palaver e /p ‘læve r/ n. A talk, a discussion, a dialogue; (spec. in early use) a conference between African tribes-people and traders or travellers. v. To praise over-highly, flatter; to cajole. To persuade (a person) to do something; to talk (a person) out of or into something; to win (a per- son) over with palaver. To hold a colloquy or conference; to parley or converse with. © Palaver. Spring 2016 issue. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior written permission from Palaver. Rights to individual submissions remain the property of their authors. Graduate Liberal Studies Program University of North Carolina Wilmington 105 Bear Hall Wilmington, NC 28403 www.uncw.edu/gls Masthead | Spring 2016 Founding Editors Copy Chiefs Contributing Editors Sarah E. Bode John Dailey Dr. Josh Bell Ashley Elizabeth Hudson Mikkel Lysne Michelle Bliss Melissa Slaven-Warren Sarah E. Bode Executive Editor Dr. Theodore Burgh Patricia Turrisi Staff Lauren B. Evans Holli Terrell-Cavalluzi Dr. Carole Fink Editor-in-Chief Jonny Harris Courtney Johnson Ashley Elizabeth Hudson Travis Henry Katja Huru Linda McCormack Rebecca Lee Managing Editor Janay Moore Johannes Lichtman Erin Ball Dr. Marlon Moore Dr. Diana Pasulka Layout Editors Dr. Alex Porco Ashley Elizabeth Hudson Nick Rymer Erin Ball Dr. Michelle Scatton-Tessier Dr. Anthony Snider Layout Assistant Erin Sroka Gabe Reich Dr. Patricia Turrisi Cover Art: “The Indistinct Notion of an Object Trajectory” by Ryota Matsumoto Back Cover Art: “Surviving in the Multidimensional Space of Cognitive Dissonance” by Ryota Matsumoto Thank you to the Graduate Liberal Studies Program at UNCW for letting us call you home. Palaver staff, thank you for the many discussions, hours of careful attention to edits, and the tireless push for resources and pub- licity. Palaver could not thrive without your dedication and enthusiasm. Erin Ball, your supportiveness and vi- sionary approach to your job is incredibly humbling. Thank you especially to our submitters, contributors, and readership for your loyalty and for trusting us with your extraordinary work. Without you, we’d be an idea, an abstraction, a what-if, but because of you we are Palaver. Note From the Editor | Ashley Elizabeth Hudson Dear Reader, You might need to shield your eyes because this issue of Palaver is searing-bright. Spring has sprung, and Palaver is feeling its vibes. This issue seems to burst with fructification. There’s a cacoph- ony of neon in the works of Ryota Matsumoto and Ronald C. Walker, featured throughout the issue. Equally scintillating is the writing of poets B. B. P. Hosmillo and Sean Mulroy, whose afterimages linger long after turning the page. So goes for the wildly mirrored collages of Bill Wolak and the star- tlingly appropriate-yet-absurd juxtapositions of Ellen Mueller’s collages featuring historical imagery and contemporary newspaper clippings. Rita Mookerjee introduces readers to the spoken word poetry of the performance duo Darkmatter in a timely academic piece that also explores certain intricacies of queer and racial issues. Ames Haw- kins’ personal essay explores parental relations in the face of a health crisis, while Michael Levan’s poems haunt with their bridge of spousal love, clinical diction, and fear of loss. And Eugene Sun Park confronts prescriptive reactions in the face of emergencies with his film Resolve To Be Ready, a haunt- ing piece of performance art. I love how the pieces that make up this Spring 2016 issue of Palaver refuse to be restrained, even right down to Derick Smith’s spilled paint. There’s a theme of perseverance running through these pages, which feels just right for a springtime read. We hope you bloom over the works here, too. Table of Contents | Spring 2016 In the Boy’s Room 7 Discipline & Pleasure Between Ann Stewart McBee the Sheets: Queering Academic Discourse 40 Dehydration 11 Flint Discharge 12 Home Health 13 oneiromancy 46 Notes (TPN) 14 I hit my head so hard, Prayer 15 the words fell out 47 Michael Levan kursk 48 Sean Patrick Mulroy Plaza San Miguel, Madrid 17 Ye Olde Whatever Shoppe 18 We are Here to Resist Your Orientalist Rugbeaters 19 Gaze: Examining the Corrective Queer Cutting Table 20 Poetics of Darkmatter’s Spoken Word Holly Iglesias Poetry 49 Rita Mookerjee Resolve To Be Ready 21 Eugene Sun Park Optical Counterpoints Attributed to Surface Topography in Of Ourselves We are Estranged 23 Clustered Forests 62 Dices of Sadness Rolling Ryota Matsumoto All the Time 32 A Certain Sense of Kindness 34 Calling Skies 63 Suicide is Next to You 36 Olivia Lu But Do Not Fear Your Hands 38 B.B.P. Hosmillo Table of Contents | Spring 2016 different frequencies 64 Lett(er)ing Love 90 Tyler Atwood Ames Hawkins Roommates 66 Shame Parts 99 Jessica Barksdale Haechang Sun Rituals 76 Lover and the Pale Fire of Time 102 Tracy Harris Emily J. Cousins It matters less what I said than how you read it 89 Emily O’Neill “Runners 1” by Ellen Mueller “Runners 5” by Ellen Mueller In the Boy’s Room | Ann Stewart McBee ever mind how she got into the house. It’s none of your business. She’s in the boy’s basement room, far enough away that water running upstairs sounds like the band practicing outside Nschool. It’s darker than a manatee’s twat in the boy’s room. She smells masturbation and mud. She almost dies tripping over piles of manga books with big titties all over the covers. Undone homework covered with scary doodles of Cthulu or Pumpkinhead or other geek fests. Cheese-filled scripts for TV movies no one wants to watch except bored housewives and old ladies who wear too many rings. She takes out a half-full can of Coke and a box of tissues before she can get to the lamp. The room alights and suddenly she’s surrounded by balls. Baseballs on the sheets. Soccer balls on the walls. The lamp is shaped like a damned football. In every boy’s room is every kind of ball in the world. In their upstairs room was an ultra-thick aubergine bedspread. She never had such a bedspread. Say what you will about The Cow, but his mother’s taste is bull’s eye. The boy would spend half the morning making sure that bedspread hung even on both sides. There were candles that smelled like black cherry and sea grass and lavender and fig. No balls. No stolen street signs piled like in a junk yard. The empty room was next door. You just walked through the closet. Now both rooms are empty. The closet is sealed off. The upstairs smells like drywall and paint. The candles never got burned. One wall of the boy’s room is just shelves of garbage. There’s a warped, lidless Batman lunchbox full of marbles. An old popcorn drum full of dusty baseball cards. A stuffed bear that won’t sit up and a Snoopy doll without a nose. A mess of video games and CDs with their jewel cases cracked and broken. His cross-country trophy is turned on its side so the little golden man at the top just looks like he’s tripping out. Maybe thinks he’s Jacob wrestling with the angel. If she could just empty the frame that has his pimply big-eyed face. His belly, tongue, fingers, teeth. Rubbing on the fly of his jeans. Rubbing his foot with hers. Friction. Doesn’t he remember steam- ing up the windows of The Cow’s car? Doesn’t he remember in the playhouse? When the bee crawled into the sleeping bag? Maybe he’s too much of a pussy. Maybe his mom is a whore. Or his dad is a queer. Or maybe crazy minds don’t re- member. Although, your mom remembers to be a whore. Yes, that’s what she’ll say. “Herd Everything” by Ronald C. Walker McBee | 7 In the closet she should find his secret roll. But it’s not in the garment bag where it’s supposed to be–the one where he keeps the tux he wore to his first movie premiere. She opens the candy bar box where he keeps his dope-phernalia. There’s a bottle of e-pills, but no roll. She finds a big shoe box full of porn. No cash there either. A garbage bag sits in the corner like a puddle. Inside is a tiny soccer jersey and shiny shorts. A tiny pair of blue Adidas that look just like the boy’s soc- cer cleats. A tiny football made of foam. A baby blanket covered in balls. She digs out the green bottle from the boot where she knew it would be. Takes a shot, feels the piney burn, squeezes out one tear. Opens the candy bar box “Dreamy” by Ronald C. Walker and the pill bottle. She pockets the pink crescents and bugs bunnies, backs out of that dark closet. That’s when she notices the scrapbook on the floor. The Cow bought it for them to keep memen- tos in for a future that only lasted five months. And what’s inside? Not the marriage license The Cow finally gave permission for. Not the ultrasound photo. The concert and movie tickets are not ones they went to together. More geeked- out devil and horror shit. The photos are all of him and his fat dyke “Should she burn friend who moved away. Hair like hay and a head like a pumpkin, so it? Flush it? Both.” they called her The Scarecrow.