and p assed it to m e to light. She looked as pure and wholesome as she had in high sc hool. H er lo ng blond hair shone, her skin was tanned . and there w eren't even dark circles under her eyes. I could see no outward manifestation of her new oc­ cupati on . Gloria Steinem would have been proud of M elanie, main­ taining her independence , running a thriving business . Why not m e? After m y divorce. I moved into an old hou se w ith my two children. It had charm , but nothing worked right. Turning a light o n in one room dimmed all the others. I couldn't afford to have anything fixed . M y ex-husband had been laid off his engineerin g job and was se lling microwave ovens door to door. The child support checks arrived later ea ch month and I ran out of money earlier. I was working on a term p ap er about the Irish Potato Famine. M elanie finished folding m y sheets and washed our coffee cups. ''I'm going to leave you a couple of joints. I want you to think about going into business. After all , you owe it to your children. " After M elanie left I sm oked one of the joints to help m e think. I opened the cupboard. It was almost bare . I contemplated the line of ca ns on the bottom shelf. I stood on a chair to check the second sh elf. Up there were my three L ennox china plates, m y sil ver chafing dish , and my French cook book- left-over w edding prese nts. I had hoped 13 a can of tuna or Franco American spaghetti was hidden up there. but l was disappointed It woul d have to be Campbell 's Roulette for lunch. l was down to the last row on the shelf , the shin y cans that had lost their labels. l p icked up the two largest ones left. l check them carefu ll y for signs of botul is m . One was Blueberry Pie Fi llin g: there was enough vanilla ice cream in the fr eezer for a good dessert for the kids. Just as well , because the other can was chinese vegetables. Once l opened anchovies. l wanted the kids to have protein so l put the anchovies in their ice cream and told them it was fi sh ripple. They wouldn't eat it. Would poverty reall y damage my children's psyche? They were three and four years o ld and l made sure the classical m usic station was always playing so they weren't culturally deprived. They c li mbed trees outside and seemed happy, though l watched them closely for signs of scurvy . l sauteed a salami end and added it to the chin ese vegetables "Salami chop suey." l announced , "and blu eberry sundaes if you fini sh. " Salami chop suey. If l jacked two people off in a week we could eat well. Three people and l could buy a lid. Four people and we would never be hungry again . l call ed Mela ni e. "I'll do it." "Are you sure?" "Yes," l said. "You're ri ght. l owe it to my chil d re n ." "All right. Expect a phone call. " Later that afternoon l was writin g the introduction to my potato famine term paper when the phone rang. "H ello ," l said . "Melanie, is that you?" "Wow, you've got a sexy voice. " It was a m an. Hi s breath whi stled into the phone. l thought l heard him moan .

"H ello . Are you a ll right? Who is this?" l asked. ''I'm a fri e nd of Melanie's," he said. This was it. "Yes, hello ," I said. " I' d lik e to come and see you. You know why." "Whe n?" I aske d . "H ow about now?" he said. "Oh, I couldn't possibly rig ht now. How about tonight." "Fine. Say 9:30. I get off of work at 9." I call ed Me la ni e . "You didn't lose much time. He's coming over tonight. I don't know if I'm ready." "There's nothing to get ready. Just wash your hands . Have you ever jacked a nyone off?" "Of course I have . I was married, remember?" "It should take about fi ve minutes .. . if you know what your doing You don't have to ki ss him or anything. Charge him extra if you go to 14 bed with him . You're in busin ess now. so don't give away anything yo u can get paid fo r You'lllike him .,. "Why does he have to pay me to do it?" I asked. "I mean. couldn't he do it himself for fr ee?" " It turns him on. Don't worry about it. Just get the money first , before you do anything. " Afte r I hunq up the pho ne I examined m v ha nd closelv Oh hand , how would I feel about you to morrow? Like Lady MacBeth. probably. Sperm and sil ver had never crossed m y palm at the same time. Not that I was a prude. I had two children. I consid e red m yself quite ex­ perienced. I said fu ck. except around m y re la tives. and I had a one night stand wi th the service representa ti ve w ho installed my telephone. If a man fe ll on m y doorstep and gasped "J ack me off or I'll di e." I'd do it of course . But doing it for mo ney. that was something else again. S till. I could o nl y wate r down the Hawa ii a n punch so much before rickets set in a nd my children would have to walk o n bowed legs forever. The children went to sleep at e ight. after I read the m Hansel and Gretel. It was their fa vorite story. I set the thermosta t at 8 0 degrees but it was m ore of a prayer tha n a practica l act, since the old gas heate r gave out the same a mount of heat no matte r what the d ial said . I had o nl y an ho ur and a ha lf of purity left. I sighed. I washed the dishes fr om o ur dinner. Hormel ta males a nd cottage cheese. I threw my thermal unde rwear and pajamas into m y closet a nd changed my sheets . I put the ones with the faded roses on. I surveyed m y room. I watched the second hand sweep a ro und the clock a nd I fe lt lik e I was going to throw up . I call ed Me la ni e. "I want o ut." I said. "It's too late. H e'll be there soon. You can't back o ut on me now. You' ll ruin my business. " "But I'm going to be sick. " "You're just ne rvous," Me lanie said. " If you don't lik e it this time. you don't have to do it again . Call me if you have any trouble . . " Trouble? What could she mean by trouble. What could happe n? He could rape me, murder me , and cut me up into a mill ion tiny pieces. or he could murde r me and then rap e me. Something weird obviously drove him to this form of re lease I wished I had some whiskey. I smoked the la st joint and the n I drowned the house in G lade. 9:00. I forgot to ask Melanie what I should wear It was too late to borrow the white nurses uniform she used. In my closet the re was a my long bl ack dress. I tri ed it on. It looked all right. but I wondered if it were really a ppropriate. There were m y jeans and tee shirt. but I was afraid they were to o casua l. In the back of my closet was the o range nylon pengoir with the white boa trim. I wore it o nce, o n m y 15 honeymoon . I considered it bad lu ck and decid ed again st it. On the floor of the cl oset I glimpsed some yell ow materi al. It was my peyote prin cess dress. It was perfect- formless, short sleeved and ethnicall y reassuring. Mela ni e wore her hair ti ed back. I brushed mine so it was loose but neat. I decided again st make-up; it might smear in advertently and I wanted to be discrete. I was ready. It was almost 9:30 . I closed my eyes. There before me stands the biggest man I have ever seen , a com ­ bination of Clark G abl e and my father. He has to d uck to come in my doorway. He kisses my ha nd. "Mela ni e says you're her bi ggest custo mer. " He takes the cigar out of his mouth a nd hooks his thumbs into his vest. "Show me the bedroom , a nd you'll see what she means. " He peels a fift y dollar bill off of an enormous ba nkro ll . "Keep it ," he mut­ ters. He undresses and stretches o ut o n the bed . My attention is riveted on his cock. Never have I dreamed that human fl esh can grow to this dimensio n . "Yes," he says, ''I'm Mela nie's biggest customer. " I decide to use two hands. I grip hi m like he is the baseball bat I hit with when I was eleven and played baseba ll with the boys. My fin gers barely stretch aro und it . I start slowly. I re me mber the pogo stick I had when I was nine. The top of hi s mo ustache turns upward sli ghtly as a wad of sti cky white goo explodes fr om his cock and hits the ceilin g with a wet splat. The baseba ll becomes a garden hose. He leaves me wordlessly and I sta re at th e tapioca stain on my ceiling. 9:30 a nd there was a kn ock on my door. I ope ned it. It was my clie nt. He was in his earl y twenti es, a few years younger than I. His hair was short. He wore a white shirt and a thin ti e and a badge that said: HI I'M JIM YOUR MA NAG ER AT VONS "Are you Mela ni e's fri end," he asked. I wondered if I should mention the fift een doll ars before I let him in , but I decided again st it . "Yes , come in " I said . I led him into my bedroom a nd p ointed to a cha ir . "You can put your clothes there. " He unclippeo his Va ns badge a nd put it in hi s pocket. The n he started to unbutton hi s shirt. 'Til be rig ht back," I said, a nd I went in to the bathroom to wash my hands. "Maybe I'm doin g thi s wrong," I said out loud to the mirror. I probably shoul d have asked him for the money before he took off his clothes. I lathered my ha nds. Jim's clothes were folded neatly on the chair. He had closed his 16 eyes. I was afraid he had fallen asleep. I wondered why he hadn't taken off hi s socks. If I asked him for the money he would have to get up . I would ask him when we were through. I sat on the bed. I put my hand on his knee, and then on his thigh . "I don't have much time ," he said without opening his eyes. "Sorry, I'l l hurry. " I rubbed his cock but nothing happened. " Maybe my hands are too cold ," I thought. I remembered he was in a hurry so I went faster. "Oh Rhett," I sighed and closed my eyes. Finally he came. It was stick y a nd I had forgotten a towe l. " Be ri ght back," I whispered. I went into the bathroom and washed my hands. I looked in the mirror. My cheeks were scarlet, but other than that, I didn't look any different. Whe n I returned, Jim was dressed a nd was clipping his pocket. "Thanks a lot, maybe I'll see you again sometime. " I opened th e door for him. "Sure, see you later." I call ed Me la nie . Well , I did it. I guess you've got yourself a business partner. "I kn ew you could do it ," she said. "Keep th e $15 for yourself. Next tim e. though , you can give me 10 percent. See how easy it is to stop being passive and take your life into your own hands."

17 Arthur Lane

Perkins family picnic at the Hollywood Bowl

hundreds of p eople, the Perkinses among them , lean forward in their seats. minds grasping at the music to save them from drowning in the noise inside their fumbling heads. around their hearts .

because over those heads, over the w hole bending Bowl , over the essential sanity of a Philharmonic Orchestra playing Mahler's Fifth Symphony in the night, a police helicopter rackets back and forth back and forth looking for its own reason for being there,

piloted by Mrs. Perkins' only son known to her and all of us as " ahl" & "Officer'' Perkins

it is a kind of family secret that he hasn't yet overcome his initial bewilderment at being in the world at all

18 Arthur Lane found love (found poem)

Frasier the lion , discarded circus animal , stumbled toothless "sick and half starved" down the road, well travelled road , to no p lace. he was old: "his tongue, its musc les all but use less , lolled out of his m o uth." w hat else is new .

one thing at least , an interruption , to rep ort: a new career , new kind of circu s. (the sk y did not p art the earth did not move) but there he is sleeping, n ot d ead. not dead at all, under the "watchful eye of one of his w ives," having suddenly six of them and having sired in eighteen m onths thirty-o ne cubs. "wife after w ife turned up p regnant, producing anywhere from two to fi ve cubs at a time."

19 the sky did not part or any of that, as I said, but there he is , old Frasier, happy lion fast asleep flat on his back his paws in the air in southern california.

20 Scott Bowdan

The Ari Poems

Playin g te nnis with my young fri end I see him as more beautiful tha n any thought I could ever have he knows nothing of his, of course but he likes me we ll enough I gi ve him attentions that he finds bafflin g , because I a m the better player. In hi s simplicity , I love him even more.

His name means " li o n" I am to ld brown hi s eyes, hair . Streaks of li ghter color , limbs that are sm ooth a nd graceful as he moves over the court as he p o unces o n m y service retu rn hitting a winner . I woul d gi ve him the who le damn match , if he wo uld let me to uch him .

H e is so skinny I te ll him he sho uld eat m ore protein . No, he says, a nd la ughs , a nd the n orders little thin hotcakes a nd 7 -up .

I wish he were o ld er than 14 , so I could begin to read his interests, the attitude of his body.

21 Does he lean toward the sky or toward the earth? Does he break bread or receive the blade, shiny with blue-swollen fire?

My sleeping flower, if I should let my hot breath disturb you, the questions of my burst age,

I would be ruined.

The Last Poem To My Young Friend

Will he remember me some night whil e he stands over his first conquest? If I could be his window.

I could see everything.

22 Gary Greenberg

the o nly thing around here besides dirt. sagebrush. & ce m ent is a six-mch lizard W l trl Ildli d rail doing push -ups on th e step & staring at me on my lawn chair. they find me wherever I go these lizards mou ntains desert doesn't m ake a damn bit of difference to them . they sta nd & stare pausing now & then for a m inute or two of pumping quick & rhythmic staring squint-eyed recreating in a matter of seconds a look that took Stalin years to affect & then burs ti ng forward after a composed slow burn they scream at the top of their voices jarring each atom of m y body plea ding adm onishing " w hy so ill at ease . m an , w hy so ill at ease?"

23 Gary Greenberg

Everyman in magic's icongraphy felt voices in the night & pressed against his migrant body the doved-winged cedarwood guitar stretching like sand across the desert: each grain a note each note a chord each chord an oasis as vast in its vastness as pain's power to negate pain. "I am but dust & ashes," he said as Abraham had long before trembling he fixed his son upon a raw altar of wood & prayer yet some history cannot be denied: "No more sacrifices" his God proclaimed weary of proclamation weary of holocaust weary of time "It is time" He said "for time to cease"

24 Gary Greenberg

three birds & a cricket I'm sure one is a sparrow th e light has begun & at noon the glazier's apprentice will be outside heapin g splinters of glass (lik e a quick wink) onto a lawn . the sun will bend around his capped head, his shadow will fa n out, & the splin ters wi ll cease to glow as he rounds them up into a rusted dust-pan. by 5 he'll be gone leaving me a new window to look through, never knowing , perhaps, about the poem he wrote

25 Dennis Anderson

Rights

I dropped the phone, gulped down another swallow of coffee, which was as usual , half-cold. I stared blankly at the grime on the wall in the newsroom. The white overhead lights pounding down re m ain ed the same a nd so d id the clacking of typewriters and the ringing of other phones at other desks. Nothing to do about this one, I thought, refl ectin g on the call I'd just taken. The kid 's tale wasn't even four paragraphs for an in side page. He hadn't impressed me . Nothing is less impressive than police brutality charges made in a belligerent tone. "I wasn't doing anything , see. When the cop told me to pick up the bottle, I told him it wasn't my bottle, so how come I should have to pick it up? Then he call s me a smartass and clips me on the ear. He grabs me and throws me on the ground. So what do you think of that, man?" the kid says, hoping fo r page o ne. "You got any priors, kid? Have you been in trouble before? Did you know the offic er's name? Did he know your name when he clipped you?" "Naw, I haven't been in no tro uble; not recently man . Nothin' on my record . Nothing they can use. We just tr y to party a nd they hassle us." The kid's tale rang a dull littl e be ll in the back of m y head . It was th e bell that goes plunk in stead of ringing the alarm . It's the "no story" be ll. He said he did n't have a record, but he li ed. What he meant was that he just turned eighteen and had his jacket sealed three weeks ago. "I know my rights," the kid said into my plastic earpiece. "Everyone at the party th ey broke up is gonna compla in . The city pigs aren't going to get away with this one ." "So, aft er you make a compla int to the ACLU ,call me back. That may be a story. But right now, a ll I have is your word for it ." "You m ean you're not going to do anything about this? For the paper I mean-are ya going to cover up?" " I don't know if what you're telli ng me is a story for the paper without checking on a couple of things. If you swear out the com­ plaint, call m e back ."

26 So he hung up , convinced that the Four Forks City Press-Courier was in bed with the cops. The kid knew hi s rights. He'd call the ACLU . No. he wouldn't. He just wanted a cheap shot at the cops in the paper. According to the station report , the kid's so-call ed "party" was more like a riot. Kids lik e that gave me a swift pain . Sure, I used to buck a uthorit y, more than that littl e bastard ever had , a nd wit h more reason. H ow was it that nearly tens years aft er Chicago these kids were still callin g the cops "Pigs. " What could the word mean to them? Four Forks City is a party town for kids. And we do have a few rough cops on the city beat, but I' d been workin g on the paper three years and had never seen a soli d case of brutality. Usually, for fair­ ness, we d id a short "so-and-so charges brutality" just to show the chi ef a nd the mayor of th e beautif ul burgh that the paper couldn't be timidated. Besid es, maybe so-and-so was right. After you've heard e nough surl y kids though, you tire of writing the "big cop beat me up story ." As lik ely as not the little creep has been bustin g houses and running commercial burglary for his dope doll ars. Kids call burglary "ripping off houses'' now. No people involved as far as they're concerned , just houses. And then when they get caught, they know their rights . For sure , they kn ow their rights. I drained my cup and decided there was no story. I was fed up with kids that sho uld have been worried about a job worrying about their rig hts . I said goodnight to the three or four desks that were filled with reporters still busily clacking away, a nswering te lephones, scribbling notes. Heads nodded, eyebrows arched up from the phones, hands waved. I'd see the m a ll tomorrow and maybe get my teeth in to a real story. Walking out to the parking lot I was glad the day was over and I could climb on m y new bike , a Kawasa ki 750 I'd just bought. The evening wind outside was cool and I scratched my beard. After a routine day it was joyfu l to think abo ut pulling on blue jeans. flipping some o ld Dylan o n the stereo a nd kicking back with a bottle of Heineke n. I'd already forgotten the kid's phone call. Generally, I like cops. I'd worked with them o n some pretty good stori es and could appreciate a lot of the shit they have to put up with. They li ve with a lot of pressure , especially when they have to handle a crowd or go into a hostile neighborhood. I hit the electric starter on my bike a nd eased o nto the highway. Pulling o nto the Interstate, I felt great that evening . The breeze bl ew the hair back on my head and I could feel th e smil e on my cheeks as I picked up speed . 27 A couple of other bikers waved and passed me like I was standing still in the twilight. I was making 60 miles-an-hour. Those other guys were going too fast , I thought. Then the bubblegum machine came on behind me. He ll , I thought, I wasn't even out of city limits yet and the state trooper was on my tail. · The twirling red lights signalled me over to the shoulder and I eased to a stop. Reaching for my wallet, I said, "Good evening, deputy. What can I do for you?" ''I'm no deputy. I'm a state trooper. Take your license out and hand it over." Just what I needed, I thought; a hard nose . I could feel a ticket coming on and another boost in the old insurance rates. "Here you go, officer. What seems to be the problem? I thought I was in the speed limit." "Speed limit? Like hell you were. I got you clocked at eighty- hip­ pie." Hippie? Christ, my beard was neatly trimmed. Nobody call ed anybody hippie anymore. He was a big guy, with a hell of a chip on his shoulder. Most of the city cops I knew were friendly. This guy had a pockmarked face and he didn't look fri e ndly . He was just about my age, twenty-five or twenty-six. "Maybe you've gotten me mistaken with those other couple of bikers, officer. They passed me like I was standing still. " "You tryin' to sass me, boy? There wasn't any others. You were the only one and you were burnin' the road up." "No, really man . Maybe I was a couple of miles over, but the other two guys passed me, just before you pulled me over." "Don't 'man' me, you son of a bitch. " "Jesus, what is this? I'm just trying to tell you straight." "Don't try to tell me nothing-boy," he said. Then he knocked my wallet from my hand. It was getting dark on the shoulder. I didn't believe it was haooeninQ. "Look officer. I don't know what this is . I'm just going to sign the ticket or whatever. 0 .K. ?"I knelt down slightly to reach for my wallet. Then he kicked me. He kicked me while I was bent over and he laughed softly. "You're not going to sign shit, biker. I'm going to take you in for assaulting a peace officer." "Jesus Christ, what is this?" I cried. Sick, yellow fear filled my gut. Then he kicked again. "Roll over on your stomach, you bearded biker son of a bitch. " I tried to pretend I wasn't there ... that this wasn;t happening. Then I saw another state trooper car pull up. As the big boy turned, I. started 28 to get up. An older man got out of the second car. He adjusted his smokey bear hat and said. "What is this. Kf':n?" Nothin' Arthur. This man was fi xin g his bike and it fe ll over . I'm just helpinq him out. It's nothing. " Arthur nodded and got back inside the car. Now, in side of me I was screaming. But I re membered names. "Now get in the car boy. We're taking a little ride. " Somehow, I knew we weren't going to the statio n. As I looked at my bike on its side , I knew this was the deepest trouble. "Yo u know my name. Probly got my badge number too. But it won't do you no good, biker ," he said with his hand on his gun. I got in the car. Nothing else could be done. We pulled off the state route, went through an underpass and o ut into a field , just a few hundred yards from a ll the new homes they are building in Four Forks. From th e stacks of beer cans piled up, I could tell is was one of the fi eld s the kids party in . But it was e mpty. Ken had driven without speaking, without te ll ing me what he had in .mind or why. There was too little time to wonder how this biq pock­ marked guy had ever gotten a badge. As he motioned me o ut of the car I looked for a direction to run but I could tell he was faster th a n me. As I stood in the gathering dark, I saw him pull on a black glove, the kind the o ld er cops used to use. The o nes with lead shot in them . He clinched the glove tight a nd said, "You li ed to me, son. And you're going to take some li cks for that. " "Hey, look. Whatever your proble m is, we can talk it over. There's no need to do this." "We're not talking anything over. I'm going to wale on you, pure and simple. You probably think you got rights. We ll , right now, this glove is the only rights available." Then he clipped me .. . and I fe ll to the gro und . I felt the ribs give when the heavy brogan shoe made contact. I had no id ea what would happen but I wondered why. I saw the red lights . No ideas how they got there. But there was a state car and a Four Forks City car . I was crumpled in a foetal positi on with one eye kicked shut. I was still around e nough to see it was Ar­ thur with Rick C le m ens, a young fri e nd of mine from city patrol. "What the hell is this, Ken?" Arthur asked, lookin g directly at me. "He was resisting. I was trying to put the cuffs on him. " Arthur looked dubious. Rick couldn't te ll it was me yet, because I was all cr umpled up. I saw the only chance I'd get. "Jesus, Ric k H elp me. It's me, Robby, fr o m the paper," I yell ed . Some how. pulling my ribs in with both arms, I bounded over to him. "God, Rick , if I gotta be taken in, you do it! Not him . I a in't done 29 anything. I swearl T ake m e Rick. You take m el" He knew me and knew som ething was wrong. Arthur was comir aro und too. H e had his gun out. "Something's w rong here," Rick sa id. " Art, take your man's gu1 Something is w rong," he said. taking out his piece. K en dropped his .38 se rvice revolver and started to w himper , so tly. H e came apart from the inside , like the stitching in a rag doll. Bul was so terrified of the guy I crouched behind Rick , hanging onto h blue pantsleg " Robby .'' he sa id , gently. 'Til need you to come in and make rep ort.., I nodded dumbly. st ill kneeling down in the mud. I was terrified< the police.

30 David Trinidad

II Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, in the middle of the forest, the misunderstood princess met a dwarf who thoroughly repulsed he r: hi s sm a ll head was bumpy and withered lik e a gourd. hi s few teeth were yell ow as p ieces o f corn. and in a leather p o uch he carri ed a cut-out human heart for good lu ck. The dwarf

fe ll in love with the princess a nd courted her with bouquets of bright forest flowers. Finally , dispairing at the lack of sensitive princes in the world , the princess consented. They were married and li ved together in a w hite cottage with a thatched roof, shuttered windows. a nd furniture carved o ut of fr eshl y chopped trees.

The dwarf was content: the princess. restl ess. Then o ne day. as the princess drew sprin g water fr om the nearby well , a frog turned into a sensitive prince. swept the princess off her feet. and carri ed her away. That evening. the dwarf came ho me fr o m work and di scovered hi s princess gone. forever.

31 He went into a rage, whirling lik e a breeze through a house of cards. He cursed a ll forms of wizardry. He smashed the mirrors in the master bedroom. He axed the furniture. He broke a ll of the handmade pottery in the spacious kitchen. Then he committed suicide. Immediately , the dwarf's corpse began to change:

From one arm there came a sensiti ve prince. From the other arm there came a muscular athlete. From a leg there came a ski ll ed carpenter. From the other leg there came a diplomat with charisma. His eyes hatched two sleek rave ns. His spirit shone. And out of his pouch , from the human heart he kept for lu ck, there seeped a dream.

32 David Trinidad

The Red Ledge

On the fourth fl oor- a nin ety-five-doll ar-a-month rented room complete with cracks in the wall , black cigarette burns in the carpet, and shred of o ld spider webs pinned to the cei li ng, dangli ng, desultory as a dead a ngel's hair . He sits there, an in somniac in a cracker-box cell. His throat burns with inhaled smoke.

Outside. beneath the window, the red champagne glass above the corner bar fiz zes and overfl ows in neon consistency. The room is tinted pink.

The steam heater breathes like too many people crowded in to too little space. His clothes are heavy, wet with sweat. The city is quiet, sirenl ess.

All of a sudden , terror widens his eyes as he spots a sil verfish wiggling its anten nas thro ugh a crack across the room. The whites around his pupils expand, opening onto his brow lik e broken eggs. An unsuspected draft to uches hi s sho ulder: cold , a strange hand . Chewed na il s spring the window-shade . Chewed na il s unclasp the window-latch .

33 The city glows- its n ight ligh ts sm as h against the soli d-black sky. H e is a silho uette. Im agine w hat he thinks of, up there, se t as a still life in his w hirling vertigo.

Imagine his appropri ate height and the stone ledge . razor -s harp, just beyond his bare fee t. Im agin e the red glass of champagne above the bar , tilted , p o uring its fl as hing red bubbles into the damp air; imagine those red bubbles overflowing. falling, blazing like li t m atches. gleaming above the doorway. and blinking to nothing as o ne after another , they reach the street.

34 David Trinidad False Apocalypse

The afternoon you bought that G ypsy deck black cl o uds fo ll owed us back to your apartment. We tho ught we were prepared , we had waited. As the somber cl oth stretched over us , obliteratin g th e entire sky like India ink, we la ughed as if we were mad and re me mbered the o mens- the warped record , the drunken cut, a drawer of dull knives, sheets full of fl eas, my beer glass shattered and your keys lost, the sick pho ne call s, that X scratched in the win dow's d ust. No one else seemed to notice; they ta il gated or p assed , strapped ti ght to the weeknight' s routine, rushing fr o m work to reservati o ns at Mexican resta urants. This was it , so you were extravagant at the li q uor store - select cha mpagne a nd bl ack caviar for egg bread spread with butter!

Three days later your check woul d bounce. But mo ney had never mattered. You smiled and shook your dark hair , threw the sack in the back seat. Hi gh Priestess, sexy in a see-thro ugh pink slip and black pumps, you read violent death on my palm , a broken heart-line.

35 You saw death also in the strange arrangement unquestionabl e as your tattered cards. candles were lit for this midnight ritu a l. O ur finger-tips sli d back and forth across the Ouija board, spellin g the month of my death.

"Are you moving it?" I kept asking. So we set aside the occult. Then I admired those ankles as you leapt to let the cat in - a genuine omen when he walked straight to your Kelti c layout, set his adorable head on the Death card , and slept.

"Death! " we shouted "I love death! " "I hate death!" Your lips touched my unexpected tears. The soft footsteps of the rapist stopped halfway up the stairs. The win e dried in sil e nce like a bloodstain, a bruise on the abused carpet.

The sky cleared . The weird laughter left us alone, with only a glimpse of what we thought we had witnessed, with just a taste bad as tabasco, hung over the next morning, of how we had ranted, and raged at the world .

For Rachel S herwoor Nove mber, 1971 36 Rachel Sherwood

)I 'l The poem "Premonition" has previously been published in this magazine under the author's name as were the poems "Don J. " and "Oblivi on" under the pseudonym Meredith McCarthy; "The Ruin: A Visit" and "Names of Children" appeared previously in Beyond Baroque 792 . Mysteries Of Afternoon and Evening

The wind is fitful now: soot piles in the corners of new buildings, gulls stumble out of place in ragged branches to skim against a rise of pond water.

The children watch, breathless with the birds. They feel an emanation from this shuddering place.

This winter evening the sky cracks with cardinal color and we sit in cooing wonder like dwarves at the Venetian court must have done- amazed at Tiepolo's sunshot ceilings; like us, they were fickle, aware of smaller inconstancy. But the dazzle above, enclosing seems fit or made for this fragment of belief.

39 The Convict

A return is expected palpable as the rub of an old harness; turning from the heat at noon, the white air grey at the fine lin e of horizon- it isn't what you remember:

the cool room , nearly dank, filled with mutations of light that grew larger in the evening (when you knew it was evening)

but to return, just here eyes wide to the pallid clouds that spread a thin cloth over this place; it is open to you the air , the windows, the door that swin gs out and in .

Your return is expected: it is announced with closed curta in s, changed locks. You must learn to recognize the curve of an old friend's back the echoes that slide through the floorboards are secondhand greetings.

40 With Child

You are not dormant your eyes are st ill large still see as much wary disdain for this cracking place, cracked daily , knocked again st your conception of it the world fa ll s sho rt of expectation in a tea gown tea roses roll in your soft lap there is so much sun in this garden you are so young infanta with child your face now like a satisfied saint yet your brazen hair betrays such a pleasurable fall and your smil e is a smil e of perfect knowledge.

41 Philosophy And The Sunday Funnies

The perfect satisfaction of wine, cigarettes, the sun at an afternoon angle passes through flesh as if flesh were a sieve to the direct point the soul of matter.

Things fix time although the sun moves lazily , creating an image that seems like motive the wine transmutes and becomes blood cigarettes dissolve to blue threads and ash but the sun continues in constant repetition of its slow and rather boring dance.

42 Premonition

A pitcher broke sharp in the sink tonight of all nights, like a tooth shattering the pleasure of a walnut with an unwholesome crack we watch from the curb dull as lamp posts when the car shrieks sidewise in a willful lunge against the street bark shivers off a pepper tree and the wheels cover the close night air languid , tilted on a wrecked axis.

Lilith

Man's first disobediant- an equal amount of dust and desire she found his lips the moist split in his beard his darkness a savage fear drove her near the fire he would not touch nor taste her until that smooth back­ could white, and as soft turned in sleep he sprang hard as flint twisting her as she crumbled with a hollow noise that rattles him now at night. 43 Love Poems

It's a notebook full of words for you I could have said no swinging between weird bliss and a sharp blade: I don't belong here but in a sort of myth one about the father who ate his own children and then, himse lf.

Occupation

The man who told me about war said, it's the only thing that keeps us busy. I thought of your fingers on my back counting the vertebrae one by one. The only thing?

44 DonJ

If you knew what you wanted­ arms full of plastic women (none of them lethal) bottles of champagne and sweet liqueurs ­ you would have a bathtubful of alcohol, a yacht with pretty boys to steer through the calmest palm-lined bays, your mind a pale cloud.

But the wars and severed limbs explosions and fires in the night come to you in grey visions: sailors adrift and starving you among them , waiting helpless for the woman who will save you­ only you among them- with the pure lions and tears of a madonna.

45 Names Of Children

In early mo rning when the sun is vague a nd birds are furio us names of chi ldren float like sm oke thro ugh the empty ro om: Ariadne , d ark as seal skin Ian , fa ir-skinned ba by Marina Terrence Alex John aft er dinner p ull ed back fr o m talk of war and morals the ir names glow like li ght aro und a cand le - Jack, m y rampa nt youngest son Ce li a , m y daughter who si ngs but no chil dre n call fr om other rooms no soft faces turn to kiss each guest goodnight o r w hi sper that stars are a giant's eyes there is o nl y the slow still wait thro ugh the opa que ni ght for m orning and m ore names.

46 A Vision

Cold as delft china a crystal sea opaque as sapphires and pewter an evening falling aery spirits in emerald air lit with fires from the hills . Christabel's father searches for her he hovers like remembered night turning circles in the dusk.

Green light at the edge of sky a promise of miracles in the western sphere mist rising from stone and shadow- fata morgana: a helicopter with icons draped like charms golden arrows, a silver heart , ruby tears the blood of weary saints.

The solution was clear: over the phone Lord Byron said write it , you know what I mean . Have a drink and promise me a copy by tomorrow.

47 Oblivion

I poured a whiskey and soda watching the tree outside dissolve: light going backward pushed to corners to the white sliver of wood around the door.

Where was that river seething with li ght? I recall the banks menaced by wasps swoll en on summer sap, a cement hollow stuck with their strange cradles a woozy stench of damp clay the blunt poison of water snakes.

I do remember someone close warm flesh pushed to the sand the ocean a dark noise echoing gull s and a wail of forlorn love moonlight like ye ll owed keys on hi s antique piano music across the water our song tides pulled awful and endless as the spine of memory

The light is lost my glass is hollow: the door is luminous like a firefly at midnight.

48 Fear: The Garden

I stood near the trees oranges and lemons in clusters like strange berries in the china-blue air my fingers touching the sharp green tongues of the tomato vine

there I heard a wail weave through the shrubs it was a siren or a child or a dying cat it seemed as if a banshee had stepped onto the gravel path behind me moaning her slow preview of agony and sleep holding out a garland to me of weeds and gnats' legs.

It was only a wish for contentment with the fat facts touching !TIY arm a thought of escape from the vague threatofseedthatspread like a web around me.

49 The Ruin: A Visit

An easy misstep-or escape between cleft bark of old trees to a territory of fallen leaves where horses shiver in winter corses and made wide circles in the night grass where a wall follows familiar cadence of moth and rust- the ruin rises blunt as a smell of leaf on leaf: a shambles of cold fires , cistern of worms, most likely: reli cs held open in a wind home limned with echoes of dogs or loosened stones that shift their damp clasp

From this tumbled place I keep a watch on vagrant shadows that move like penitent theives among the hills below and diminish in the slate air.

50 The World In the Evening

As this suburban summer wanders toward dark cats watch from their driveways-they are bored ·and await miracles. The houses show, through windows flashes of knife and fork , the blue light of televisions, inconsequential fights between wife and husband in the guest bedroom voices sound like echoes in these streets the chattering of awful boys as they plot behind the juniper and ivy , miniatureguerillas that mimic the ancient news of the world and shout threats, piped high across mock fences to girls riding by in the last pieces of light the color of the sky makes brilliant reflection in the water and oil along rhe curb deepened aqua and the sharp pure rose of the clouds there is no sun or moon, few stars wheel above the domestic scene-this half-lit world still , quiet calming the dogs worried by distant alarms there- a woman in a window washes a glass a man across the street laughs through an open door utterly alien , alone . There is a time , seconds between the last light and the dark stretch ahead, when color is lost-the girl on her swing becomes a swift apparition , black and white flowing suddenly into night.

51 Mike Meyer

Desert Weekend

"Is he THAT Decker? " "Yup. " "Oh, no. I won't be able to look him in the face ." "No one's forcin g you to. Don't get upset. " "But ... the poor man. I'll e mbarrass him," she said and I laughed. " He bro ught it a ll on himself and now he's got to li ve with it. " "H ow coul d he do it?" she asked in genuine puzzle ment. The question , more to herself tha n to me , was something coming fr o m the last of the flow er children . "He said he did it for love. I be li eve that's what it comes down to. Lord above. " "Ooo mannnn. That's heavy," she hippied. The n , "Shit, Art. You sho uld've told me. This is bumming me out just knowing he's in th e car ahead. I mean ... " she was wringing her hands together. "Look, he's not a criminal or a nything. " "I know, but. .. I can't he lp it . He's a coward," she blurted. "I mean ... Oh . I don't know." I chuckled to m yself. For a diehard, 34 year old hippie , Laura wasn't so sure about the real thing. I had expected her to we lcome Decker with fl owers in her hair, and platitudes about his 'reall y beautiful karma. " But even she couldn't hang with it. I followed Decker's car off Interstate 5 onto California 14. The sign pointe d to Palmdale . We veered right, east, through steep hills and moonlight. The six lane highway cut as a bright river across the pep­ pered hills past Newhall, a nd was nearly empty of other cars. Decker's ho use was somewhere west of Palmdale . I had met La ura in a night spot in Topanga Canyon a year earli er. Of a ll the fabl ed canyons in "L.A .", where the rich and hiJ? and artsy fo lks escaped the rigors of city life to li ve, Topa nga was the most removed. It was north of Santa Monica and south of Malibu . Where Laurel and Coldwater Canyons had their Porches and Mercedes, and 52 Benedict its Lincolns and Cadillacs, T opangonians were somehow more smug in their battered VWs and torn jeans. Topanga had a reputation for being the place you went when you wanted to get down and know that you were somehow not a part of the stiffling crassness of suburbia. The people who gave it that reputation, though, were everything but hip. Laura didn't fit their description. She was just an odd sort who seemed to need a man most or all of the time. She call ed herself one of the real hippies. I could care less. All I knew was that she was nice most of the tim e and available when I called her. We'd dated orily four times before the weekend outing to Decker's desert house, whenever I came o ut from the east. "Have you got any seconal?" she asked o ut of a low slung trance. A frown , which started in her brain , electrocuted itself through her fore head, ruining her average looks. Her mouth was grim as though a train would hit at anv moment. 'No. What do you need that for?" "I need the m , that's all ," she said. "Laura," I said , grabbing her arm. She pulled away. "This is putting me on such a bummer." "There aren't any pills. And you better not plan on doping it up out there . I won't stand for that." "Look, Art, I have n't dropped anything in seven months. But this is bumming me out. I can't handle this whole thing." "For god's sakes. Stop saying bum or bummer. It went out with Jesus fr eaks. Or Jesus sandals, or something." "Oh, I don't care. I'll say anything I want. Bummer. Bummer!" "You better not ruin this for me. I'm having a hard enough time with him ," I said. "Don't talk to him if you don't want to." "Sure, and what about her? You said she's an intellectual or something I won't be able to talk to her either. Shit, Art. You're a bastard . I had a right to know." "Loo k, we're going to the desert. You said yo u'd love it. So e njoy that. And I know she'll make it a point to get along with you. Just stop worrying." "Fuck," she said and leaned against the door, depressed .

Decker's house was set in again st the foothills, about ten miles from the highway. He led us to Paradise Valley Road fr om the highway and into a short pass through the hills. He tooted hi s horn three times when we'd come through , into a sandy, shallow valley. We went down the grade and up the other side and turned off just before another pass. The gravel driveway was about a mile long and led to the house, a tract style place, sitting at the base of the mountains. 53 The moon cast a dull glow about the irregular surfaces of the rocky terrtain be hind the ho use. The hills lurked in shadow, and out front , the smooth desert vall ey swept way o ut to the opposite hil ls . I could see lights fr om another house a couple of miles away, against the mountains. twinkling. I lik ed it there right off. and looked forward to being there the next day. Saturday. 'In the morning the sun beamed around the east-west running mountains behind the house, a nd flooded through the thin curtains in ­ to our room. It warmed the blacks a nd browns of the ceilin g high bookshelf and its books with their white and ye ll ow a nd red jackets. The yell ow curtains enriched the li ght as it fl ed into the tan cubicle. I lay for a while with Laura curled next to me and snoring softly. I won­ dered how the fin e feeling I had in being there would aff ect my fe e lin gs about Decker. I could hear footsteps outside in the quiet air crunching in the grave l around the house. Occasio na ll y some bird would chirp a nd squawk, but there was no noise fr o m the hiqhway. I re m embered last night how Decker had been quiet a nd aloof aft er we arri ved, and Laura was stiff and clung close to me, a nd J ean was exhausted from two nights of invento ry taking at the new boutique she'd bo ught out in Covina. Everyone had seemed to be preoccupied with his own thing to make much of the rest of the evening. W e turned in earl y and Laura had fall e n asleep ri ght away. I looked out a ft er a time to see Decker pacing slowly, with hi s head down, in thought, I supposed. He was a strange m an and I becam e in ­ trigued with him again. I began wondering what drove him a nd it came to me that I hadn't gotten to kn ow him well at a ll. I eased o ut of bed , careful not to wake Laura. who slept lik e it was the middle of the night. I dressed , and tugged on boots, glad they weren't street shoes. Walking softl y thro ugh the sho rt hall and across the airy , spacious living room , for J ean a lso sle pt still , I reali zed that for the first time since coming to California, the fir st time in months, I had no tension inside. I was myself again , not li vin g in worrying of the past, but aware of the present. Outside, the earl y morning sunlight swooped down the fl at sandy desert and up again to the brown mo untain across the way. Up close, the sun made a miniature paradise of a cactus garden Decker had cultivated atop a little kno ll in front of the house. I leaned over to in ­ spect the gleaming little red and green fruity looking plants and the coarse sands and rocks a nd lean bushes. Your eyes want to grab at the terrain , as though stretchin g a nd fl exin g after being cooped c 'or too long. I walked down the drive, encouraged by the rocky, unsmooth mountain behind the ho use. Something fore boding a nd cha ll e nging was alluring for a man too harri ed by the tra ppings of city life, and the 1970's (and SO 's a nd 60's too). Adventure waited over the first ridge. I stood and looked and looked . 54 Decker's crunching footsteps, which probably carried thro ugh the stilln ess halfway across the valley, stopped the ir lo ng, rhythmical suc­ cessio n and I becom e curio us and went back around the ho use . H e was o n hi s haunches, squatting d own and holding himself forward with hi s ha nds on the sand, and perfectl y still. What kind of ma n was that, I asked m yself . I watched him there a nd he didn't mo ve. H e seemed to be looking at something , a n a nt maybe , or even just the sand . Yet, there was an odd sensati on of strain a bo ut him , as tho ugh something much more in tense was ta kin g place . Did I see him shaking? I looked harder fr o m the edge o f the ol her side of the ho use where I'd sto pped, tr yin g to see. H e was shaking and tre mbling a ll over, hi s eyes tightly shut. He threw back hi s head a nd then d own again , lik e he was in pain . I retreated then a few yards, for something to ld me it wasn't physical. Fin a ll y I call ed to him . " Hi ." H e straightened up slowly, turning, his eyes keen . H e no d ­ d ed . "Ni ce mo rning," I beamed. H e looked slowly o ut across the d esert floor, as tho ugh for the first time that morning . "Yes. It is ," he said aft er a mo ment. I m oved o ver to him , but stop ­ ped several yards off , to give him his space. A sma ll bird li ghted down on a bush near Decker and bobbed up and d own fo r a mo m ent o n the thin bra nch . Decker let his ha nd o ut aft er several seconds, not lookin g at the bird , but in stead at me . Hi s eyes were sli ts in the growin g li ght, a nd he smil ed . The bird fluttered up before m y eyes and landed on his hand. It was a re markable th ing to see and I said to hi m what a good trick it was. S till watching me , he sat down slo wly to his knees, a nd with a nod , indicated for m e to do the same. I went down , feelin g sli ghtly m esmerized and d isori ented by the who le thing. But Decker ke pt hi s gaze fi xed on me , almost as tho ugh he were beseeching for something It was a small , scruffy grey bird and it danced a ro und o n his ha nd and wrist nervously. I coul d n't get over it , and watched trying the n not to breathe for fear it would be fri ghtened . Decker slowly swung his arm forward , off ering m e the bird aft er an interval. I reached o ut, but it squawked a nd jumped up a nd hovered a mo me nt and fl ew off, over my head. Decker fe ll back, re li eved. " Magnifi cent," he said , his eyes gleaming thro ugh the cracks. "The grace a nd perfect control the thing had. The power . Di d you feel it? " It was hard a nswering. "I think so. I. .I'm not sure. Di d it reall y hap­ pen?" "Yes, it was real. " So very real, I tho ught. " How d id you do that?" I asked. A very sli ght breeze loft ed thro ugh hi s hair. "It was the bird , Art. I gave hi m som ething to land o n " "The n why did it fl y away whe n I p ut o ut my hand?" 55 "You sho uld have been more careful. T hey are more sensiti ve than hi a woman. They can detect, like a baby can , what's inside a person. sc They sense how much trust to put in you . But its very d ifficult at first to ho ld them. It was foolish of me to hand it to you." We sat for awhile with our arms around our knees, looking out. It OJ was a rare time for me to find peace with a nother person. I became p< accustomed to the desert before us. The breeze was very li g ht and a a~ little cool, like a girl 's hand caressing your face. The sun was the th e lement there, though . I didn't know what time it was, but it must have been around seven o'clock, for the sun was sti ll not very high in the sky . It li ghted the dry desert bushes a nd the birds seemed to p lay with it , flying back and forth before us, sometimes chasing each other. I looked around me for the inevitable jackrabbits, like raw strength , set ta against the pearl blue sky seemed to void the memory of the stupid st kind of li ving I was used to. There could be no point to the rat race out st there; its only function was to push itself along and a long hj Some ants came .Jround us and we stood to walk slowly back to the p house . I asked Decker casually, "Why didn't you help your family?" H e stopped, not changing ex­ A pressions, to think a minute. I turned around to face him . He was slow tc in answering and took a few steps and leaned over for some stones a1 and lobbed them, then came back and looked quietly at me through his all but shut eyes. " Do you love anyone, Art?" he asked. I was determined to fo llow his logic and thought of my ex-wife. "Yes," I said. He nodded. " Do you love the m so much that you would do whatever they fi, asked?" I thought of the divorce. ~~ Yea. " "I do too. " he said watching me. I stared at him dumbly. I didn 't get it. "Why didn't you save them then?" I asked and he snorted and looked away and wouldn't say a nymore. I just stood there a moment. Was that it? Was that his answer? I left him standing a lone and went fc back up the house. Why wouldn't he just come o ut a nd say it? d Whatever it was. I hated riddles, and I despised being angry again. I sat on the step in the sunlight and took some deep, determined breaths. Decker came up after ten minutes. I actually smil ed at him a nd I remember saying something lik e, " Boy, God sure has made a h beautiful morning." A nd he stopped and nodded his head. "God is a beautiful morning," he quipped and went in the door. tc That was a nice way of putting it I thought, and then it hit me. What he tv was doing in the desert like that. The talk about love . God was the one n he loved. I ran in after him. T "You fool ," I shouted. "God loved your wife and son. " He turned 0 56 halfway across the room. He lowered his head in the first display of sorrow I'd seen him show over his loss. "I love them ," he croaked. "Why then?" I asked. But he turned and went to the kitchen which opened off the big li ving room, and began washing and peeling potatoes at the sink. I was confused and angered and speechless again, and sat down on the edge of the sofa. The girls appeared in their robes from the bedrooms at the same time . "What's going on?" Laura asked. Neither Decker nor I spo ke. It was awkward for them. Jean led Laura to her room and closed the door behind them. I hated him. Not for what he stood for , which was some kind of fan ­ tasy messiah , but for his stoicism. He was there with his back to me , standin g over the kitchen sink peeling his potatoes lik e a robot, while I struggled with his nonsense. I had a wil d urge to run over and knock him down. He was lik e a spoiled , intolerable child and I so wanted to punish him , to get even, to teach him respect. He loved his family? Bullshit. He loved God? Bullshit again. Anyone who loves has courage . That was it , then . That was the bot­ tom lin e on him , I decided. I was through with him , I thought in great anger. "!. .. ah," he made a sound from his sink. H e hung his head through outstretched arms, as he leaned on the counter. "There's some caves and a rock formation a couple miles down Paradise Road. I think you'lllike them. " "How do you know what I like? Why did you let them d ie without a fight?" "I gave it everything I had , Langley. But THAT wasn't meant to be." " He paused , and then continued, "You like the desert, you'll like the place I'm telling you about. Jean and Laura can find a place to relax if they don't want to climb. " "Why are you alive now if you tried to save them?" "I wonder about it a hundred times a day. " H is voice raised. His face was tight and red. "Why was I spared to have to face this constant doubt?" "You're bitter. " "Not bitter, tired. " "You think they're unfair questions?" I asked. He snorted through his nose and didn't answer. "Why did you invite us out here?" I asked. "I liked you. It seemed we might be fri ends," he sighed. "You're tough and you don't pretend to be anything other than what you are . Maybe I thought you cared a little more for the truth than the average man seems to" H e flattered me, and I suddenly felt it was ill -placed That I cared more about the truth was exactly my own superior opinion of myself . But when he said that, I stopped believing it. 57 "You're hard up for friends, eh?" I said, rubbing a hot coal into his face. He breathed wearily again. "Yea. I guess so. " He moaned, and I sensed he might open-up then , that is , break. "How did it happen?" "Like it said in the papers." "I don't believe that." "Do you disbelieve what you write also?" "Not at all. I don't write unless I believe it. But tell me, did you really get down on your kn ees, with your famil y laying about bloodied and slain , and say the Our Father? That's what the reports said, and that you pleaded with the killers to join in with you. A story like that," I paused for emphasis, "has got to pass me a couple different ways before 1 start considering its truth. And then it's suspect." Decker, his shirt sleeves rolled up, had been half sitting, half leaning off a wooden stool. He stood up then , slowly. His eyes were sunken deep into their sockets and his forehead seemed to bulge out in red, about to burst. He turned slowly to the sink, to his potatoes. "If you don't believe the papers, you don't believe the truth ." "Oh, sure, I believe that you were on your knees all right. But I don't think you meant the prayers. Anyone who would pray instead of fight is either a coward, or a fool , or an idiot. " He shuddered. I could see it from the cough. He seemed to shrink and I felt that I had him. What could he do at that moment but confess his cowardess. That's all I wanted. As I watched him hang his head, my story unfolded out in front of my eyes. The word EXCLUSIVE was branded in my brain and I began going over the lead. ''I'd quote that biblical passage, the one that said something like , 'that which is hidden and concealed away will be on display for all to see,' and also, 'that which is lost has been found. ' I'd use the cult's quote about Decker being the first christian since Christ, for tension and a bit of counterplay, so that, by the conclusion, I'd be able to bang the door shut on the De ric Decker story. I was ecstatic at that point. · Decker seemed to be waivering at the counter. He was going to lay it all open , I could feel it. It was lik e fishing. I had him on the hook. All I had to do was give him some line and yank at the right time. The screen door banged. Decker had gone out the back and taken the line. I followed after him. This was what I'd come to California for. The trip to Frisco would pay off. and the uglin ess of the whole subject would bring forth its fruit , however bad . I thought of the news business lik e that. It was thought to be glamorous stuff, but most times it was worse than being a cop. You had to cover all the bizarre happenings of an age and meet all the discredits of humanity. I always used to credit myself a nd the others for keeping o ur sanity . He hadn't gone far . He was sitting on a small boulder near the base 58 of the hill , behind the house some fifty feet. "Well , Deric?" I said to him as I stood by. He snorted through his nose again, and shook his head. There was a cruel little smile on his face and I stood there, waiting. He looked strangely at me as though he would say it , but then walked away. He was taking too much line. "You won't answer?" I called. "What are you going to say for your­ self?" He ambled slowly, hands in pockets, around the house, which was bathed in the early desert sunlight. He'd gotten away.

Charlotte A. Hoyt

Argument

Summer fires raged, then there were stumps. I gazed momentarily at death only to remember the green .

59 Carol Stager

Why Do You Ask?

S hall ! say that afternoons sprout legs and back into m orning? Or that nights fold lik e accordians and puff your song? Shall! prete nd that violets hustl e the river?

Shall! say that red ghosts in the corner are cabbages? Or that there is a snag in th e sky we crawl through? S hall! mark which cloud began th e rain?

What do you want to hear? That we came up a third time?

60 Hart Schulz

Absurd for Gary Snyder

These birds whistle like Wilson Pickett Why don't you put toge ther a Damn book The trees are still keeping Promises

Call it A TASTE OF ABSURD Why don't you have normal Clothes Gary (j eans, blue shirt)

They'll read it in L.A. And that river is Best fri ends

With another hill (late September)

61 Hart Schulz

Those Hippies Up at Brookings

Oregon or California the old argument a lways settled with lovemaking hard thrusts on hardwood while others dance

There's a small cafe where some of us wash dishes for a few bucks, others sti ll pan for gold, do all right and th e vegetables just grow the mselves

There's a good river here with good fish and the women and children are good with their hands there's an old surfer among us must be thirty-five or forty

Braves the cold water at Brookings Reef sometimes you can hear distant hoots through morning fog

62 Bob Tomlinson this morning's ghost

on the envelope my name in ink is written your name in lead who is coming who is going memory turns your lips into stains my yearnings to rust

shadows lean inside a tunnel that never ends neon breaths guide our motion check our intention as body air coats our windows with frost

images of infinty reverberate through careful edges placed and patterned duplicity triumphs ignition ignored

sparks round another corner as the harp sings under the flags of fluid hands words have become a small drift for the lies that eyes tell

63 there is a butterfly that lives in the sea with underwater wings of orange and blue there is a dream that comes from the heart both fly through uncertain ski es both reign from the legacy of loving you

the matches a ll lit and charred are turned to the box that says STRIKE ANYWHERE in side another soft re treat I ma rve l at how even the ocean has the odor of fir e this mornings ghost

64 Bob Tomlinson

night prisms for Peter Levitt

the world submerges my dreams in fear and chaos the a ve nues are too full of cha nging ve hicles at night I run to where I canno t be fo und in the m orning I seek the spot where children are sin ging their voices are like silent d eer running thro ugh the wo unded forest and I have left my civili zati on and I have buried m y gun in a p lace with o ut markings and I w ho has starved his odo rs ha ve come to inhale the secre ti o n of decay and I who has fo und hi s sword watches the glitter of primord ial li ght at dawn fli cker off the edges of thi s blade of truth slash-sh-sh slash-sh-sh slash-sh-sh

65 waves of sound are fa llin g thro ugh m y veins into the forest shadows are sli ced by roaming visions the rhythmn of my moti o ns is the bl a nket that protects my soul it is wo ven fr o m the pieces of m y m ask shattered and the timeless molder where frost a nd heat have e mbraced where innocence a nd terror: are fr a mework to survival are ether to essence

night prisms fo r Peter Levitt

66 Della Farren

The Swing

I close my eyes and see you dangling fr om the swing in ringlets upside down.

Your toes, like sails , pull your body toward the sky. Then leaning back into the wind your legs hug the air.

Down you come with knuckles showing on the chain. Be careful lumps into my throat, perched and ready to snowball down my tongue. But then you giggle at the tickle in your stomach:

Your smile spreads itself across my face.

I open my eyes. The swing is older now and you are gone.

67 Della Farren

The Final Season

S he woke to the cold of a utumn the n quickl y d ressed. S he p assed thro ugh the ha ll whe re the fa mil y p o rtra its hung: the one of Ginny smiled back a t he r. he r baby tho ugh forty now a nd fa r a way.

Reaching the hearth she placed a log on the fir e d isturbing he r dog asleep in hi s favorite place Looki ng up he yawned a nd stre tched S he touched hi s tired face the n turned away.

Cold lay heavy in the ho use chill ing the sil e nce.

T he grass o utside looked less green tha n yeste rday beneath its coat of fr eshl y fa ll e n leaves.

68 Della Farren

Desert Fruit

The desert sun is hot. A palm tree sags nearby heavy with fruit. It waits for relief from its tin y offspring doted on by the sun.

Flower clusters grow to tin y dates. hard a nd green a t first. Fanned by the wind with the palm's fr onds, aided by the sun. they speed toward maturity.

I watched fr om my lo unge unbothered . plump, brown. a nd ripe.

69 Joe Nardoni

The Hanged Man

I still have the scar. It's on my leg; I usua ll y see it only when I shower. It aches though some times. And I ache whe never I think of Jim. I a lso ache whe n I think of Judy. Da mn he r. Time is supposed to heal a ll wounds but it doesn't heal a scar. Like the scar, Judy sometimes pops into my mind lik e an un­ welcome jack-in -the-box. It's hard to forget a ll that furious necking in darke n ed theate rs during the first year away at school. Tha t kin d of me mory is passing away into a dull ache, best left alone . But the memory of Jim fo ll ows me every day. H e had a shadowy, dark . Apache face, with flat cheeks a nd black Indian eyes that looked lik e the eyes fr om a fa ce in a Ta ro t card. H e wouldn't be easy to forget o nce you saw him , even if you didn't know him . I thought I knew him . We were kids, the cream of the crop, picked to go to Tech , one of the better schools for budding technical genius . But I found Tech to be an oven I got stuck in. The heat got turned up so fast my brain could n't cook fa st enough to keep up wi th the grades. Jim wasn't lik e that; he was cool. It wasn't Tech that burned Jim . It was Judy. Of course, she did that to both of us ... sucked us dry and the n blew us away li ke dead leaves. Things moved too fast at Tech in the pressure cooker to have time for a fast, bad girlfriend. By the time I got to my first m id-term Judy was done with me, a nd I though I was done with Tech a nd my drive to beli ve in math a nd scie nce. I just d id n't want to drop o ut yet. I didn't want to betray my parents e ither. Most "good kids" don't want to do that. I was determined to come home with my shie ld or on it. Jim tutored me in multivariable a nd othe r esoterica. H e was a good teacher, even while I was failing. I never felt my mistakes were caused by a brain defect whe n we studied together. I knew in my heart that I was a lready breaking away fr o m Tech. but I'd go to see him a nyway. to build my confidence. He made me feel warm and protected. It was like meeting a cousin in another city. I was such a kid. But I didn't feel like a kid lyin g in bed a week after it happened. My skin was too dark against the pure, light blue of the sheets. I lay there with a dull , sapping ache. Judy had call ed, but I couldn't talk to her again. It was too late. 70 Jim and Tom and Judy. With Jim in the middle, we were like one of those pendulum toys. Jim was the middle ball in the perpetual motion that swayed and stopped and finally cracked. I never would have expected someone like Jim to crack, or to be the middle ball, for that matter. He handled so many things so well , but not Judy. It was a surprise. If only I had told him, if only I would have been able to tell him that I loved him ... Well , I remember the first night. It was late at night, but there was still a light on in his room. Lights in the dorms were always too dim. "I need help with math," I said , by way of introduction. "Sure, my roommate's asleep. Let's go to the lounge ." We studied until early morning, when his eyes were red and sunken, but still alert. He never asked for anything, much less thanks. He explained things to me as if I were a child , but he didn't con­ descend . He made me feel lik e I knew what I was doing. Even after I failed the test, he wasn't mad. When I told him about the test, his dark eyes dropped and the corner of his mouth twitched. "Damn," he said . "Well , never mind. We'll get them the next time. " "Sorry. " "It's all right. We'll do it next time. Really. " We studied every night until the next test. I closed rny book and looked at him . He stared at the floor. "You know, I'm not going to make it." "You'll make it a ll right. You're normal and healthy. I'm the one who needs help. I've got to get out of here. It's suffocating." Jim padded silently from the lounge in his quiet Indian way. I followed him into the cold January night, pulling my collar up around my cheeks. I'd never seen him shaken before. There was no way of knowing Judy had made him into this strange unfamiliar Jim that I hadn't seen before. I knew she had been with him but I didn't know that she got to him . I didn't know Jim could be gotten to. With his ten­ nis shoes squelching on the wet turf, he loped quickly to his upstairs room . I sensed that he wanted to be alone. But I knew I had to follow him . "You don't want to watch this," ,he told me, sull enly, as he rum­ maged through his mountaineering equipment. "Have you ever seen someone hang himself? I hear it's a shattering experience. " "Yeah. So is crushed ice," I said, lamely. This wasn't the Jim knew. I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder. "Come on. Let's talk. Let me help. You've helped me enough." "You can help me best by leaving me alone. I know what I'm doing." He threw the carabiner, nuts, pitons and his safety helmet into a pile. From a m;lon sack he pulled a large coil of red and blue rope. 71 Then he changed his mind and picked up a skein of ordinary nylon rope . He took hi s Buck knife fr om his belt sheath and measured a length of rope . Silence roared in my ears. Part of m e fe lt lik e I should run. But the other part of me wanted to reach out and touch him in a basic and frightening way. I didn't think I could do that. I wanted him to touch me. " Do you mind if I play a record?" "You can do anything you want," he said , going on with his preparations. I picked his favorite Led Zeppelin album from the rack, put it on and sat on his small bed. He rubbed wax on the rope . It was like a ritual; he was absorbed, almost unaware of my presence. "Why Jim? Why are you doing that?" "To make the rope slide easier," he said, absently. "Nylon rope doesn't need wax to make it slid e easier." "Oh. That'sright. " He set the wax on his desk and made a loop in the rope's end, fashioning a hangman's knot. He wound the thirteen turns and tied it off at the end. "Neat. Did you learn that in the Boy Scouts?" "I have my talents. I learned lots of things before I came to Tech . I learned how to be alone." He fingered the knot, slid it up and down the rope's length, shrinking and loosening the knot rhythmically. "Jim , cut the nonsense. Keeping it inside is no good. " I wanted to hug him, hold him in my arms until his pain went away. But I was afraid he would push me away and call me a faggot. He needed help and somehow I felt I wasn't carrying my share of the load. I shouldn't have held back. He fingered the noose. His throat constricted as if he imagined the noose crushing hi s windpipe, cutting off his air. For a second he stop­ ped breathing. Then he shook himself and stuck hi s right index finger into the noose and pulled the rope tight with his free hand . His chest heaved and his throat muscles rippled convulsively. He jerked the rope taut around his finger and pulled hard. "Jiml Don'tl" He sat down with a groan and stared at his dislocated finger. I edged toward the door but he jumped out of the chair and grabbed hi s knife. "Get away from the door Tom boy." His close breath smell ed faintly of spearmint and grass. He was in pain, but his knife hand was steady. "Jim, for Christ's sake, what's going on?" ''I'm no asshole. You were trying to get away so you could call the police and get me arrested before I could do it. You didn't believe I 72 could do it . I didn't believe so either until I did this ," he said , holding his twisted finger up for inspection. "Now that you know I can do it , you're going to have the privilege of watching. Get over there." He waved me into a chair with his knife. He was in control. There were rivers in him so deep I had never seen them. I had to try to gain control. I tried to be subtle. "Jim , why do you want to do this?" "Because I want to see what being dead is like ." "Don't you know? They've had accounts from people who were dead and brought back on the operating table?" "Yeah. I heard it was very pleasant. What are you trying to do, stall me.?" He made me help him jam his finger back in place. I pulled the finger up and over and around the knuckle. It jammed into place with a crack and he groaned. I knew he was too fast to get the knife away from him. "There. Good as new." "Yeah, but not for long. Go sit. Turn around and put your hands behind your back." "Don't tie me Jim. I won't be able to help you." I kicked at him as he tied me. He caught my leg easily then thrust the blade at my chest. It dug in and I watched the red spot grow. "Try to stop me again and I'll lay your guts out on the fl oor." He stuck the knife in his belt and finished tying my legs and arms. I cursed as I heard the lyrics from the stereo. " ... Slack your rope awhile , think I've seen my sweetheart rid in ' many a mile." I knew he was listening to the words and it made my stomach churn. He built his gallows carefully. He stood on a chair and pried a hole in the acoustic tile ceiling . White dust speckled my face . "Judy broke off with me," he said. "That's no surprise. She does that with everyone." "I should never have told her I loved her. " "If I'd known I could have told you. She doesn't care for anyone that way." His voice sounded its quiet Indian boy anguish. "Here I am, out on a limb. I didn't know what to do! Who could te ll me or show me what to do with a girl? What was she gonna do when she found out I didn't know the right things to do?" I felt helpless, like the time I tried to help my littl e brother. The big kids were bullying him. But he didn't want my help. He had to fight his own battle. He shoved me away. It would be so easy to say the wrong thing to Jim. The day my brother came home with his face bloody, mom accused me of not helpinq him , not loving him. I didn't want 73 that to happen with Jim. "Jim , don't punish yourself. You don't start out experienced. Everybody's vulnerable. Some just try to hide it. Count yourself lucky if the girl knows what she's doing. She'll help you." "Yeah , that's easy to say. What do you do when she just walks away?" He fondled the knife. I had to keep him talking. "Then she's not worth your time." "What if I love her?' "She's not so holy. She's not everything. You've got to figure out what she's reall y worth. Forget Judy. Try to find someone else. The world's not going to end." "She's gone, man. I feel like an addict. I need her so much that work isn't fun anymore. I fail ed three finals because of her. Why did this have to happen? It's ... it's so ridiculous." "No one ever falls in love without learning about breaking up, Jim. There aren't any ridiculous relationships. She broke off with me and I found out it wasn't right." "That's easy for you to say. You've got experience.. " "Experience just makes things easier to understand." "Shit. What do you know, anyway?" He was mad and sad at the same time . He was e mbarrassed because he never made it with her. I tried to tell him Judy never made it with anyone. I told her she was just a bright kid who took sex seriously . He just got angrier. "She used me . The bitch!" "Maybe she just liked you." "Bull shit! She knew she used me. She played with my feelings. She made me feel like an ass. Goddamn it, I hate her! I feel like an asshole." "Everybody makes mistakes. Everybody's been an asshole once, Jim." "Oh yeah? Well, fuck you, asshole!" Then he cut me. He sli ced through my jeans, into my left thigh. He stood, shaking, confused, poised to strike again. I felt like the Dutch boy, watching the crack in the dike widen .

The pain came in a dull , pulsing throb, laced with sharp stabs every time I tried to move. Jim untied my leg and ripped my jeans open . "Shit, Tom. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ... " I shook from shock and loss of blood. He ran for gauze from the medicine cabinet. He poured some scotch on a towel and swabbed the gash. My eyes rolled up into my head with pain. "Tom, I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me." 74 "You're sorry," I grated between breaths. "Another ha lf in ch and I'd bleed to death ." "Tom, be li eve me. I didn't mean to . Believe me. I didn't mean it . All of a sudden , I was just so mad ." ~' I see." "Do you, really?" 'Sure. I was easier to hit while I was tied to your fucking chair ." "I couldn't have handled killing you." "No. Of course you couldn't have. Then you would have seen what you are . You're dangerous Jim . You're so caught up in fucking theory you don't know how to love someone . "You never loved Judy. You just had the hots for her. You just wanted to lay her down and fuck her li ghts out. She was goin g to be your piece of ass. But she had other id eas and yo u couldn't handle it. As long as you get to be big teacher , it's a ll right. You're doing the manipulating then. I thought yo u were helpi ng me. But you were just practicing on me ." I was so mad I alm ost forgot I was ti ed . "You don't understand Tom. I've never been loved. " "Goddamn , you're pitiful. You got ·a special claim that everyone has to love you? A ll you need is one person . You've got at least one." "Te ll me who loves me ." "We ll , your pare nts do. " "Fuck my parents." I wanted to te ll him I loved him, but I he ld back because I was mad. And I was afraid he would call me a faggot. I couldn't explain it to him . He couldn't just understand for himself that I loved him unless I told him . I couldn't. And I couldn't forgive the pain and the ropes andthe lack of trust. " Da mn you . Go to hell , Jim." With a small dri ll , he dri ll ed a hole in the ceilin g and took the expan­ sion bolt from his pocket. He pounded it into the hole with a hammer. He attached the fr ee end of the noose to the bolt and slipped the loop over his head, cinching it tight. "So you're really going to do it. " "There's no other way." I had to try once more. First I told him people don't hang right with their shoes on. H e took the shoes off and wrinkled his toes. H e got back up again . I tried to find other words, the right words. I had to. "Why hang yourself? Why not commit ha ri -kiri?" "With a knife? It's too messy, too painiul. Besides it doesn't have dignity ." "I don't want to watch you hang yourself. " "The n close your eyes." "That would be too easy," I said. "Think of your parents? What's going to happen to them. How wi ll they feel?" 75 "They'll be ashamed. I was failing. I couldn't face them and te ll them I fail ed because of a gi rl. " Crazy people do crazy things. He wanted to hang wearing hi s clim ­ bing he lm et. He hesitated, climbed down and got the he lm et. He looked rugged wearing it. Then he climbed up again. "How does it look?" Jim had his hands on his hips. He looked rugged a ll right. "You know, you're using the wrong kind of rope. You can't hang yourself with nylon rope. It isn't done. Use hemp, or belts, or an old sheet." I just kept talking. I kept talking and talking as I grew dizzy fr om the loss of blood . If I talked long enough .. . He got tired of me a nd my en­ dless talk. He climbed down one more time and stuffed some medical gauze in my mouth. "Jim , you're not a failure. I for ... " I never finished what I had to say. I nearly choked on the dry, sterile cotton. He climbed back up, slipped the noose around his neck. He took a breath and jumped up and out. He turned a short reverse somersault, ending with a jolt that snapped his body straight. His bowels emptied and he swung back and forth , jerkin g , his feet kicking wildly. The kicking subsided to convulsive twitching. His jaw was slack and his tongue protruded , an odd shade of blue. He swung in an arc, the middle ball of the dying pendulum swing. His eyes pleaded but I couldn't do anything. I bounced my chair over to the bed and the chair toppled . My head struck the bedpost. I heard the thump as I hit the floor. I looked at Jim's swinging body and screamed the unsaid "I love you" as the blackness whooshed over me, shrinking my sight to a single point of light that winked out.

76 peter cashorali the california condor

w hen your lover is looking the other way he catches your eye and turns you his m assive back. he wants you to see how the line of white feathers and the lin e of black each runs out among the grey, shows you what a n ear looks lik e aft er every conceivable love-name.

77 Billy Collins

Dear Desperate

You will be skeptical when I take you aside and recommend a drive to Kennel Heaven or the local ASPCA mutt yard to buy a puppy.

You will tell me you are not some pouty schoolkid whose terrier just got snookered in front of the house by a Pontiac.

You will ask what possible consolation a dog could be to a man whose wife has walked out and left him at the bottom of the volcano.

And you will object that the thing will yelp and whine all night ruining the littl e sleep you manage to grab these days.

But here's my advice: just place a clock with a loud tick next to your new puppy's bed . It' s supposed to sound like the heartbeat of th e bitch.

78 Fran ces Wolf

Rumors And The Awful Truth

A t last night's party two m en talked of m e.

" Watch out for that silly bitch ," I heard one say , " There's a wom an in love w ith dead English p oets."

" Frankly ," sa id the other , " I hear it's J ohn K eats. "

N aturally , after storming ho m e, w hile halfway in the door , m y coat still on , I told John everything.

79 Frances Wolf

The Night Can Be Longer Than Even Your Grief

1.

Time's ti de is a graceless thing And I, tortured by these e nd less waves. do wish nothing m ore of the way in whi ch water cuts sto ne , creates a nd eats soft sand . loveless and formless in foaming- mad design.

2.

Once m y bed was a boat of dreams, m y dreams the kind, sad cry of water in waves a ro und the hope tha t knifes thro ugh tho ught. And kni ves in the heart. to ope n li ve love to tim e's ha rd tide of death.

3 .

And gri eving is a graceless thi ng. carri ed by the tide to the boom ing end. I gi ve over to dissolvin g dreams. I beco me sto ne , the heart having drowned . the knives m y hard , loveless tho ughts thro ugh nig ht.

80 Margaret Williams

Compline

God left behind his T-shirt when he moved out the other night.

He took his golden trumpet and his lig htning bolts, stepped into his winged shoes and fled.

When the curtains stopped whipping around and calm again descended on the room she rolled over and saw it forgotten behind the bed.

Sometimes she slips it on late at night, folds it around her murmuring incantations, and waits to fe el the earth shake one more time .

81