Fast Food - The Gunnery

Transcription

Dedicated to Teddy Ebersol
An Independent, Genuine Verdict
in memory of Teddy Ebersol
I didn’t know Teddy well
but I knew Teddy well enough that
some words Emerson says somewhere
some words Ralph Waldo Emerson says somewhere
I’m sad I’ll never get to teach
Teddy about Ralph Waldo Emerson
somewhere he says these words
somewhere in Self-Reliance he says
the nonchalance of boys is the healthy attitude of
human nature
the healthy boy
independent, irresponsible, looking out from his corner
on such people and facts as pass by,
he tries and sentences them on their merits,
in the swift, summary way of boys, as good, bad, interesting,
silly, eloquent, troublesome
he gives an independent, genuine verdict
I’m sad I’ll never get to hear
Teddy’s independent, genuine verdict
as those who knew him well did get to hear
they heard
but I did like his nonchalance &
the verdict he passed
on Steinbrenner and the House that Ruth built
his independent, genuine verdict
and can imagine him
in a heaven that is like Concord, Mass a little
talking to
Ralph talking to Henry
in a New England heaven
1
but one night earlier this week it was
I woke up
with this image
I swear to god I did I woke up
and could see
a heaven that resembled a
felicitous Fenway Park and it was game seven
it is always game seven
in heaven
and Teddy was there Teddy
and Ted Williams
and some other greats and Giamatti was in the stands and it was
paradise
and Teddy was on the mound
I swear to god he was on the mound
and the batter
the barrel-chested batter with the funny skinny legs
he stood at the plate and pointed
and god in the bleachers out beside the green monster cheered
and the citgo sign in heaven beamed
and Teddy grinned
and Teddy said (there was a silence in heaven then
all the angels stopped drinking
ambrosia
and singing hosannas) he said
hey
Bambino hey Babe Ruth
you know the curse is lifted and
pitched
and the pitch when it left his hands
delivered
an independent, genuine verdict
I did not know Teddy well
John Alter
December 8, 2004
Washington, Connecticut
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ENGLISH JOURNAL #3
DECEMBER 2004
Frontispiece by Gwen den Breems
John Alter, An Independent, Genuine Verdict
in memory of Teddy Ebersol
BJ Daniels, Untitled………………………………………………………………….1
Two poems by Greta Murphy………………………………………………………..2
Jona Angjeli, What Am I?……………………………………………………………4
Ronnie Balceda, Gone……………………………………………………………….5
Young Jin Choi, Buddha…………………………………………………………….6
Illustration by Nick Pratt……………………………………………………………7
Allie Early, Mixed Feelings…………………………………………………………8
Ella Thompson, Who the Whisp’ring Water Calls………………………………….10
Ella Thompson, an elated moment………………………………………………….11
Perry Costello, Quick and brisk……………………………………………………...12
Perry Costello, Light as………………………………………………………………13
Lisa Zambero, Stretched out…………………………………………………………14
Kate Hadeka, Bending and folding……………………………………………….….15
Cory Usmail, Fast Food……………………………………………………………..16
Illustration by Emily Patnaude……………………………………………………….17
Charlie Knight, In my Shoes…………………………………………………………18
Dan Mattleman, Which one to choose?………………………………………………19
Kyle Roberts, Crush…………………………………………………………………..20
Found Object Series #6: Photograph of Peter Sellers by Bill Brandt………………..21
Kay Lane, The End……………………………………………………………………22
Two poems by David Smith…………………………………………………………..23
Jonathan Hartmann, Doctor Fun………………………………………………………24
Illustration by Juan Carlos Luttman…………………………………………………..25
Two poems by Stephen Roberts………………………………………………………26
Ashley Meyers, The Pythian………………………………………………………….27
Two poems by Stephen Roberts………………………………………………………28
Nate Elston, Reality of the Mind………………………………………………………30
Three poems by Dave Clough…………………………………………………………33
Jonathan Hartmann, A Taste of One’s Own Elixir…………………………………….35
Mark Wertheim, Waiting IV…………………………………………………………..46
Ella Thompson, Dreams………………………………………………………………47
Five poems by Nate Elston……………………………………………………………48
Greta Murphy, Ants……………………………………………………………………52
Three poems by Nick Pratt…………………………………………………………….53
Jess Abate, Ode to JRP…………………………………………………………………56
Young Jin Choi, An Uninvited Guest…………………………………………………..57
Illustration by Juan Carlos Luttman……………………………………………………59
Two Poems by Kuan-Hua Huang………………………………………………………62
Two poems by Katie Stones……………………………………………………………63
English Journal is an online journal that allows students and faculty to share creative writing and literary
critical work even as it is being revised, presented, and completed. The website, accessible through
GunnNet and through Outlook (Public Folders→All Public Folders→ClassNewsGroups), is dedicated to
enhancing interest in and discussion of writing among all members of The Gunnery community. The print
issues contain as much of the online journal as possible. The editors for 2004-2005 are John Alter, Nick
Benson, Young Jin Choi, and Joe Clapis. Our thanks for technical and material support go to: Eileen
Aguirre, Maggie Noel, Anna Kjellson, Cecilia Marshall, and the Community Service girls.
9 – 11 = -2
(BJ Daniels is the Gunnery’s Director of Information Technology. We are privileged to be
printing his first poem. To learn of how the author had his poetic license revoked back when he
was in grade school, see the English Journal entry for 9/25/03, printed in EJ #1.)
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English Journal #3 (December 2004)
The Keeper The moth, she flutters, over her gray stone graves,
To mourn the loss of those life did not save,
Those ancient age has crypted so,
Those mothy white seem iced as snow.
She gently glides o’er worn earthen tombs,
Holy dusted sheaths cast glisten silver as thrones.
She blankets them all, in safe restful sleep,
In peace, she protects, done in diligent fleet.
Then towards the lit lantern, the gray moth flickers,
Against the tightly-knit canvas of dark woven night.
She resembles white shimmer in wet droplets, dancing,
Trickling towards the warmth of the dimly lit lantern light.
Landing once briefly, while holding her pose,
She smoothes her white wings, angelic towards those,
To whom her task is too heavy for so frail a creature.
She ignores the claims of what a moth cannot be.
Along with the angel, as she looks forth towards dawn,
Marking notions of day light creeping over horizon,
Casting mist over mounds to turn, glistening, to dew,
To continue the shimmer one moth can’t renew.
And the moth, she is pleased at a night’s task well done,
As she flutters to land before the rising of the sun.
She settles on Lilies, the death flower grows!
The moth, the keeper, sleeps in hushed soft repose.
2
Unicorn's Fate
I'm sorry that I killed you, but unicorns can simply not be, and have never existed.
The universe would merely un-do itself, if they did, its being defied, rules bent and
twisted.
How would reason survive, if myths twirled true, yang slipping in, altering truths to false
proofs?
Where would the unicorn counterpart appear (or disappear)?
If fantasy became reality, the world would painfully bend its dimensions inside-out,
becoming a grotesque character in the cosmos.
So forget your roots of fantastical fame, biblical stories, and mystical stride.
Forget your precious tapestries, your majestic powers, and your unsubdued pride.
Put down your glistening horn of ivory white,
And bow down to the unsurpassed laws of the cosmos.
Give up your precious piece of power,
and succumb to the universal rules of life.
Now, as you gallop through untamed forest, silken mane, hardened hoof, remember never
to reveal your forehead, scarred.
You are a horse now, real, strong, and white,
striding, gliding in the moonlit night.
Bury your origins, consider your kind freed;
For this is all you are now, scarred and maimed,
and all your existence ever can be.
(Greta Murphy, 2005)
3
WHAT AM I?
I picked up a guy the other day, something which I don’t usually do, I would have to say.
His hair was gold; his eyes were too, usually I’m more into blue.
I walked by, saw him lying on the grass; I had found him at last.
He gave me the heads up, so I picked him up.
What a lucky day, I would have to say.
However I got to know him and the shine I saw before seemed to fade away,
and it did not seem like such a lucky day.
So I planned to toss him away, far far away.
Easier said than done I must admit.
A penny is as useless as a peach pit.
So next time you see him lying there,
Remember that nothing is as it appears.
(Jona Angjeli, 2005)
4
Gone
Away it slips,
like the wind through the trees,
my hope, replaced by sadness,
my last wisp of courage,
gone
taken,
by the empire without glory,
the man, without a head,
with one swift grasp,
gone
poisoned,
by the "heroes" he will never know
reduced to nothing,
and further below,
he walked straight into the white wall of death
alone, unaided,
gone.
(Ronnie Balceda, 2007)
5
Buddha
World spinning around me,
I came to a place I’ve never been before.
I met Buddha there, and asked him if he’d
Like to roll a blunt with me.
“Young man, do not be nervous,” said he.
“You have a bright future in front of you.
You are going to be famous, rich, and
Powerful, but there is still one thing
That you are going to be missing in your life –
Peace of Mind.
Young man, you should take care of your mind first;
And now, let us roll up a fat blunt, and bake up
This temple with the impalpable mist of
Deity, and I assure you, that you will then be able to
Discern why 2+2 must always equal 5.”
We sat down, and had a tête-à-tête.
Soon the world joined us, Jesus and Muhammad,
Confucius and Socrates, Emerson and Thoreau,
Marx and Gandhi, Ginsberg and Kerouac,
And nobody seemed to doubt
That we’re all brothers, in that moment, in that place.
(Youngjin Choi, 2005)
6
7
Mixed feelings
A stare?
What was it?
A Glare?
Or someone who plain doesn’t care?
Or a warm glance?
Was it this,
By chance?
Who knows…
I sure don’t.
But that’s the way it goes.
Was that touch really warm?
Or nothing to think on.
Sometimes we’re left really torn.
With mixed signals, I guess, is how we were born.
Is that face really full of feelings?
I know it’s dumb but Were those yours or mine?
Rotten banana peelings?
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Or roses left on the bush to thrive.
Compliment.
Did you mean it??
Promise.
Did you keep it?
Or are they as empty as before.
Is it time to shut the door?
Are you happy? Are you sad?
Just one time
Can’t you be frank?
Did you want to whine?
Don’t you want a little more Out of everyone’s minds?
Mine, at this point, is warped and worn.
With mixed feelings, I guess, is how we were born.
(Allie Early, 2007)
9
Who the Whisp’ring Water Calls
Who the whisp’ring water calls,
B’neath the lush and green-filled falls,
That cries out such a song so deep,
That my heart so dearly keeps.
The wind whistles through the trees,
The warmness of a summ’rs breeze,
The mem’ry of the winter’s cold,
Washed away by magic of old.
The sky a hazy, breezy blue,
Clouds taking shape, light shining through,
Streaking the sky in wisps and waves,
Forming pictures that the mind saves.
I can forget who I am right here,
Forget the pain, forget the tears,
I can go back to times of love,
And think of people gone above.
This place, this place, I love so well,
Safe haven for people to dwell,
To think of what their heart holds true,
Can rest here in this oasis too.
(Ella Thompson, 2006)
10
an elated moment…
then torn to shreds
despair envelops me,
overwhelming my head.
it is colder than ice,
blacker than night.
dark thoughts surround me,
swallowing all light.
I am lost in loneliness,
my hurt, no one sees.
I wander and wait
for someone to notice me.
do not underestimate
what I feel deprived of;
when nobody cares,
All you want is love.
(Ella Thompson, 2006)
11
Quick and brisk, it began
Separate and alone, we followed
Down the winding roads we stomped
Into the peaceful forest we weaved
Where the darkness shades us
And the roots of life break through the earth
Willingly we venture steadily upward
Toward the treacherous cliffs and soaring heights
Past the flowing rivers and connecting streams
A stop or two maybe, to listen
To gaze at the light passing through the trees
A glowing pattern on the forest floor
Dazed no more, we must press on
The end is not yet near
Rather, many steps forward are needed to march
A day away, why not ponder
Carrying questions and seeking answers
Now, wavering tides split the roads
The crisp air is thinning out
With a crystal haze over our daring ways
Surpassing it with one last gasp
A lovely site set upon a mountain side, embraced by the autumn wind
Light as porcelain, may I be lifted away?
Corruption must be following my path
Surprise, surprise, one stands so near
So divine, so deceitful, I will not be captured
Eyes turn and lips move to thrive and seduce
Songs of loveliness flow toward my ear
Yet I still hear nothing, and nothing I enjoy
I apologize; freedom has stolen my spirit only for today
(Perry Costello, 2006)
12
Light as a feather
I slowly drift into you
You look onto me
I remain silent
Intrigued by the gentle wind
Whispers clog my ear
Unspoken at first
Lifting me up into evening
Blackness upon gray
▫
LOVING THE CONTRAST UPON YOUR FACE
YOUR HAND MOVES THROUGH A FOREST OF SHADOW
ONLY TO FIND MY REFLECTION BENEATH YOU
▫
Small and delicate
A leaf weaves calmly through air
Beautiful, yet lost
Black stars and the moon
Unseen against the night sky
From a distance they hide
(Perry Costello, 2006)
13
Stretched out amongst the cold grey corridor
her hand searches for a place to rest;
a helping hand to pull her into safety.
She got so close and then collapsed,
as the final chapter was coming to an end;
the last words of a nightmare that she desperately fought to escape.
It was all going away, all disappearing into her true smile
until one realization took her back.
It crashed right into her, and took away all that she had;
settling down upon her soul,
showing her the truth that was always in the background,
never unknown.
Beauty was once a part of her,
but now as she lies in the shadows, she goes unnoticed;
never being looked at or seen as anything more than what she has become:
a failure, a mistake and a girl
who no longer has the strength to fight on…
▫
▫
▫
▫
And in writing her final chapter
there is so much pain left to be released.
Everything in her life dissolves into one second as her mind suffers
along with her heart, that only has one desire:
to be loved. But it only breaks with the foolish lines,
repeating over and over again.
She has killed herself with changes,
always trying to live a better life by hiding the secrets no one knows she has.
Burning in arrogance, she’s left only to dream of happiness
while she patiently waits to be saved by love or sanity.
Slowly giving up the fight, she smiles while silently praying to disappear
and become a ghost.
But for now,
she is chained down by misery,
hopelessly searching for the key to unlock the chains.
(Lisa Zambero, 2005)
14
Bending and folding
Conforming to fit with you
Reshaping my whole world
Meanwhile I’m drowning in this sea of confusion
Losing my grip
And sinking even farther down
The water is cold now
And although it’s not frozen from the salt
It’s just bitter and unpleasant
You will not recognize my heart anymore
The leaves have changed
And they are almost dead
Like my heart stained with blood
Almost as if my house is still ablaze
Yet the ashes and stains will always remain
(Kate Hadeka, 2005)
15
Fast Food
The bike is going down the road
It passes by McDonalds
The M
A
N walks inside
“I would like a number 7, can you supersize it.”
He EATS
P
O S
H
on his bike AND
takes off down the road
(Cory Usmail, 2005)
16
17
In my Shoes
Wake up, go to school.
Come home tired and angry
Repeat tomorrow.
In my Shoes II
School was way too hard,
I want to go to college?
Everyone agrees.
In my Shoes III
I want to study
and become a witch hunter.
School will be destroyed.
In my Shoes IV
What should be my job
for life? I have to learn this
in high school? Oh no.
In my Shoes V
I will just study,
and hope for the best I guess.
That’s what you did, right?
(Charlie Knight, 2005)
18
Which one to choose?
I have two dogs, both great dogs, both well trained and I think pretty well behaved. One
dog is old the other is young. Both are great and I love both equally, both though are very
different in their characteristics.
One is wise and aged and able to stand alone without me around for guidance, self
sufficient and confident, never wonders whether she is making a wrong decision always
moving forward and dealing with everything as it comes.
My other pooch is different in a way that I like equally well, young and energetic, less
experienced in life but still open to new things. Ready to set out on an adventure not sure
where it will take her, but stopping when something unfamiliar comes along and
questioning before acting.
I have a difficult decision to make now though both are great pooches but I have to try to
choose one and explain to the other why I let her go.
So hard, so many good qualities
Young or old
Experienced or amateur both are fun
Wise or naïve
My only solace in this whole decision comes when I realize neither one would know
whether I was with the other. So do I do the immoral thing and keep both or the moral
thing and get rid of one – keeping in mind that I don’t have a good argument or reason to
get rid of either one.
Which one do I choose?
(Dan Mattleman, 2005)
19
Crush
I woke up in the morning still drunk thinking, “what happened last night?” Did I play
beer pong or flip cup with her? Did I play beer drinking card games? Did I hit on other
girls? Did I pass out too early for anything to happen? I lay there thinking “What have I
done? The girl I have a crush on probably hates me now for getting a bit too belligerent.
I’ve been head over heels for this beautiful young woman for about two years, and to
leave myself in wonder if anything happened last night is absurd. How stupid and pitiful
can a human being be? Not one person I know would let their crush slip away in such a
matter of disgust. Regardless if she liked me or not, the fact of the matter is I could have
blown my chance with the one and only. This could be the last time I ever get a chance to
try and hook up with her, and I feel I blew it, just by having the thoughts I have at this
very moment. All these thoughts keep my brain pondering. Should I call her or just wait
and see what happens? Should I call a friend and see if they know what I did last night?
Or should I just go get more drunk and see if it all begins to come back to me? Thoughts
like these irritate my brain, and in fact I’m not sure if I banged her or not. This just leaves
me the most disappointed in myself. I just wish I knew what happened. I mean after all it
would be beneficial to remember. You know the night was fun when you’re still drunk
sitting in the morning sun. Should I call or should I wait?
(Kyle Roberts, 2005)
20
Peter Sellers, Elstree, 1963
Photograph by Bill Brandt
(Removed pending copyright permission)
21
The End
This is the end for me
It hurt so much no one could see
Many nights sleep did not come
I lay awake in bed
Thinking about what they said
Behind my back
No one defended me
I had it perfect you see
All planned out
In my mind not a doubt
No one seemed to care
If I was even there
It will be better this way
Without me to spoil their day
Just a couple of pills
Just to ease the pain
That makes me so ill
And when the sleep haunts my eyes
No one can hear my helpless cries
I want to live
I really do
When I awake
I am in a white room
I’m am here to face my inevitable doom
But I look up I see faces
Although I am sleepy
Their eyes all wet and weepy
My mom and dad
They were all I had
My guardian angels
(Kay Lane, 2008)
22
Time
Time, like the sky keeps slippin on by
In front of me, behind me
It wanders around, but cannot be found
Anywhere near
I’ve searched here and everywhere
And nothins found
Wait too long and I’ll miss the calm
Who can tell me what I’ve done wrong?
Country divided
Two countries divisible under god.
One is red, the other blue. Who’s to
blame? No one but ourselves.
(David Smith, 2007)
23
Doctor Fun
Towering buildings of
industries past
line the streets in gothic tone
Saddle shoes clap
against the pavement
polished in merriment
A grizzled hand reaches
into pocket
for swarming children
How Shoe-shine kit lays on the curb
inner depths now hold
tools of deceit
A balloon
put to lips
makes the children giggle
Mothers watch warily.
damp summer breeze
Laughs in the old man’s
face
(Jonathan Hartmann, 2008)
24
25
Now
now
LOVE
NOW fear
Where is SHE
Why is SHE
not
here?
I AM TOO lonely away from HER
SHE wants to
SHE won’t come so
I
miss
my
be
I
HERE…. NOW
am
LONELY
baby….
Hey you
Hey you with that thing in the sand
I want to run with you and be hand in hand
I want you too feel me near you and be there
To make you know my love and run fingers through hair
I want to know that you love me and feel it too
But all this talk has made me feel blue
Because you know not how far the sand lies
It runs far and it stays away from me
Hey you with that thing in the sand
I want to run with you and be hand in hand
(Stephen Roberts, 2006)
26
The Pythian priestess addresses Oedipus
If you would like to contradict me
I’m game
I can figure you out within 5 minutes of having a conversation
With you
I hunger to be an obstruction to your mind
and I thirst for you to
Figure me out.
Love. Lose. Learn
Three feelings every soul should feel
I don’t belong in your virus
Don’t hate what you see
Hate the truths you’ve always known
Admitting is the first step towards recovery
Once you’re there
The truths you deny to yourself
Won’t seem so harsh
Karma is a bitch
Justice will be served
Do the things you would want me to do
What goes around comes around
Figure that out
And this asphyxiating love
Will set you free
(Ashley Meyers, 2007)
27
Hello kitten
Hello there mister kitten
How are you doing today?
Do you know that there is war?
You don’t? But you’re happy anyway?
Did you know it’s knocking at our door?
You didn’t? How can you be happy knowing not
That our country is threatened every day
And foreign tempers are burninating hot
And die very soon we may
But I think there is no way
You could be living happy that way
Without knowing of any world pain
Oh wait that’s why you’re sane
28
My Paul
I have a friend Paul
he has a saddened spirit
And is twelve feet tall
He likes to run free
And he drinks himself silly
And then hits a tree
The reason he drinks
Is because his wife left him
She is dead methinks
So now his comfort
Lies in his bottle of drink
And leaves his heart short
I feel bad for him
But his drink makes him “happy”
So I don’t watch him
I don’t like my friends
Killing them with any drugs
So never do them
Yes it has moral
Just listen to my moral
don’t do any drugs
(Stephen Roberts, 2006)
29
Reality of the Mind
The Actual
The imaginary lines that tell
Stories bold and beautiful
Masterpiece of the tongue
Connected with the remembrance of the actual
Adding a new light
Combinational nostalgia
Was it real?
Could it have happened?
Interests for the reader
Grip the mind that urge
Connecting that unexplainable skill
Of knowing what is good for your soul
To those places and people
Plot teleportation
A scarlet letter real or false?
The mind will decide in time
The only matter for what they’ll do
Those people only known by name
Characters in our life?
No just a book. Fiction?
The pen of the master has got you
He’s created his marvelous trap
Secured your mind’s eye
And locked it in the place
Viewer of Hawthorne
Beginning in that cold ship house
Customary place for boredom
A secret treasure found
By chance something secret
Old scarlet letter
30
This tale is told in gasps
Building block clauses
But are the words true or story
The imaginary might meet
To greet to fiction
Set in motion
Creating a world
That exists in the creative
The imaginative wonderers
Viewing with a pleasure
Those people live within us
Hester so powerfully strong
And Dimsdale eaten alive by guilt
Their struggle
Their strive to be free
Lovely freedom love child
Pearl so cutely laughable
But all these traits
These personal allegiances
Exist in the actual
But are nothing you can show
To anyone else but you
Their lives secret for you at that time
The only witness of events
So it seems you are privileged
But it is nothing but pure gold imagination
Working at its best.
Imaginary imbued Reality
Glowing golden bright
Shining sunrise in Boston
Warming up my mind
31
Hawthorne greatly achieving creation
God of the fictional universe
Lives so complex for mere letters
The combination amazingly magnificently done
Psychologically astute and emotions drawn
So close to life and actual meaning
It taps on something deep
Some inner gong of affection
That draws your soul to that
Their minds unlike any others
Completely personal affair
And all of it
All of those people fact or fiction
Made from one mind one man
Achieving something divinely true
Imbued a soul with reality
Characters come to life
And a world so wonderfully worded
As to paint a pictured canvas for you and showing
What had to have been a life a land an existence
That the imagination is almost looked over
Wearing the mask of reality
So convincingly tricky and yet right
It could be taken as history un-noticed
And with reality tainted imagination
So real as to feel
The imagination is tinted with actually
Existence shaded between the dual
Dual worlds in the head
Created with skill
Exquisitely real with a dream
All in your head
All in your heart
All in the words…
(Nate Elston, 2006)
32
A turn in the works
Behind the silent teardrop melody
rowed the sound of machines
and it was green
then red
Connection
A butterfly perched on the edge of a dream
lost its wings today
in the hot sand
of a desert gas station
A nearby highway
closer to comprehension than one might think
shouted the lost promise of Jubilee
The sky took cover
and the clouds rolled in
we all sat down
looking for some direction
33
The reoccurring sound of a distant storm
Turn the knob and lock the door
They have eyes in the shadows
and sometimes the floor
The sun spins much too fast
and time has trouble keeping up
I see you
and I know there’s more
Lost in the never-ending fog
of your apparent reason
Make your stance or spin the cog
I used to wonder
between the lines
The where’s and up’s
the why’s and down’s
Falling through rain
Passing the night
I have the sound and you have the light
Stop!
Ten thousand lies
or a hundred goodbyes
marked the close of another day
So take the coin toss moon for all it’s worth
And make it a rhyme
at the cost of a dime
and remember the mirror spins both ways
(Dave Clough, 2005)
34
A TASTE OF ONE’S OWN ELIXIR
Mr. Bradley lives in the top of a clock tower upon Baskerville
Square. The clock tower has been since decommissioned, a
peculiar home for a man of his stature. Ivy crawls up the worn
sides in a groping manner, green fingers licking the second floor.
But of course Mr. Bradley hires someone once a year to trim the
weed. Or so he has dubbed it. The iron hands of the watch face
stand frozen at 10:24 against the pallid sky. The tower is clad
thoroughly in brick. It forms a pleasing interlaced effect. When it
rains the brick smells of the earth, a deep musty air that blackens
one’s lungs. The grey grout in between such bricks is slowly
wearing down. The ivy is ceasing to grow in these recent years.
Mr. Bradley has had several windows put in, even an elevator. Mr.
Bradley climbing stairs is a sight to behold. Here comes the
entrepreneur now. He waddles up the lane, gold watch peeking
out from behind his suit. His face bulges with every step, cheeks
flapping upon his heel’s contact with the cobbles. He pats down
the front of his suit; the buttons are always popping loose. In fact
he keeps a spare sewing kit in his handbag. The weathered bag
hangs limply at his side, jolting with every step. The bag reads
BRADLEY’S REMEDIES. He makes a fine living selling his
concoctions. He tramples the cobbled road asunder at the
35
approach of his tower. Tipping his hat to the ladies who react with
disdain, he waddles further into town. Now at the door of the
tower, he inserts his cane under his forearm, against his rather
bulging gut. The griffin head sparkles against the sunlight, bolted
into a bamboo shaft. He pulls a monstrous key ring out from an
even larger pocket. Two keys lie on the tarnished ring, one he
takes and wedges into the lock on the door. Mumbles to himself,
“tea time, what waste…Mother Mary I’m hungry.” Upon entering
the tower he ravenously unzips his case. A bottle of “medicine”
shines under the kerosene lighting. Now more relaxed he fishes a
shot glass out from his coat pocket. The foul brown liquid
splashes into the dirty cup. His nose turns red again, with the first
two shots.
“Warms me ‘art” he replies articulately to the half empty bottle.
“But doesn’t satisfy me hunger!” The bottle slowly dwindles until
the thin drink empties to one third the bottle. Half diluted himself,
Mr. Bradley mumbles:
“Time I made more medicine!” He waddles over to a queer
looking hutch in the corner of the room. Hand carved walnut with
gold leaf inlays. His bulging eyes peer through the grate, followed
by a bulbous nose, reddened by years of abuse. He inserts the
other, more intricate key into the tin lock. The hutch falls open and
inside a menagerie of liquors, spices, seasonings, chemicals and
36
syrups unfolds. Upon the right door lies a large keg of carbonated
water. A small tap peers from underneath the keg. He puts his
obese hand upon it, and the fizz spills forth into several glass
bottles. The bottles are filled until their halfway mark is achieved.
He grasps a keg from the inner depths of the hutch.
“Make a strong batch for the week I will…Maybe after lunchtime,
no, we need more medicine.”
Bradley’s remedies
He sticks a label upon each
Warms the Heart
CURES IT ALL!
jar.
Cures illness of mind, soul, liver,
spleen,
“This item was
skin, appendix, stomach, ear,
definitely overpriced” he
fussy children, sleepless babies,
arthritis,
mutters happily to himself
bones, and weather based illnesses.
while placing a jar under a
Made from premium imported
mixer with a hand powered
ingredients.
crank. He grasps the small
handle in his cleaver-like hand. It is lost in the mass of his paw.
Dimples appear where his knuckles should be, as he cranks this
handle of deceit. Cranking vigorously, a large pouch drops to the
floor from within the hulking mass of his being. Hundreds of
shillings spill out of the pouch: Bradley’s moneybag.
37
“Wouldn’t want to lose today’s profits, would we now?”
Bradley grumbled.
“That old man took quite some convincing, didn’t he? I
wonder if he’s still kicking. Oh well, it’s nearing lunchtime any way.
What say we head on down to Brutus’s?” He tucks his oversized
pocket watch under his jacket and waddles through the front door.
“I wish I always had more food than what I could ever eat.” He
approaches the exit without forgetting to pack a few more bottles
of medicine.
Bradley waddles down the lane, with his pouch of shillings
bouncing in synchronization with his gut. He stops in front of the
grocery gazing at the produce, the bounty of the land. His eyes
lick the stand with envy.
“If I was a grocer I could eat whatever I wanted, whenever I
wanted! In fact, we’ll need more than seventy shillings for today’s
lunch, let’s sell some medicine to the grocer, eh?” With that,
Bradley meanders into the corner market where the grocer sits
behind the counter, contentedly thumbing through the farmer’s
almanac. Mr. Bradley pops his rosy face through the door, and the
grocer starts.
“Bob, we don’t want no blooming’ medicines today.”
“I bet you’s feelin’ a bit scruffy this morning, Buff, howsabout yous just try some medicine?” retorts Bradley.
38
“I don’t want none of your death brews. You know Mrs.
Cunningham’s baby passed forty five minutes after taking your
filthy medicines.”
“That’s a shame; she didn’t give it the right dosage, only a
swig fer’ the little ones, you know. Speakin’ of eatables, let’s say
you fork over one of those jerky sticks for this here bottle of
medicine,” Bradley insinuates, forgetting his need of some extra
shillings.
“I said I don’t want none of your queer brews, too strong for
me! Much less anyones’ else in this earth,” continues the grocer.
“Ah, ah, er,” sputters Bradley. “Made them light this week, I
have!”
“It better be light, otherwise next time I’ll alert the constable
for ill-lawful sales a strong drink!” scoffs the grocer, handing over
the jerky stick. Mr. Bradley sits the bottle of rather potent medicine
upon the counter. His paw uncurls from around the neck, leaving
a sweat stain of greed upon the bottle. He rips off the paper from
around the jerky and inhales the salted beef. The jerky is lost in
his hands as soon as it leaves the paper.
“Never have enough food, do we? Still it is lunchtime and
Brutus’s is still a hundred meters away. So long, grocer!”
Gnawing on a bit of jerky stuck between his gum and
cheek, he passes by a group of ladies to whom he tips his hat.
39
Saddle shoes adorn his camel feet; they clap upon the sidewalk.
With each clap, the ladies become more disgusted. They turn
away, and try not to look at his hideous unshaven face. A small
pub emerges from within the depths of the blighted street. Powers
of industry soar high above the area. Smokestacks blare a
lucrative smog into the thickening air.
The pub sticks out from the very brick wall, as if a splinter
off the tree trunk of industry. Towering smokestacks line the
cobbled lanes. Though the sun shines, some of its brilliance is
filtered here. Still Bradley’s saddle shoes clap in the relentless
pursuit of hunger’s gratification. The cobbles sway underneath his
awesome weight. The very girth of the man is equivalent to a
trolley. How he manages a single day is incomprehensible. The
door to the pub is now within vision of this tank, and he waddles
still further. The door appears between two gargoyle statues.
There seem to be no lights from within, only a lone candle
trembles in the windowsill. A wooden plaque hangs out into the
street. It is suspended from the pub by wrought iron chain links.
They glisten in the tainted light. Bradley puts his portly hand upon
the door knocker. His meaty paw envelopes the handle. With that
grasp he slams downward the iron ring. A resonating “crack”
hangs in the air.
40
“I know you’re in there, Brutus, open up this blooming’
door,” Bradley barks.
”Our best customer, Mr. Bradley! Here for your seven
course meal, I suppose?” a voice from within responds excitedly.
Brutus emerges from behind the locked door, peering from behind
the window sill. “Do come in!” he bellows, unlocking the door.
Bradley’s mind comes upon a single focus: food.
“Heat up the grill lad; I’m going for an eleven course today.
Sales have been up since this morning. Already I’ve sold twenty
bottles,” Bradley mocks the small cook while Brutus looks on
warily.
The young cook scurries into the back, whence a great
clamor emerges. Pots clinking and the sound of boiling water
begin. Bradley starts to drool upon the very table, spittle
cascading off several of his chins. A pool forms upon the wooden
counter. Bradley had already taken his usual seat, a rather large
chair he requested upon his first visit. The seat lies beneath a
stuffed boar’s head mounted upon a plaque. The pub owner,
Brutus, ambles out from behind the counter, keeping an eye on
the boy. Brutus approaches Bradley and notes his unnatural
salivation. Taken aback, Brutus resumes his spot behind the
counter. Dark ebony paneling adorns the walls. Trophy animal
heads hang like paintings from the gothic halls. An elk-horn
41
candelabra swings from a chain. The scent of cedar hangs in the
air.
“You seem rather hungry today, Bob, something a’ matter”
comments Brutus amidst the rustic silence. “How’s-about a drink,
chum?”
“Don’t mind if I do; of course I’ve already got some liquo…ahh…medicine right here. Right inside my pouch,” laughs
Bradley. Brutus ambles over to Bradley’s table and sets a tall iced
drink in the pile of drool. He guzzles it down with increasing anger.
His face flashes red and anger stirs in his mind.
“I have my money, Brutus; all’s we wants is food!” With
that, the cabin boy hustles out from within the kitchen, carrying a
hefty plate of beef leg. He sets the platter cautiously down upon
the table. His face reads a sign of worry as Bradley raises his
hand. A red blur fills the air, and Bradley’s paw swipe leaves a
white imprint on the face of the boy. The boy’s lips purse, and his
eyes begin to water. He slowly ambles back to the kitchen.
“That’s the fifth time you struck him this week, Bob, go easy
on the boy. I know he is only a slave, but for Pete’s sake, go easy
on the lad.” Bradley would have listened, but today is a day of
gluttony. He eats with his hands, grasping the thick leg in his
animalistic paws at which so many have perished. His mouth
envelopes a chunk of the meat; with a deep tearing sound the
42
animal flesh would rip off the bone. Strands of ligament hang from
the glutton’s mouth as he still ingests more. Pound upon pound is
consumed until the leg bone is bare. A bit of gravy clings to the
underside of Bradley’s nose. Still he demands more. The young
cook wanders out with a whole goose cooked on rice with
sourdough stuffing. Bradley’s mouth waters more; saliva is
washing off more of the gravy. He takes a serving fork and jabs
the very end of it into the back of the dead bird. A mass of flesh is
torn from the poor beast. Certainly it did not know its fate several
days ago while swimming in the lake.
Lonely pale faces gaze in from the window, the homeless
shivering in the autumn wind. The filtered sun burns their faces.
They return to their tenements. Filthy sackcloth adorns their
frames in a pitiful life. They desire food as much as Bradley, not
for gluttony, but for survival. Their ribs show through ragged,
rough, cotton undergarments. Rolls of the fat of self-indulgence
hang from Bradley’s body of sin. He munches away at the very
last of the pub food stores. After several more courses, eleven
silver platters rest on Bradley’s table. The skeleton of a goose,
chicken, turkey, and leg of lamb lie silent on the table.
“Is this all you have in this warehouse a’ yours? I want more
food, I’m barely full yet. It’s not half past two,” sputtered Bradley
lividly, waving a rib in the air.
43
“We haven’t got anymore, you know de’ market is closed on
Sundays,” protests the cook.
“Give me more or I’ll slap you upside the head. Knock some
sense into you,” barks Bradley with a drumstick in his mouth,
waving like a distraught observer. The cook storms into the
kitchen as livid as Bradley.
“I’ll fix him a course he’ll never forget,” states the cook to
the air. He reaches up into the far cabinet, but it lies bare. “I know
where there is some meat left,” he mumbles under his breath.
Bradley sits now, impatient and desirous. Brutus shuffles by
the table and scrapes the scraps off of the plates into a pail. Mr.
Bradley protests, but is assuaged. He grimaces as Brutus takes
the scraps outside, hating him behind his back. A light shines
down the alley and the pail is thrown out. Scraps spill everywhere,
in the ditch, and upon the resting place of a homeless woman.
She crawls over to the pail and sucks on the bones eagerly.
Brutus hurries back inside, and the sliver of light cast from the
door vanishes. Brutus locks the door.
The cook gracefully dances out of the kitchen bearing a
final platter. An eerie haze of vapor surrounds the steaming plate.
Chunks of sawdust meat hang to each other in a sticky aromatic
sauce.
44
“I made it with my very own special sauce,” quietly says the
cook, solicitously placing an empty medicine bottle and its
wrapper on the table. “You can never have enough of Bradley’s
Remedies,” the cook appends, placing another, last wrapper on
the table.
Bradley looks up from his final course for the first time at the
silent labels, querying the cook. Bradley turns a pale shade of
white accompanied by a conscious scowl. The cook grins. The
homeless shiver.
(Jonathan Hartmann, 2008)
45
Waiting IV
I am waiting for pot to be legal,
I am waiting for tobacco (the real drug problem of America) to be outlawed.
I am waiting for Jack Daniel’s to become the Drink of America,
I am waiting for American beer to stop being water.
I am waiting for the drinking age to be 18,
To kill off all the innocents.
I am waiting for Ireland to be re-united,
I am waiting to find my home and return.
I am waiting Kia to be banned in the USA,
I am waiting for my American Dream.
I am waiting to be found out,
So I can finally be free of burden.
I am waiting to find myself,
I am waiting to reach my full potential.
I am waiting for an America that I can live in,
I am waiting for an America that I can trust.
I am waiting to run naked in the streets,
I am waiting to be let loose on the world,
So I can be out of my narrow-minded cage.
I am waiting to express my feelings,
I am waiting to be free to do so.
I am waiting to be one with my mind,
I am waiting to be one with myself.
I am waiting to be recognized,
I am waiting to be seen as what I am,
So I can be accepted as I.
I am waiting for my body to work right,
I am waiting for my brain to work (right).
I am waiting for the end of my growth,
I am waiting to be free to be immature.
I am waiting for my Prime,
I am waiting for my End,
So I can be truly one with the Earth.
(The author, Mark Wertheim, graduated from The Gunnery in 2003 and is now at Roger Williams
University. He visited Mr. Benson’s Creative Writing class in the Fall Term.)
46
Dreams
Sailing boats
Across the sea
How I wish
That I could be
A sailor sailing far away
Moving on
From day to day
Out to sea
Far from shore
Seeing the world
And plenty more
Rivers, cities, lakes deep
Forests, farms, mountains steep
Cruel sea
Murderous weather
Winds and water
Crash together
Thoughts of home flood back to me
Whilst fighting for my life at sea
Then dawn breaks
The skies turn blue
The storms a memory
The day is new
A million miles away this seems
If only I could live my dreams
(Ella Thompson, 2006. Author’s Note: my dad and I wrote this together 3 or 4 years ago
randomly one night, and his favorite part was the 4th stanza, because he just loved the sound it
seemed to make.)
47
Five poems by Nate Elston
Swim with the Fish
Powerless threats whisper in the dark
Penetrated by moonlight ice and passing
Through the archways of the mind
Mindless wandering
Timeless paths
Never mind the picture of pleasant sun
And the stars that continually glow
With a golden heart shinning aflame
And veins pumping that creative juice flowing
But remember
Blowing with the cool sand wind
Dunes of the grass consume
The land and air passing twilight fever
And falling through fate with a blindfold
Looking from black to holy white, dripping
And sipping a song from the breeze
Oozing with melody and beautiful percussion
A discussion of things that mattered most
But were forgotten with the rhyme of snakes
Songs of mistrust weave though meant straight
Would they could thy make me hate?
So forever is close to an end
Send off those letters to God
Asking for more open land to trod
To explore and to have new
Once everything is gone
And all becomes blasé
To say something wonderful never loses its cool
Your mind is a bottomless pool
Be a swimming fish
48
The Vacuum Noose
Haunting
The back of my mind
Is a feeling of dreary
Exhaustion
Disorder
Confusion is a powerful foe
It can conquer the unprepared
And destroy the unwilling to bend
And change the plan for the moment
Stalking
Through the shadows of my past
Is the shade of my mind
Drawn to the bottom of the window
Ready to show me the truth
In the dark
Absence of light is flattering
For those more accustomed to the black
And closing up that river bed
Of creation and love
Is the vacuum
That grabs and drains
the pools of good sense
And the picture of freedom fades
With the passing minutes in the life
Seconds in a timeline connected with fate
And tied to the future by an impossible knot
Noose of the clock
Tick tock
49
Sea Lost Wondering
Crashing waves tormenting the lost at sea
Lost track of the compass
Infinity on the horizon and behind
The logs all read the same
Blank and muddled
Rain baptizes for the fight with hell
Devil’s grip tighter than ever
Gone from the days of sunshine
Gone from the ways of the lovely
And stuck in the rush of a storm
Lost
Lonely
Beyond the sight of others
And the scent of good reason
Alone
Nothing but truth
And a past
Where the rest
Makes much more sense
50
Twisting Vines
Those twisting vines penetrate your spine
And never listen to reason
Committing benevolent treason
For your own god damned good
Emancipate those thoughts of gold
Never substituted for silver
Bronze fog rolling
Tighter tighter
Those vines do grip
And squeeze the juice from your cracking bones
But to feed their children would it be
Any different? Besides the point
And holding hands with harm
Friend of the devil ain’t no friend
Until the end and leave
Those vines be
They’ve shut away my pain
Acid tear rain
Untitled 2
Longlasting soulsearch
Alive in devil moonlight
Laughing hardly with grim
A demeanor of grey
Convulsing energy spray
Alive in living human decay
Denying the faucet wind drops
Silvery hot and cold
Steaming ice of windchill blue
Igloo for the separated
Contemporary productions
Nothing new in the heap
Garbage piles in monstrous mountains
Delivering bird sky wonders
Mad men of clouds devour
Weightless souls
Untied subscribe
For years and on.
(Nate Elston, 2006)
51
Ants
She defines all life,
For no form of death
Ever passes underneath
The reign of her warm fingertips.
She carries no judgment
Treating all equally
Giving each a fair trialEven the noisy ones.
All respect her majesty
Not protesting the quality of the crumbs orComplaining of their winged or 8 legged neighbors.
She picks up the ant
And lets it march on the outskirts.
Does she choose to ignore me
When I say, “It’ll die by itself! Ants live in colonies, not alone…”?
Or is she just in an optimistic denial when replying,
“It will create its own colony.”
The books say no
However I have never followed
To witness the end of an ant’s journey.
(Greta Murphy, 2005)
52
Three poems by Nick Pratt
Beauty so Blinding
So fragile,
Like a desperate mind,
Walking
Along the river,
Down the paths of time,
Pieces,
Scattered through my head,
Old time thinkings,
Facing red snapping thread,
And your petals
So hard to pluck,
Like the wind chimes metal,
Beautiful, with delicate touch,
Landscape so perfect,
So incredibly tough,
Moving quickly,
Behind bushes and rough,
And I’m falling,
To put pencil to page
Beauty fading,
Can’t draw your face,
Eraser marks, turn my frown,
Destroying lines
I’ve already put down.
And my hand and got the reach,
To read your notes you preach,
For your beauty is complexity,
Like looking in the sun,
And my eyes are burning
For you
53
Marlboro man
Marlboro man,
You fiend Take your sticks,
Your filtered,
five mile desire machine of sick,
patient and mute,
with fire ablaze,
your evil is brute so you mass your army,
soldiers to the floor,
Marlboro man be winning,
With his cancer stick war.
54
Minds mine
Penetrate the night.
Riding.
Slide along the silver back,
Atop the serpent road
Deeper, deeper,
Swim within the tide of darkness,
Whisper me weaving through unsolved fog,
Further,
Within the desperate solitude,
Mutinous to the hanging road blocks
Following faster past dos and do nots
Investing DEEP
Through the clay mind into the
Caverns of corroded memories
Alone to stumble among the minds many holes
Past pots and pans crowning over the wicked path
With fingers finding the way
Pure darkness
Not smell nor sight
Or hearing or taste
Only feeling
Like an elephant tossing among fields of cotton
Numb to the touch
A burnt finger atop a silky lining
Cold water dulls the pain
It does not remedy
Pinched under the pillowing tissue
Of my own membrane,
Reaching for the bowl, with water to unfeel
Fear still sifts though my steely armor wall,
Bullets break the bridges
Crack and begin to fall,
My arm is merely two feet long
55
Foreword and back, nothing to grab
Forever falling in my six-foot hole
Left
To suffer my own emotions.
(Nick Pratt, 2006)
________________________________________________________________________
Ode to JRP: A senior looking back, word to juniors
what up g-unit juniors
this is a little tale
a tale of a research paper
that you def don't wanna fail
the Russian roulette of teachers
walsh, alter theobald
these be the most lethal
lady luck heeds to no junior
its not about luck
its about salem and Huck
library oh! library
use the damn library
note cards dear note cards
i meditate upon your usefullness
thesis.......thesis?
what the f--- is my thesis?
one, two, three pages more
single spaced, double spaced, tripple spaced, four!
size ten font, size eleven, size twelve, size thirty four
The JRPis like water
drop.............drop.................drop
on my forehead
dont' get it done and i just might be dead
but oh! JRP
when its all over
junior feel much happy
brush that dirrt off your shoulder.
(Jess Abate, 2005)
56
An Uninvited Guest
A thick fume of Indian incense greeted me as I entered the room. Picking up a piece of
scrap paper that was laying on the floor, I turned and closed the door behind me. My head
was still filled with nauseating thoughts of the day’s work, but nonetheless, it did not
prevent me from almost subconsciously heading toward my favorite rocking chair sitting
still by the corner, wordless, emotionless. Outside the restless clamor of speeding
automobiles rushed towards me like a tropical rainfall, which interestingly enough
awakened inside me a faint delight of the endorphin-induced euphoria of a hard working
day.
It was as I sat down and pressed the big red power button of the TV remote
control that the sudden cacophony of the doorbell pierced through the thick air of the
room and reached my ears. Throwing the remote control aside, I got up and walked
toward the front door. The aluminum doorknob, glistening with a metallic luster in the
incandescent light illuminating the vacuous corridor, gave me a sudden chilly sensation at
the touch, and at a slight counterclockwise torque upon it, the door acquiesced, yielding
with a terse squeak.
At the doorstep stood a gawky young man of whom I had no acquaintance. There was
nothing then that stood out to me as strikingly unordinary in his features, but there was a
certain aura of uneasiness and anxiety that emanated from him despite his seemingly
desperate effort at an affectation of equanimity. Seeing me stepping out through the door,
he opened his lips after a moment of hesitation.
“Mr. Choi?” said the young man, with a voice that resonated with grave agitation and
disquiet.
“Yes, this is Mr. Choi. Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”
“I am very sorry to disrupt your peaceful evening, Mr. Choi, but there is an urgent
matter that requires your immediate attention. If possible, I would like to discuss the
matter with you right now - very briefly, but very seriously.”
By the time he was finished speaking, there was no more lingering shadow of affected
calm in his face. Now he was all anxiety and restlessness, with his unusually lengthy
arms nervously combing his disheveled hair over his shoulder; and for a reason that I still
cannot quite clearly explain, I was inclined to push the door wide open and courteously
invite him inside for a tête-à-tête.
He followed me in as I stepped inside. Underneath the dimly lit hallway light I could
better observe his features, even though they were still in no way clearly discernible. A
Caucasian male in his late thirties, he reminded me of Jerry Cantrell of late Alice in
Chains with his unkempt shoulder-length hair.
As we entered the living room, I offered him a seat on the couch, and muted the TV
that was still blabbering senseless words to nobody.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Thank you, but no, sir. I won’t be here for a long time.
“I think I’ll just get to the point directly without wasting any time here, because it is a
really urgent issue I am talking about right now.
“You’re going to get killed tonight, sir.”
57
I felt as if someone just hit me in the back of my head with a sledgehammer. I became
dizzy and nauseous, but soon recovered enough to inquire of him some further details.
“And is there any sensible reason behind your assertion, sir?”
“I don’t know how much credibility my reasoning will have with you, sir, but all I am
going to say is that you just have to trust me this time.
“Let me first briefly introduce myself, sir. I wish to waste no time, but I do not want to
be excessively impolite, either.
“My name is B--. I am currently an English teacher at a small private high school in
Western Connecticut called The Gunnery.
“But that is not why I am here now, sir. I am here now because your life is in great
peril.
“I hope that the term ‘6th sense’ is somewhat familiar to you, sir. As you know, it is
believed that certain individuals in this world have awareness or cognizance of some sort
that is inexplicable according to the current scientific knowledge we possess of the
universe.
“Believe or not - but for this one time you’re going to have believe me, - I am one of
those people who have one of those extraordinary sensations. Well, more specifically
saying, I can sense things that have not happened yet. In another words, I can see the
future.”
By this time, my initial shock had turned into sarcastic skepticism. It was obvious this
guy was a total nutcase. But I did not bother to stop him. I just wanted to let him finish
his jabberwocky, and when he was done, just laugh in his face and kick him out; or better
yet, just lead him to a nearby mental institution where he could spend the rest of his life
with fellow wackos like serial killers and child rapists.
Not sensing the evident distrust on my face, or seeing it clearly but deciding to ignore
it, he continued.
“In fact, I have been cooperating recently with the police on some rare cases of crime
scenes with my unique skill, and so far we have been successful in every case.
“But today’s circumstance was very unusual even for me. While I was grading my
students’ term final exams this afternoon, I was suddenly entered into a trance during
which I sensed tonight’s event.
“Usually my trances are very brief, lasting for only a minute or two, and are filled
with raw and obscure information that require extensive processing and filtering. But
today it was different.
“I could discern some objects very clearly, including the surroundings of this place
and the apartment number, and also could sense a strong eruption of agony and distress
which evidently suggested a violent homicide to take place here tonight.
“I didn’t have time to inform the police or anything. I just rushed outside, started my
car, and drove all the way over here at once.
“It seems that I was lucky enough to get here on time, or before it was too late. But in
no way does this mean that you are completely safe. You must get out of this place
immediately, and keep yourself covered in some hideout until I am convinced that you
are officially out of danger.”
Oh boy, this guy is just totally out of his mind, I thought. And I was feeling that now
was the time to get this crackhead out of my house.
58
59
“I am sorry, sir, but I can say no more than that you’re just totally out of your mind.
Now I’m going to ask you to leave my house, sir, or else I’m going to have to call the
police.”
At first, he seemed astonished at the sudden change of my attitude, but then noticing
the unfavorable situation, he tried desperately to convince me of his ‘extraordinary’
sense.
“I understand that it must be very difficult for you to accept what I have just told you,
but I beg you to trust me for just this one time.
“What if I offer you some concrete evidence? Were you not watching CSI on channel
7 when I rang the doorbell?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t really prove anything. The TV was still on when you entered
then living room.”
“Also, don’t you have a replica poster of Mark Ryden’s Bloody Bunny hanging on the
wall in your hallway?”
“Yes, but the same goes for that – you could have just noticed it when you were
entering my house.”
“You must be a real skeptic. I don’t know what else to tell you. How about the fact
that you’re an aficionado of Sebastian Mendelssohn’s music?”
“Ok, I admit that you’re a good guesser. But I don’t want any of this bullshit anymore.
I ask you to leave my house immediately, or else I will proceed to call the police.”
I stood up, and started walking towards the telephone. I was beginning to get nervous at
this neurotic’s presence in my place.
Then all the sudden, at a thump, I dropped to the ground, perceiving a stupendous pain
in the back of my head…
When I could finally open my eyes again, under the heavy weight of my eyelids
his ghastly face was reflected on my retina. At the sight of me, he made a heavy sinister
grin. I tried to say something to this senseless rogue, but nothing came out of my feeble
lips.
“How are you doing now, sir? Oh, come on. Don’t pretend like you don’t know
what’s going on. Don’t worry. Cops are on their way now. Maybe you’d like to speak
with a lawyer now. But you can always do it when you get to the police station, I guess.
So just keep it in your mind and try not to forget.
“Oh, please. Just lie down and relax until they come. There’s nothing you can do now,
unless you’re one of my kind, or Arnold Schwarzenneger, and can break off those
handcuffs at a snap.
“So you’re still wondering how I have figured out that you’re the merciless killer, not
the real Mr. Choi? Haha. Didn’t I tell you I am a psychic? You had better believe what I
tell you.
“Well, I too was actually kind of doubtful at first when I came upon this place and saw
that everything was apparently calm and serene like nothing had happened at all. But I
just had to trust myself and my instincts, for I know for a fact that my previsions have
never tricked me.
“But interestingly enough, the one who finally made me assured of my
prognostication was nobody but yourself. Remember when you told me that you thought
I was just making up everything about what I foresaw?
60
“Well, you were actually right. Even though I did have a prophecy, it was too vague to
tell me all the specific details about the house. All the evidence I gave you was just
concocted from some of the random objects in your house I observed as I was entering
and remembered.
“Did I just tell you that you were right? But oh well, you were wrong, too, in a critical
way. That’s what made me believe that the real Mr. Choi has already been killed, and you
must be the killer, who’s merely pretending to be Mr. Choi.
“Remember I was telling you that you were watching CSI on channel 7 when I entered
your house? But I was not actually telling you the truth. CBS is channel 7 where I am
from, but not here. When you said yes to that question, I began to doubt whether you
were actually a resident in this house.
“Also, I lied about the Mark Ryden painting, too. I figured that since not that many
people know about Mark Ryden and his artworks, you must be a serious collector of his
artworks when I saw the painting hanging on the wall of the corridor. But the painting’s
name is not actually “Bloody Bunny”; it’s called “The Birth of the Death.” If you’re truly
a serious collector of his artworks, it’s highly unlikely that you would be ignorant of such
a basic detail.
“The exact same thing is also true about Mendelssohn’s music. When I entered the
living room, I noticed that over a half of that huge CD cabinet over there occupying an
entire side of the wall was filled with hundreds of different recordings of Mendelssohn’s
music. If you love his music so much to be spending thousands of dollars on purchasing
all that music, I think you should know that his first name is not Sebastian, but Felix.
“Oh, I hear the police siren now. I think they should be coming in here within minutes.
Just take it easy and relax, sir. I’m going to back outside now to wait there until they
arrive. I’ll make sure that they have a thorough knowledge of every detail before they
enter the house.
“Well then, enjoy, sir!”
(Young Jin Choi, 2005)
61
I have a Buddha in my backpack
I have a Buddha in my backpack.
It is a little heavy, but I can travel with it for a while
Anyway, I can never go home.
From deserts to oases, plateaus to plains; I take a tour.
I bend my back and go down on my knees; that is how I show my reverence for God.
But I have a Buddha in my backpack.
Talking to my backpack, reminiscing about the past,
I am a bird whose wings have been broken.
Trying to crawl faster than a mouse is my goal
Others think I am a mouse but I am still a bird
And I have a Buddha in my backpack.
Paint a picture with only certain colors. Use the tools that others already prepare for me
I need to draw a masterpiece so my family can recognize it, and maybe take me home
Maybe I can never go home again.
My love for nature is not strong enough. There is not enough love for myself either.
I struggle for no reason as I do not know why I was born. Buddha, too heavy.
I have a Buddha in my backpack
Move your feet faster
That was horrible defense
Said coach Cookinham
A thick new york strip
Seasoned salt, medium rare
Makes my life worthwhile
(Kuan-Hua alias Fred Huang writes toward a villanelle and singes those haiku, 2005)
62
Passenger Seat
Sand-colored waves of hair whipping and lashing out
beating the air in a fast-paced tribal dance
(they’ll sleep well tonight)
tripping over my tickled nose and blue-eyed blinds
-that try to shut out the rays of diving light
without succeeding and I can hardly take in
what does seep through:
clear skies, so very rare these stormy days,
and slopes of green covering the horizon
that the road bisects, and we soar
with rocket speed into the emerald depths
as if we’re driving into the center of the earth
(a short-cut home)
and the folds of boughs take us in, gracious hostesses
covering us in their shades of calm
a speckled leafy ceiling watches over us
with flashes of the Sun’s eyes blinking serenely through.
I don’t know if I can take it;
if my battered heart can accept this sudden strange Love that’s deep enough to drown in
gently strong enough to tear me to tears
it possesses me with such force, I gasp for breath
(the moon is spinning around me)
and I look to see how he takes the news
but predictably, he doesn’t seem to notice, reaching
to the buttons between us to fill the car with anything but static or
silence.
but silence wins
riding on the moving melody the wind whistles in my ear.
I look
in the back-seat to discover that they too, are unaffected,
snoring, or boredly flipping through cosmo,
their flirting laughter left miles
behind.
I know I can’t make them see it; I can’t share this
so my heart expands past bursting
with Love and Beauty and Light,
the windsong,
the hairs’ dance,
the leaves’ blanket,
the sharp and dazzling light
(they gradually and greedily consume me in secret.)
63
Wish (Sonnet)
You ask me do I want to make a wish
I tilt my head; the stars are shooting up
Typically you expect the start off kiss
But don’t you think that I’ve been through enough?
An instinctive protest nudges your ear
A shout, to you it whispers my force faint
You sorely take the hand never held dear
And weigh the worth of my grating complaints.
We trudge and litter blossoms in our wake
Your eager fingers on skin sought after
I’m not the only one to make mistakes
You too realize, from my chilling laughter.
So I pushed you off the bristling bridge
And as you tumbled down, I made a wish.
(The author of the two poems above, Katie Stones, graduated from The Gunnery in 2003, and is
now at Hamilton College.)
64

Fast Food - The Gunnery

Transcription

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