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T    M   M OOOOO RRRRR PPPPP OOOOO     RRRRR EEEEE V   V IIIII EEEEE W   W
     MM MM O   O R   R P   P O   O     R   R E     V   V   I   E     W   W
H    M M M O   O RRRR  PPPP  O   O     RRRR  EEE   V   V   I   EEE   W W W
     M   M O   O R   R P     O   O     R   R E      V V    I   E     WW WW
E    M   M OOOOO R   R P     OOOOO     R   R EEEEE   V   IIIII EEEEE W   W
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Volume #2                     May 21st, 1995                      Issue #3
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

                       CONTENTS FOR VOLUME 2, ISSUE 3

    Column: From the Belly of the Dough Boy . . . . . . . .  Matt Mason

    Column: CyberRealWorld . . . . . . . . . . . .  Robert A. Fulkerson

    A Conversation Between A Luminous Being And An Enlightened Soul
     . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Clem Padin

    The Honeymoon  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jim Esch

    Corn Lover in Winter . . . . . . . . . . . .  William C. Burns, Jr.

    Mabel  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  William C. Burns, Jr.

    HAIKU #337 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  William C. Burns, Jr.

    Does He Limp?  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Leonard S. Edgerly

    < homesick for the lost continent >  . . . . . . . . . Ray Heinrich

    A Box of One's Own . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Matt Armstrong

    Fine Wind, Clear Morning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  John Landry

    Boat Returning in a Storm  . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  John Landry

    Baton Rouge During the Gulf War  . . . . . . . . . . .  John Landry

    Oh cat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  Gail Reichert

    Soren at the Sweetwater  . . . . . . . . . . . . . Todd R. Robinson

    Degrees of Separation  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michael S. Adams

    The Sour Sweetness of Tobacco  . . . . . . . . .  Ronald E. Tisdale

    I Remember ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  Ben Wiebe

    A Surprise Party . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chuck Kershenblatt

    About the Authors  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  The Authors

    In Their Own Words . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  The Authors

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Editor                               +                       Poetry Editor
Robert Fulkerson              The Morpo Staff                Matthew Mason
[email protected]                      +         [email protected]

Layout Editor                                               Fiction Editor
Kris Kalil Fulkerson                                           J.D. Rummel
[email protected]                                  [email protected]

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
_The Morpo Review_.  Volume 2, Issue 3.  _The Morpo Review_ is published
electronically on a bi-monthly basis.  Reproduction of this magazine is
permitted as long as the magazine is not sold and the entire text of the
issue remains intact.  Copyright 1995, Robert Fulkerson and Matthew Mason.
_The Morpo Review_ is published in Adobe PostScript, ASCII and World Wide
Web formats.  All literary and artistic works are Copyright 1995 by their
respective authors and artists.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

                               EDITORS' NOTES

  o _From the Belly of the Doughboy_ by Matt Mason, Poetry Editor:

     A Review of the University of North Dakota's 26th Annual Writer's
     Conference, March 21-25, 1995

  If you ask a lot of people what type of thing they'd like to do in
  North Dakota around March, most will answer, "leave." Well, they're
  fools, all of them, fools, as something pretty impressive happens up
  in Grand Forks once that ice starts melting (before the spring
  blizzards hit, that is).

  What I'm talking about is the University of North Dakota's annual
  Writer's Conference which I had the luck of catching this year.
  English Professor, conference founder, fisherman, and host of a mean
  party, John Little says: "Winter in North Dakota is a time for silent
  reading and contemplation. Springtime is when we celebrate by hearing
  the writers' voices themselves." And before you snigger and say, "yah,
  right, I'm sure the conference gets the mighty likes of Delores
  Persmidgy and Joseph B'Low." Well, in the past, this conference has
  attracted writers like Truman Capote, Tom Wolfe, N. Scott Momaday,
  Alice Walker, Alex Haley, Susan Sontag, Czelas Milosz, and many, many
  more. It's an impressive feat for any community.

  What the conference entailed was five days of readings, panel
  discussions, and parties. I was among those running from the first
  student readings at 11am until the parties which would sometimes last
  until 5am (admittedly, I didn't last quite that long, being out of
  school, I don't seem to have the insane student stamina which drives
  people to go to class all day, party and procrastinate all night, work
  a part time job, write an opera, and still get all projects and papers
  turned in roughly on time). The organization was first rate and the
  folks in the community were great, making me feel truly welcome, even
  at that first party where I really didn't know anyone (yet).

  1995 brought some terrific writers: Tim O'Brien (_The Things They
  Carried_), Bharati Mukherjee (_The Middleman and Other Stories_,
  winner of the 1989 National Book Critics Circle Award), Sharon Olds
  (_The Father_), Sherman Alexie (_Business of Fancy-Dancing_), Marge
  Piercy (_He, She, It_, winner of the 1993 Arthur Clarke Award for best
  science fiction novel), Gordon Henry Jr. (_The Light People_), and
  Yusef Komunyakaa (_Neon Vernacular_, winner of the 1994 Pulitzer Prize
  in Poetry). All of them had a one-hour reading and also participated
  in a panel discussion where they discussed the state of the art (this
  year's theme) as well as answering audience questions.

  Of them all, Sherman Alexie was probably the most dynamic reader,
  breathing tremendous amounts of life into poems and one short story
  which he simply told, rather than read, in storyteller fashion.

  Tim O'Brien was hilarious character, both at the public forums and at
  the parties afterward. In fact, he and Gordon Henry Jr. probably get
  the award for staying out the latest, most didn't last long past the
  more formal receptions (and I don't really blame them, they only fly
  in for a few days and then are quickly whisked away again).

  All the writers impressed me in too many different ways to really give
  enough credit to in this short column, but, dang it was a blast. I
  particularly enjoyed the poets like Olds and Komunyakaa, and was also
  impressed with the storytellers like Alexie, O'Brien, and Henry. It
  was a hefty week, though, and by Friday you could see the toll on the
  English grad students in particular who seemed beyond exhaustion but
  were still able to stay awake through everything and still go out
  afterward. I am in awe of these brave people.

  And apparently the parties which go on at night have a long history,
  particularly the years where folks like Raymond Carver, Hunter
  Thompson, or a gaggle of Beat Writers came through. Though some seemed
  to see this year's extracurriculars as tame in comparison, most seemed
  satisfied and, actually, some of the finer quotes of the entire
  conference came not during the readings but late at night in the mix
  of students, Grand Forksians, professors, and the writers.

  So all of you out there (yes you!), sometime around early March next
  year, make sure and call UND and see when the '96 conference is. Then
  when the time comes, throw some books and bagels into your car and
  roadtrip to Grand Forks, you will not regret it. It's a week that runs
  from cerebral to wild, where the atmosphere is excited and friendly,
  and where you're only a stranger if you let yourself be.

  o _CyberRealWorld_ by Robert A. Fulkerson, Editor:

  As I sit down to write this, it's almost two in the morning on Sunday,
  May 21st. I'm starting from scratch on this column, something I had
  planned to not be doing. Three days ago, Thursday the 18th, I had
  taken myself out to Chalco Hills State Recreation Area and had planted
  myself firmly on the bank of the lake there and wrote most of my
  column. I used big, flowery words and images to try and relate what I
  was experiencing, sitting there as the sun set over the horizon. I
  wrote about the beautiful orange and purple hues of the sky, the low
  croaking chorus of the bullfrogs coming out for the night and the
  sweet scent of freshly mown grass that hung in the cool night air.

  My intention was to focus on the Real World, the real physical world
  that we all live in. I wanted to write about how, over the past year
  or so, I've entrenched myself deeply in that other world we constantly
  hear about, CyberSpace, and lost a firm grasp on the Real World.

  I've been a part of the CyberSpace community now for well over 12
  years, going all the way back to my Commodore Vic-20 and 300 BPS
  modem, connecting to CompuServe, then to local area bulletin boards,
  then to Q-Link and finally (after America Online) hitting the "Big
  Time" with the Internet.

  Before the Internet came into my life, most of the friends that I met
  via the various on-line services and bulletin boards I frequented were
  real and tangible -- I would meet them in real life and we'd have
  parties and do stupid stuff and laugh together. With the advent of the
  Internet, however, it has become much more difficult for me to meet in
  the Real World the people I've run across in CyberSpace. So, in order
  to foster the human need to know people, to actually get to know them
  and find out who they are, I've migrated more and more to electronic
  communications for my day-to-day interactions with people.

  Before you begin to think that I've plugged myself into the Internet,
  let me say that I haven't abandoned those friends and people I've met
  in the Real World. I've simply added an entire virtual community of
  people to my current circle of friends. It's getting to be quite a
  crowded circle.

  But, I've digressed a bit. When I drove myself the three miles down
  Highway 50 to Chalco Hills, I noticed, for the first time in months,
  the world around me. It was a rather surreal feeling, actually. I had
  the window rolled down and a mixed tape of driving music playing in
  the background, very similar to the same routine I've followed for the
  past year driving back and forth to school and work every day.

  Right before I got to Chalco, however, the sudden beauty of the
  countryside exploded and overwhelmed me. It was very pleasant, but as
  I said before, surreal. What was different about the countryside at
  that particular moment that I hadn't noticed the countless other times
  I've driven in that area over the past year or so? Even now I can't
  pinpoint what it was.

  I ended up driving around Chalco Hills for about fifteen minutes as
  the sun completed its descent below the horizon, then perched myself
  on a grass-covered bank of the lake and watched the world unfold
  around me. The frogs, the fishermen, the lovers in parked cars -- it
  was if someone had turned on the Real World again and it was flowing
  rapidly into all of my senses.
    _________________________________________________________________

  It's odd. I just finished up my full-time schooling for a Masters
  degree in computer science. I still have a few classes to finish up,
  but my tenure as a Graduate Fellow has expired. I've also been offered
  (and accepted) a job with Tandem Telecom here in Omaha, Nebraska. My
  wife recently quit her job as a research assistant to focus on her two
  Masters degrees (English and anthropology). One of my best friends has
  recently fallen in love with a wonderful woman and has also received a
  large promotion at his job. After years of floundering in jobs she
  hated, my mother has found a job that she really enjoys and feels good
  about.

  All of these things have happened within the past two weeks, and I
  think they've jarred me out of my graduate school/work/CyberSpace
  monotony. It's a good feeling, to notice the trees which are "leafing
  out" (thanks to a former co-worker and friend of mine for that term)
  and feel alive and invigorated again.
    _________________________________________________________________

  Without trying to write a column with a moral, it appears that one
  appears here anyway. I'll leave it as an exercise for the reader to
  decipher it. As my friend (the one who recently fell in love) says at
  the end of his columns for the _Kryptonian Cybernet_, another
  electronic 'zine ....

  Away!

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"A Conversation Between a Luminous Being and an Enlightened Soul"
by Clem Padin


  Yafmenn was meditating when the Illumination came. Like the stages a
  supernova, his experience seemed to implode so that the past became
  present. Then, it expanded outward and the future became the present.
  It was as if he had become a light cone, experiencing the past,
  present, and future all at once.

  And while still in the moment, there came to him a Luminous being. He
  grew before him, as if from a grain of cosmic dust.

  "Welcome, brother", it said in a voice so sweet it nearly made Yafmenn
  weep.

  "Thank you", he replied. And as he spoke, he returned to his sentient
  self; sitting again in his office, the Inspirational Message Screen
  Saver (IMSS) on his monitor floating the same message he'd seen before
  he closed his eyes (one he had found in a liqueur add and entered into
  the program):

                         __"ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN"__

  The being sat across Yafmenn's desk in his windowless, but spacious
  office. It sat in one of the seven chairs lined up along the far wall,
  It's halo obscuring a good portion of the _National Geographic_ poster
  of the universe (from the June 1983 issue).

  Yafmenn blinked and shook his head several times.

  "Is this it?", he asked, as his senses returned and he felt himself
  not so changed after this soul-altering experience.

  "Is what it?", replied the Luminous Being knowing full well what was
  coming.

  "I just reached Nirvana. Aren't there supposed to be garlands being
  thrown around and gods singing my praises. You know, like when the
  Buddha reached enlightenment."

  "Well, you know how it is: you get a couple guys reaching
  enlightenment; they try and document what happened to them; they're a
  little tipsy from the experience; they exaggerate a little...", He
  smiled broadly as his voiced trailed off. Yafmenn noticed how it
  wasn't quite as musical as before.

  "What about transcendence? Aren't you supposed to get this big dose of
  Forgiveness, or something? I still get pissed when I think of what my
  former boss did! And, I don't feel Omnipotent or Omniscient. Here,
  I'll try and create a glass sphere in the palm of my hand" Yafmenn
  held out his hand as if he were cradling something.

  "Hey! Stop that!" shouted the Luminous Being. "You know the energy
  you'll generate? You'll torch this entire office!"

  Yafmenn pulled his hand back, rubbed it against his other, and noted
  how warm it was.

  "What's the big deal, can't I create stuff out of thin air? I'm
  illuminated, I got privileges!"

  "You're still living in the physical universe! You've got to abide by
  it's laws. There's no such thing as something from nothing. We're
  talking basic physics here: take a few atoms, stick them together,
  squish out the excess energy and what do you have?"

  "I don't know, what?"

  "You get fusion. You know, the sun. Tokomak. Princeton!" It shook Its
  glowing head, "Sheesh!", It quietly muttered.

  "You know that forest in eastern Asia?" It continued. "Where all those
  trees were flattened?"

  "Sure. In Tunguska, 1908.", replied Yafmenn.

  "An Illuminated soul did that."

  "What?", Yafmenn replied incredulously.

  "He was on a date when his wagon wheel broke. He didn't want to dirty
  his cloths, so he tried to create a new wheel and woosh... Anyway,
  just because you get enlightened doesn't mean you can find where
  Andrew Wiles made his mistake!". 'Oops', It thought to Itself. But
  Yafmenn was too preoccupied to catch the reference.

  "But I thought I'd be able to perform miracles, you know, events
  beyond the realm of physics. Says here ...", Yafmenn grabbed the
  paperback Webster's New World from behind his Deep Thoughts by Jack
  Handey calendar. "...Says here... 'Miracle' blah blah blah 'an event
  or action that apparently contradicts known scientific laws'."

  "Sorry, that's a myth. Besides, you missed the 'apparently'
  qualifier."

  "What about all the stuff Jesus did? Water-walking, the fish thing,
  all that healing stuff?"

  "Jesus Christ! that's all I seem to hear! Sometimes I think we ought
  to have an FAQ just for the newbie enlightened! When Jesus
  'apparently' walked on water, it was really just a huge block of ice -
  he changed the water to ice as he stepped. Nearly slipped and broke
  his neck, too! I wouldn't recommend you do any miracles. Most
  enlightened people say away from them."

  "What about doing some good in the world. I wouldn't mind making it
  rain in, say, Ethiopia. So they can get a decent planting season
  going. Anything wrong with that?"

  "Actually, you run into a conservation of mass problem. Don't you
  remember that episode of I Dream of Genie, where she loses her powers
  and what's-his-name get them? Remember what she said to him when he
  wanted to do the same thing?"

  Yafmenn shook his head, "No, not really. I actually didn't pay much
  attention to the dialogue."

  "She said, 'If you make it rain in the desert, you may empty a river.'
  Conservation of mass."

  "Ok, so I can't affect the physical world, what about knowledge?",
  asked Yafmenn.

  "What about it?"

  "I've got questions I'd like answer to: One, Dark Matter, what's is
  made of. Two, what's the deal with Cold Fusion. Three, the guy in the
  next office has been working on disabling the AIDS protease. He's got
  a bunch of chemicals he's testing. I'd like to know which will do the
  trick so I can tell him."

  "What, I look like Robin Williams? You figure you have 3 wishes I have
  to grant?"

  "No, no. I don't want you to answer them! Look. I worked hard to get
  here. I studied, thought, stayed away from wild women, only did a
  small amount of drugs. I was expecting a little transcendence; a
  glimpse into the mind of Infinite. I thought I could do something good
  for the world. Maybe you've forgotten - or maybe you've never been
  incarnate - but his place needs a lot of help! Besides, I always
  thought I was going to so something special in with life."

  "You're starting to sound like Oprah! But I understand. You're still
  attached to this flavor of your being. That's why you have all these
  desires. And you also have the limitations imposed by the laws of
  Nature. But if you tried to drink from the pool of Infinite wisdom,
  you're head will explode! And I mean that literally! To bring back the
  answers to the questions you seek will take painstakingly careful dips
  into the Infinite Pool. It would take just as long for you to find the
  answers as it would for anyone else. As far as Cold Fusion is
  concerned all I can say is that there are Universes that follow other
  laws..."

  'I thought so!', thought Yafmenn. 'They somehow tapped into a parallel
  universe'

  "...And one such universe is the one that Ponns and Fleshman inhabit.
  All by themselves!"

  At this, the Luminous being roared with laughter. This went on for
  several minutes. At one point It fell to Its knees and pounded on the
  floor, repeatedly. Yafmenn looked on with irritation. Finally the
  laughter began to subside.

  "Sorry", It said and sat back down. This time in one of the rolling
  chairs that rock. " But those guys crack me up..."

  "So what do I do now? I don't see what good came from any of this. I
  can't perform miracles; can't access the Infinite Mind; can't bring
  anything back to the world to help."

  "Your journey is your gift to the world. So just go on living your
  life. There's really nothing else you _can_ do. You see, gaining
  enlightenment is like winning the lottery: you don't change as a
  person, you just don't have to live 'paycheck to paycheck' - 'moral'
  paycheck, that is. Besides, you'll notice little changes in yourself
  from this experience."

  "Like?"

  "Well, you might start wanting to change your cats' water and litter a
  little more often. At least, _they_ hope so!" The Luminous Being
  smiled.

  'Boy that is little', Yafmenn thought.

  "And, as an added bonus, you might find yourself able to stay awake at
  those chemistry seminars."

  "If anything, this conversation has been enlightening", Yafmenn said.

  The Luminous being stood. "Well, that's my queue. I've gotta go. But
  if you need me for anything, just click your heels 3 times." The
  expression on Yafmenn's face, made the Luminous being add quickly, "It
  wasn't my idea, a standards committee came up with it..."

  The Luminous being smiled and began to fade. Yafmenn thought he heard
  it chanting, "Living in the material world...". As he turned back to
  his computer, he saw his IMSS float the next random inspirational
  message:

           __"LIVE, AS IF THE DAY WERE HERE!" NIETZSCHE.__

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"The Honeymoon" by Jim Esch


  Cynthia peels the wedding dress from her lithe frame and falls onto
  the stiff motel bed. She didn't want to do this, why, she didn't even
  plan to do this, yet here she went and did it.

  The bathroom door opens and in walks a gorilla dressed in a burgundy
  tuxedo. The gorilla curls his eyebrow and speaks in a suave, albeit
  husky voice. "Well baby, this is the moment we've _both_ been waiting
  for!"

  Cynthia doesn't know what to think. He really isn't a bad looking ape,
  and he has a nice demanor. The setting sun tinges his fur orange. She
  hops under the sheets.

  "We have to hurry so I can get to sleep before midnight."

  "Why," she asks.

  "If I don't fall asleep by midnight I'll turn into an insurance
  salesman."

  "God forbid. Let's do it."

  They spend the remainder of the evening in ecstacy, until 11:30 PM,
  when the gorilla swallows two Sominex tablets and promptly nods off.

  Cynthia has a dream. She dreams about primates. Thousands of cackling
  chimps in Pampers. Gorillas too. She has to change them all. There's
  not enough baby oil. The gorilla sits above her in a recliner puffing
  an El Producto. He shouts to her, "That's my girl, haha!"

  She wakes the next morning to the smell of cologne. The gorilla is
  fitted in his best pressed summer suit.

  "Where you going?" she asks.

  "Get up, we've got mass this morning."

  "You mean you're Catholic?"

  "That's right."

  She groans. "Oh God, not a Catholic."

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"Corn Lover in Winter" by William C. Burns, Jr.


Barely disturbing the stainless snow
  on the rusty corn husks
The echoes of your memory
  dance across the painted porch
The winter air crackles
  with your presence

The unswept oak leaves curl
  in your wake
     a whirlpool lament

Your laughter
  just at the threshold
I lean
     poised to listen

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"Mabel" by William C. Burns, Jr.


I would trust Mabel with an afternoon
  or money
     or love for that matter

Her large dark eyes shine
  hiding nothing
Her long dark arms
  harboring every lost kitten
     dog or man child in the neighborhood
Her simple skirt revealing
     just a bit of leg...

Mabel is the kind of woman that
  holds a family together
A woman that touches her children
  her man
     her life
With abandon

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"HAIKU #337" by William C. Burns, Jr.


ghost indians
  chase rusty leaves
  empty parking lots

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"Does He Limp?" by Leonard S. Edgerly


A girl in my fourth-grade class
moved away then came back and told
about her new school. When she came
to the name of her new principal
I joked from way back in the back row,
   _"Does he limp?"_

I knew immediately it wasn't funny-
a dumb, smart-kid comment
on the thick shoe and swinging left leg
of Mr. Madson, our principal, who limped
through the hollow halls of our school
like a circus act you didn't dare stare at
for fear he'd notice you watching that shoe,
that exaggerated rise and fall of his shoulder.

Fromway back in the back row I nearly threw up
after joking about the limp, about that shoe
unlike any fast sneaker we kids would race on out
onto the playground-and soon the whole world
where now about once a month I still feel
that same sickening rise from my stomach
when some careless word of mine snaps
me back to that fat black shoe
clumping along, minding its own business,
wondering if that boy ever forgave himself
for being so damn clever.

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"< homesick for the lost continent >" by Ray Heinrich


       there's an answer
       on my machine today
       in between all those messages
       some of them from my father
       from each stop on his trip
       some of them from you

       i remember sitting
       across the table from you
       you looking at me
       and each of us
       so homesick
       for the lost continent

       i'm waiting
       for that lost continent
       to come back from the ocean
       i'm waiting for the water to drain
       from its caves
       i'm waiting for the moss
       to take hold again
       and for the seabirds to come

       i am homesick
       for the lost continent
       i am staring at you staring at me

       in the space of time
       the earth regains a tree
       i have regained you
       but we both still sit
       and when we stare
       at each other
       we are still homesick
       for the lost continent

       we have become
       older
       and our time is slowed
       and trees can be
       like fountains
       coming from the earth
       and the seasons
       come fast enough
       to produce
       the sensation of motion

       we are waiting
       the parts of us are waiting
       for the next salesman
       coming to our door
       selling the promise of rebirth
       making us homesick again
       for the lost continent

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------
--+
"A Box of One's Own" by Matt Armstrong


  When Carrie was brought to her new home by her mother and introduced
  to her new family, with her new father who awkwardly offered his lap,
  not sure if a girl just into her teenage years would appreciate the
  gesture, and her new sister who regarded her with as much indifference
  as could be afforded an unwanted roommate, and her new older brother
  with his bulky oversized body ensconced in his own private world, she
  was too numb to care. As she explained to Sarah, her sister _pro tem_,
  there comes a time along the lines of watching your father's slow
  disintegration under the pressure of cancer that you realize there is
  no longer any safety, so why bother. Well, she didn't exactly say
  this, but she had always wanted to when Sarah would cast a stony look
  her way and ask her what it is like to have a dead father.

  Besides, Sarah wouldn't understand. She has found her place of safety.
  She knows exactly where to hide. She has her box; that monstrous
  construction of unfinished oak that sits at the foot of her bed. Its
  sturdy grain is stenciled around the border in a light pastel of pink
  two-legged pigs with little patches of red and blue flowers gracing
  the corners. It has a lid anchored by a simple hook that for the most
  part is left dangling, because the weight of the lid is more than
  enough to hold it down. It could easily house every old toy or shoe or
  piece of clothing in their room, but it remains empty, doubling as a
  bench mostly.

  It is in this box where Sarah hides when Pete shuffles down the hall
  every few nights from his comic book dungeon of adolescent delights
  and climbs into Carrie's bed. It is also what Carrie focuses upon when
  Pete rolls on top of her and stokes his pecker against her stomach and
  pinches her nubile budding breasts between his slurping lips. Sarah
  always leaves her yellow pompoms on top of it, and they hang off the
  sides reminding Carrie of the golden epaulets that always adorned the
  shoulders of the handsome prince in one of her father's bedtime
  stories. But the stories are gone now, dead like her father.

  It must be dark in there, she thinks, looking over Pete's fumbling
  head towards the box. It must be a darkness so pure, so perfect, that
  you can't even see your hand before your face. It must be so quiet in
  there that the only sounds are your own. Breathing must be so loud,
  she thinks, how melodious is the batting of an eye. Yes, safety must
  be found in there.

  These thoughts hurt her, though. Like the fresh sting of his dull
  teeth pinching her nipples. And she is pulled back to what is
  happening to her right then by the turbulent gyrations of the ball of
  fat that is riding on top of her. He releases himself all over her,
  and it oozes around in the dark, soaking into her clothes and sheets,
  and he collapses on top of her. He slinks off the bed, not even
  looking at her, then slides his pants back on in a dark that has now
  become darker, and shuffles towards the door with his head bowed. When
  the door closes, Sarah pops out of the box and climbs back into her
  bed.

  They lie in silence for a few minutes.

  "When are you going to do something about him?" Sarah asks.

  "He's your brother," Carrie says. "Besides, he said he'd kill us."

  They remain quiet contemplating this. Sarah has nothing to fear, they
  both know he won't commit incest; he's just sick enough to obey this
  taboo. So as long as she is able to crouch in the box of safety, why
  would she care?

  "Do you really think he would kill us?" Carrie asks.

  "Yes."

  Neither of them sleeps that night.

    _________________________________________________________________


  The next evening, they sit down together to a light dinner, which they
  pass in the customary, but tasteless routine of questions on daily
  life and answers which border on careless resplendence. Carrie hides
  her doleful demeanor behind a somewhat false account of her goings on
  in junior high. Her new father seems interested, but caters more to
  Sarah's silly accounts of cheerleading practice and some fight over a
  new head cheerleader. Sarah's usual mendacities, however, have been
  tempered today by last night's exhaustions, and Carrie can detect a
  note of indifference in her description of the day's activities.

  Carrie is alarmed, though, because she notices in Pete's eye that he
  is planning to pay another visit tonight. He is looking right through
  her. She considers telling her mother, but she is reticent, worried
  about the effect such a revelation might have on the first happiness
  she sees in her mother since her father's death.

  Alone in their room, she sits before the box, tracing with her finger
  the outline of one of the pigs. Their pink is so soft, like the petals
  on the roses her father once grew, so delicate they gave themselves
  over to the wind and drifted carefree into the sky. The pigs all face
  the same direction, each with their nose in the butt of the one before
  it, like a carousel of pigs, and those patches of flowers in the
  corner, made by the lightest dab of a brush, astound her with their
  frankness. She can still see the brush strokes. The creator left her
  mark. She flicks absently at the dangling hook.

  All she would have to do is climb in. He would walk in and she would
  be gone, lost in the box, lost in the world Sarah is able to flee to,
  a world of impenetrable darkness and a silence broken only by one's
  self. She would be away from this world that causes so much pain. Her
  sister walks in and sees her slumped over the box. Carrie looks up at
  her.

  "I need a box of my own," she says to her. Sarah looks down at her,
  silent, but with her eyes filling with tears.

  In all their months together, this is the first actual look she has
  received from Sarah. Though a hug or any type of touch seems
  appropriate at the moment, they decline and dress for bed in a clouded
  stupor.

  As they climb into their respective beds, the low hiss of the swaying
  trees filters into their room, and the night rescinds into a tired
  silence. Through the midnight light which her eyes slowly adjust to,
  Carrie can see those epaulets hanging on the box, and she begins to
  tremble. Up the hall, she can hear the faint clicking of her brother's
  door, sliding open, but she can't be sure because it sounds no
  different from the house settling.

  "He's coming," Sarah says, suddenly standing at her bedside. "Quick,
  get into my bed." She pulls back the covers and drags Carrie towards
  the other bed.

  "Get in," she orders again.

  Carrie climbs into her sister's bed and pulls the covers up tight. Her
  sister then jumps into her own bed. Carrie manages to whisper, "He'll
  know it's you," to her before the door opens.

  He walks in like he always does, cautious, a guiding hand drifting
  before him as he stumbles across the dark room. Carrie glides out of
  bed, confidant that his eyes still burning from the outside light are
  unable to discern her features. She lifts the lid, pink pigs faintly
  visible in the darkness, and steps in. She crouches down into a ball,
  rolling into a fetal position, as the lid clamps down on top of her. A
  cold darkness envelops her, and this she imagines--or remembers--is
  what it must be like to be in the womb, with the slightest movement
  pulsing in her ears and a liquid blackness that hides even her hands
  before her face.

  She hears a faint sound, however. It is a sound that drifts in between
  her breaths, between her slight movements to find comfort. It is a
  quiet whimper, like a baby's cry, seeping in from the outside, and
  this makes her think of her father, who in his last days, just before
  the cancer had totally eaten him up, had told her that hell knows no
  bounds.

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"Fine Wind, Clear Morning" by John Landry


                       some day after the wind
                       and the rain and gravity
                       have flattened Fuji and all
                       the woodblock prints are eaten
                       a dream will still remember
                       and 10,000 children will pile
                       on top of one another
                       to imitate its shape

                       not ever afraid of silence
                       above the tree line
                       my hat and red bandanna
                       the only shade there is
                       until a cloud comes by
                       like a friend to lay a hand
                       on my sad shoulder
                       or a stranger not walking
                       when the sign says WALK
                       to lay a dollar in
                       a stranger's paper cup

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"Boat Returning in a Storm" by John Landry


refusing to believe the ocean ate them
the grieving fishwives sit and listen
to the lashings on the wharf scrape
the pilings where secretly at night
ghost boats tie and dead crews
empty into dockside bars

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"Baton Rouge During the Gulf War" by John Landry
 war journal 1990-91
 for Denise Levertov


On my bicycle crossing LSU
ponytail bouncing off my backpack
Faggot  Dopplers from a pickup truck
one driver, one passenger
between them a child.

Before the capitol Huey Long had built
and was shot down in
crowds of flags are waving
T-shirts rank with ragheads
and camel jockeys  insensitive as
briar back home under snow.

Staties were called for controlling the crowd
for protecting flag and capitol
not the small contingent of folks against the war
So many insults so many threats
against like-skinned like-capped people
living in the same sorry state.

I ride my usual trail atop the levee
along the quiet lip of Mississippi
and there the threesome stand
the child yells there's that guy!
the driver hushes him
I stare the three
straight through the eyes
and see the river swirling
Eve'nin'  is all I offer them
with thick down Maine Yankee accent
bow and pedal on to the bridge base
and return right past them one last time
watching the Southern sun go down again.

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"Oh Cat" by Gail Reichert


Creeping diffidently you nestle into my crooks and hollows,
chin reaching to seek the blunt touch of an articulate hand.
I hold my breath as you settle onto me soft as a drift of feathered snow.

To move now would be to scatter your gentle trust, so hard won,
to still the delicate prickling rhythm of your paws,
the rasping stretch of your pink washrag tongue,
the ceaseless drone of your rumbling tide-song purr.

Time stops. We float in this small, calm moment, and dream.

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"Soren at the Sweetwater" by Todd R. Robinson


               Trailer-park trash and tart PBR's
               their orange tye-dyes gleam
               through the smoke and stench
               of the Sweetwater tavern.

               Sun-stroked women
               and beer-buzzed men
               some long legged beauty
               takes her seat.

               Soren tries not to stare
               but his eyes are tired--
               they settle in her hair
               and rest there a while.

               "Es wird," he mutters,
               (because he has forsaken Danish)
               "etwas geschehen."
               Something is going to happen.

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"Degrees of Separation" by Michael S. Adams


"As yet I have not found a single terrestrial animal
  which can fertilize itself."
       - Charles Darwin


then she gets up and tells me all she wants is a cigarette
and maybe a cold glass of water and where do I keep the
damned cups in this place anyway? on the counter next to
the sink, but to me we'd just had sex and I loved it but she
was so uncomfortable and for all her years more than me
and experience I probably hurt her or embarrassed her or
disgusted her because now she's walking around my
apartment when just two minutes ago I was inside her and
maybe it wasn't sex at all and we just fucked, and I always
thought women wanted to cuddle afterwards and men were
the insensitive ones and then why am I sill laying here
breathless while she's more or less in routine just like
she was a hooker not the girl that I've known for almost a
month-

Everything turns backwards
as she slowly clothes herself,
zipper up, button up,
tucks everything in,
and I think I get the hint
  because I get up to pee
and suddenly I feel
  so cold being naked and put on some
  underwear and a t-shirt that my mom
  just mailed me from up north.

It's not even past midnight
  and she's halfway through the door,
her features exaggerated by the light
  that the moon and lamps both pour-
Only halfway out the door because she remembers
that she left something behind and this sends her
eyes through my apartment too see
something, skipping over me.

       Tapping like drums or like hard fingernails
          on polished tables, beats my heart through thick jailhouse rails,
       and some mystery suggests
          that maybe evolution is not in the slick pyramids of Giza,
       but in the terraced steps
          of the mastabas, or tombs in Mexico, or neither.

       Fighting, crying to be born,
       the Earth was shattered and torn,
       by lightning, rain, and thunder storm-
       in that same mold my life is formed,

       hinting only that maybe the
          absence of, say, thunder
       might inhibit our birth
          from water, from under
       the sea where we emerged and began,
       but one ingredient spoiled and then . . .

What becomes of this Earth, my life?
Like it was never commanded, "Let there be Light!".
Some repression of what would make me mature,
closure - my bitterness as she closes the door.

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"THE SOUR SWEETNESS OF TOBACCO" BY RONALD E. TISDALE


clinging
to your fingers

no matter how many times
you soap your hands in
ritual lather

you cannot erase
those brown stains
of a life marked by choices:

What color
will my next lover be

What space
will we inhabit

Whether dreaming
to carry his lust to term

or to consciously abort.

Now
only in the course of a dream
or a dreamt of visit

in phone calls and letters we chart
each others progress through foreign places.

Our litany of being:

We are stretched across a cable under the ocean
voices pressured, muted, stressed

by the slow weighted water poured
in a basin.

You
are the ghost at the other end of the cable

your voice
a fist closed
on my heart.

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"I Remember ..." by Ben Wiebe


I remember...
me as a child
far away in another world
where water drains
the other way (they say)...
but the memory
comes in snapshots
mental kodachrome
or video clips
silent, all too short

Jan. 4, 1995

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"A Surprise Party" by Chuck Kershenblatt


  "Oh, man, you gotta be kidding me," said the Moose.

  He was sitting back in his office chair with a phone receiver in one
  hand and a cigarette in the other. The ashtray was crammed with
  Marlboro butts and he was flicking his ashes into an empty Dr. Pepper
  can.

  He nodded his head and exhaled grey smoke through his nose, then
  rolled his chair up to the desk and rubbed his eyes.

  "For fuck's sake, the truck was due in Pittsburgh two hours ago," said
  the Moose into the phone. "Yeah, alright, I'll call them. Right, you
  too. Bye-bye."

  "Hey, what's happening?" said a voice from the next room. "Come on,
  Moose, let's get out of here. We were supposed to leave a half hour
  ago." Thomas was standing by the doorway with his field jacket on,
  scratching his head.

  The Moose said, "Alright. I'm finishing up now," and he stretched out
  a hand behind the computer and flipped the switch.

  Thomas wandered over to a cluttered table and quietly dumped a jar of
  hard candy into his green wool cap. The Moose sat in his chair for a
  few moments more, then lurched up and tore a long computer print-out
  from a machine the size of a Franklin stove. He stood there ripping
  the roll at its perforated edges, carefully placing the sheets in a
  neat pile on a clip board. His body was tall and broad, with thick
  shoulders and a front lineman's neck. He had straight greasy reddish
  hair and a narrow face marked with a two-day beard. There was a tattoo
  of Bullwinkle on his forearm.

  "Jesus," he said, hanging the clipboard on the wall. "It's been like
  this all day. I haven't had single break. The district manager is out
  fishing."

  This was back in late '93 when the Moose and Thomas were still in
  South Jersey living in that apartment in Elmer, fighting poverty very
  hard with jobs that they could not wait to quit. The Moose had been a
  truck dispatcher for Leaman Chemicals eleven months now and he had
  begun to drink very heavily. Thomas worked the Camden aquarium as a
  seahorse, waving at the weekend crowds and standing next to
  three-year-olds in his floppy yellow outfit, saying over and over:
  "Welcome, welcome!" So they had remained for that strange period since
  college ended, living the precarious life of the underpaid and
  unmotivated, living in the same dirty apartment, eating the same Taco
  Bell burritos. Having leaking ceilings and unpaid bills and bounced
  checks and credit card collectors howling from their answering machine
  about "one last chance," having no spending money and no women; having
  no backyard.

  Now it was well into December. Occasionally they would spot a
  stout-bodied fly in the apartment that had outlived the death of its
  peers and survived for reasons they could only guess at. Gathering any
  money they could find, they would purchase the largest, cheapest
  whiskey bottle available, and a game would begin whereby each
  contestant would toss back a shot of the bottom- shelf whiskey and in
  turn would attempt to dispose of the Uberflea. With each failed smite
  the game would demand double the amount of shots. Any object could be
  used to assassinate the insect except of course a traditional
  fly-swatter. Thomas tended to go for the rolled magazine or newspaper,
  while The Moose claimed he could succeed with a hammer. Soon they
  would be facing at least six shots of the sickening golden spirits,
  which they would examine with very long and very slow concentration.
  Throwing back the sixth sticky glass, immediately one would begin
  climbing upon the cracked folding chairs, swinging their arms madly,
  inefficiently trying to conjure a German accent as they stalked the
  black two-winged beast, screeching: "I vill get yoo, yet, Herr
  Uberflea!" And once again the mutant fly would narrowly miss the
  drunken flail, and once again the contestant would face an ever
  extended line of shots that in very little time would leave him
  gagging on the cold hard ground outside, hugging a tree and spewing
  his guts, begging for a gun.

  So you can see that almost any diversion from the routine was welcome.
  And when the two of them were invited to Jake Casey's surprise party
  in the yuppie suburbs of Philly, with hints of free booze and tons of
  food, their feelings about the celebration took on a crusade-like
  importance utterly misplaced, but understandable. It had been months
  since they had been invited to anything other than court appearances.
  They jumped on the birthday party and refused to let the fact that
  cops would also be attending ruin their anticipation.

  No one had forced Jake Casey to become a cop, no one had even
  suggested it. The Moose claimed it was some Irish thing: priests or
  cops, take your pick. Thomas had known Jake ever since high school,
  back when Jake was a scrawny pot head from Brigantine, a thin pimply
  kid with too many Moody Blues albums and never enough real women in
  his life. Jake used to fall in love with only the most beautiful women
  in Atlantic City high school, and never do anything about it but write
  two-chord love songs and paint abstract watercolours which he claimed
  captured their "essence." Maybe marriage did change everything; Jake
  had married Marian Dore almost four years ago and, who knows, maybe
  his instincts had become skewed. Marian came from money, made lots of
  money, and had that kind of haughty modesty which only true arrogance
  breeds. First Jake had given up drinking, then he gave up coke, then
  he finally let go of his massive marijuana habit; he gained weight,
  loads of it, his chin separating into three new countries, his belly
  jiggling like Jell-O. And then it happened: police academy, criminal
  law classes, his own semi-automatic. But somehow Thomas had never
  really foreseen the outcome, had never grasped that this one-time
  drunken and stoned buddy, the guy who used to play Neil Young till his
  fingers bled, the pal who used to drink cheap Port wine under a rainy
  spring sky and then try to break into abandoned houses--was now armed,
  on the force, chasing down the unlucky with the rest of the men in
  blue. Jake. Six-string cop.
    _________________________________________________________________

  The Moose had freed himself and was locking the office door behind
  him, with his hands in front of him fumbling with the key, and Thomas
  was waiting in the car, sitting behind the wheel of his battered Delta
  88, singing along with the Gin Blossoms on the radio.

  The Moose swung open the heavy passenger door, got in the car, and
  rubbed his chin.

  "Thomas."

  "Yes."

  "Don't sing."

  They drove out of the parking lot and stopped. The Moose jumped out
  and uncovered a key from inside an orange cone by the side of the dirt
  drive. He locked the gate behind them and then returned the key.

  "Some security you got there," said Thomas.

  "Sure is."

  "Which way do I go?"

  "Commodore bridge, then straight up the Blue route."

  Leaman Chemical Trucking Company was just off the Delaware river so
  they found themselves back on the road to the bridge very quickly.

  "Are we picking Carmine up, too?" said Thomas.

  "Yes, and he better be there," The Moose said anxiously. "He's the
  only one who knows how to get to Jake's new place."

  "Think there'll be any single women there?"

  "I don't think so," said The Moose. "I don't think so."

  The Moose was older than Thomas, older and very wise. He was
  twenty-eight and his judgment was highly respected by his roommate.

  "Let's drink tonight," said The Moose.

  "Then what?"

  "Then we can drink some more."

  "Then we can consider the situation."

  The Oldsmobile's shocks were worn and they bounced along a bad stretch
  of 322 before getting onto the freshly paved Blue route.

  "Moose?"

  "Yes."

  "Why's Jake a cop?"

  "It's the authority thing. Women go for uniforms and all that. It's
  really not that bad. He still plays guitar, still hangs out."

  "I don't know, " Thomas said.

  "Hey, that film major in Montana ever write back to you? What's her
  name? Sally?"

  "No, she never wrote. Kinda sucks, you know," said Thomas.

  "Falling in love always sucks."
    _________________________________________________________________

  They reached the exit. Thomas pointed the Delta 88 off the three lane
  highway and suddenly emerged into one of those faceless suburbs with
  identical strip malls and matching BMWs. The Moose lit a cigarette.

  Thomas said, "I know. Carmine's house is down this street on the
  right. Right?"

  "But we're not picking him up there. He's at work. Hang a left."

  They pulled a sharp turn and got behind a mini van doing twenty on a
  single-lane street with traffic lights at every other corner. Carmine
  Correlli worked at some kind of computer tech company which The Moose
  pointed out after they had missed the entrance. Thomas swung around
  and came in through the exit, just missing a head-on with a large
  white Mercedes.

  "Did you see that guy?" said Thomas. "The fucker gave me a dirty look.
  Let's go back and feed him to the wolves."

  "There are no wolves in Montgomery county."

  "Guess you're right."

  They parked in front of an office complex called CompWrite and Thomas
  cut the motor and grabbed his jacket. It was a cold, cloudless night,
  and the sidewalks and darkened windows glimmered from the street lamps
  and full moon. The Moose flicked his cigarette butt into the gutter
  and walked ahead towards the twin glass doors. A receptionist buzzed
  them in and then picked up a telephone receiver: "The two
  grungy-looking guys you were expecting are here, Carmine." She was a
  small young woman with bright red lipstick, mousy permed hair, ample
  bosom. Thomas shook some of his long hair out of his eyes and gave her
  a nervous smile. The air smelled of brand new carpets. Carmine
  appeared and waved them back to his office.

  "I think your secretary likes me," said Thomas.

  "How's it going, Carmine?" said The Moose.

  "Hey, guys," said Carmine.

  "She's terrific. Invite her to the party!" said Thomas waving his
  arms.

  "No, can't do that," said Carmine. "Got to keep a low profile. She
  would know too much."

  Carmine used to be a roommate back when they were younger and had
  rented a house off- campus and thought Pink Floyd's _Wish You Were
  Here _combined with bong hits was as good as life got. He was huge and
  resembled a kind of Italian Gerard Depardieu. His nose bordered on
  colossal and his hair was always pushed back from his forehead, only
  to fall back again in long oily strands. He still smoked Dunhills with
  a gold-tipped cigarette holder.

  "Well, well. What you guys been up to?"

  "Nothing."

  "Not a lot."

  "How's life in Elmer?"

  "How do you think life is in Elmer?" said Thomas.

  They examined Carmine's office, a pleasant room with a window looking
  out onto a woodlot and a hidden creek; a framed print on the cream
  colored walls of some Monet. Carmine's computer sat on his desk and
  computer manuals stood on the shelves. A framed picture of his wife
  Debbie rested next to his keyboard: Debbie staring into the sun and
  wearing an orange bikini.

  "Guess we better get going," said Carmine.

  They crossed the hallways and met the receptionist once more. "Oh,
  wait, I got to give Debbie a call," said Carmine.

  Thomas leaned his elbows on the reception counter. "I work at an
  aquarium," he said to the young woman.

  "Really."

  "It's over in Jersey. Do you like fish?"

  "I guess so."

  "Sure you do. Jesus! Look at you. You're beautiful. Give me a pen."

  Thomas scrawled his phone number and handed it to her. He shoved the
  pen in his pocket. "Just give me a call, really. I'm also very
  interested in chemicals. I minored in psycho- pharmacology, you know."

  "Really."

  Carmine finished his call and joined them outside.

  "What did she say?" Carmine asked.

  "She said she's interested. We're going to do some acid and take in a
  Flyers game. It looks good."

  Thomas was twenty-three; five whole years younger than The Moose,
  though the same age as Carmine. He was fairly tall and chubby, with a
  lot of black hair and an almost Native American looking face which
  made him seem older. He had been a film major in college and had once
  created a fifteen minute black-and-white film about a philosopher who
  loses his umbrella. He moved slowly and lazily and had the habit of
  looking away when speaking to someone.

  Carmine said, "Mind if we stop at my place first and pick up my
  guitar?"

  "You got any beers?" The Moose said.
    _________________________________________________________________

  They were about ten miles north from where Jake Casey used to live.
  His brand new condo was on this road somewhere, Carmine assured them.
  They drove on a winding country road which no longer was a country
  road at all as the surrounding woodlots and orchards had been replaced
  with apartment complexes and condo complexes and strip malls and real
  malls and Blockbuster Video. The traffic moved very slowly.

  At a small turn in the road Carmine pointed out an entrance to a very
  unfinished outline of what would soon be new and expensive condos.
  "This is their place," he cheered. "Pull in all the way down there.
  Marian said to hide the cars."

  Carmine's wife Debbie stood by the entrance of Jake's new property,
  surrounded by a freshly landscaped green lawn with tiny young pines
  planted in discreet patterns. Except for the condo directly opposite,
  the rest of the complex was sorely unfinished and more than a few
  heavy machines stood silent amidst the upturned earth and construction
  materials. "Hey, guys!" Debbie said, as she leaned against the massive
  front door. "How you doing Moose? Hey, Thomas."

  She shook the set of keys in her hands: "I can't get the door open!"

  Carmine set down his guitar case and peered through the windows.

  Marian had left her with a set of keys and a list of instructions.
  They were to bring in the food (a super hoagie the length of a
  javelin), carry in the booze (two cases of Yeungling beer, a twelve-
  pack of nonalcoholic beer, a bottle of Tanguray gin, and two bottles
  of Absolute vodka), hang up the decorations (a coruscated banner with
  birthday greetings in capital letters, three helium-filled balloons),
  and unload the refrigerator of its assorted snacks, hors d'oeuvres,
  and onion dip.

  Carmine attempted opening the door but did not have much luck. While
  the rest of them tried to see if they could sneak in the back
  entrance, Thomas grabbed the set of keys, picked one that seemed would
  work, and placed it in the gold-painted lock. It opened immediately.

  "Hey, guys!" he yelled.

  He opened the door and stood in the polished foyer. "Oh Jesus," he
  said slowly. The two- story condo was brilliant, immaculate,
  tastefully decorated, spotless. It offered a very tall fireplace and a
  grand piano. The ceiling in the living room was also quite grand,
  terribly so, and the architects had proudly placed a giant mirror
  directly above the mantle of the fireplace to really drive the point
  home. "Look at this place!" Debbie said.

  The Moose opened a case of beer, Carmine spread out the sub, Debbie
  poked in the refrigerator, and Thomas hung the banner across the
  bottom of the giant mirror with some scotch tape. They finished the
  preparations in about ten minutes and stood around under the bright
  kitchen light. The Moose was on his second beer and Thomas was
  drinking the Absolute straight from the bottle. Soon the other guests
  arrived.

  Police officer Lawrence R. Malloy entered the party accompanied by his
  wife, whose name no one could remember. The latter was dressed in
  something perhaps homemade, perhaps once seen late on TV back in 1973.
  It was checkered and it was long, it was cotton, maybe, and it
  successfully enveloped her figure like a starched stretched table
  cloth. Her head was awkward and not quite aligned with the rest of her
  body; it looked uncomfortable. One could not really discover any neck.
  Her face held an exceedingly wide smile, and throughout the evening
  the smile never once dared to free itself. It clung to her pale face
  like a barnacle. The former ("Just call me Larry") sported the
  standard issue mustache, as well as a head of hair which perhaps once
  belonged to some helpless animal. His brown polyester pants were held
  up by a lighter brown leather belt, upon which hung a thick key ring.

  Officer Malloy shook The Moose's hand. "Hey, man," The Moose said.

  In an instant Peeve and Ingrid entered, followed shortly by officer
  Paul O'Brian, who came without company and had a head full of curly
  ginger hair, a genuinely shy smile. Peeve surveyed the party with his
  all-weather smirk. His thinning hair seemed to have been recently
  making a run for it, and he no longer bothered trimming his deep black
  beard. Ingrid appeared thinner than usual, her face displaying an
  obvious gauntness around the eyes. She smiled at The Moose and asked
  for a beer.

  "Help yourself," said Carmine as he bit into a mound of hoagie,
  mayonnaise dribbling down his chin.

  Peeve uncovered Jake's new Sony Professional 8 video camera and soon
  felt more comfortable coming up to the guests and zooming in on their
  nostril hairs. Thomas and Debbie decided to take a tour. He followed
  her up the winding stairs, in one hand his vodka bottle, in the other
  a beer which trailed foam behind him.

  "This is nice." Debbie said in an awed whisper.

  The master bedroom was suitably huge and they could not help
  themselves from examining the master bathroom as well. They gazed at
  the sunken tub which could easily accommodate Siamese sumo wrestlers.

  "We better keep a look out," Debbie said, "it's quarter after seven."

  Ingrid joined them and they moved to the next room which Jake used for
  storing his amplifiers and guitars, and offered a better view of the
  street. They leaned against the cold new windows in the dark.

  "What exactly are we looking for?" said Thomas.

  Debbie said, "It's a big black Bronco. Marian just bought it last
  week."

  Thomas drained his beer. "There you go," he said, "that's it, isn't
  it?"

  The three of them peered intensely at the headlights coming up the
  deserted street. Debbie tore from the room, shouting from the landing:
  "They're here! They're here! Turn off the lights! Oh, and Marian said
  we should wait on the steps, okay?"

  The house lights were darkened, the conversations muffled. Thomas
  stood behind Debbie, while Carmine stood behind The Moose. The rest of
  the guests huddled close together. "Sshh!" someone said.

  Peeve aimed the camera and they listened for the door. They heard the
  first footsteps, the sound of keys tossed on the dining room table.
  Jake was saying something about the Bronco. They waited. Suddenly he
  came into view beneath the stairs, his donut belly protruding from his
  unzipped bomber jacket. "SURPRISE!"

  Jake turned to his right with the stealthiness of a puma. His right
  hand had the 9mm semi- automatic Glock pistol out from his waistband
  holster before the greeting had even closed its second syllable.

  It was one of those suspended moments one hears about but rarely
  experiences. The happy message of goodwill crashed against his sleek
  black barrel and actually seemed to hang there, as if the moment were
  not sure which way to go. Though no one on the stairs had time in
  those few seconds to observe it, their faces had undergone exquisite
  changes, instantly turning bewildered- looking, paler, a collective
  life force in distress.

  Jake's mouth hung open, his eyes hollow. Then the awful seconds let go
  their hold and Jake jerked his hand back and the faces regained their
  smiles. Yet, as Jake tried to fit the pistol back into its hidden
  holster, an eerie silence seemed to drown out the giddy laughs and
  nervous conversation. Marian hugged her husband and smiled, her eyes
  almost tearful with strained nerves, and one by one the guests
  descended from the stairs and greeted the birthday boy. The Moose and
  Thomas stared at each other.

  "A burglar doesn't stand a chance in this house, huh?" said Thomas.

  "Not a chance," said The Moose.

  "I saw my life pass before my eyes. Only it seemed shorter, you know.
  I think I left out a lot."

  "Good thing we were in the back," said the Moose.

  "Yes. I don't think the first clip would have got us."

  "Maybe a stray bullet."

  "Maybe."

  They were the last to greet Jake and Marian. While the Moose shook
  hands with Jake, Thomas hugged Marian, whose voice was gone from some
  sort of laryngitis. her mouth opened, and it seemed as if she formed
  something resembling words, but the sounds were lodged in her throat,
  feeble. "I'm so glad you came," she managed to say.

  "Hey!" Jake said, his eyes still paralyzed.

  "Hey," said Thomas.

  They hugged each other and then Thomas shrugged his shoulders.

  "How you been?" Jake said.

  Thomas looked at his empty beer bottle and nodded his head. "Okay," he
  said. He shuffled away and strode to the refrigerator. "Okay," he said
  to himself.

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                            About the Authors


  o Michael S. Adams ([email protected]) is a funky dude living somewhere
  in the backroads of eastern Florida, where's he's working on a silly
  tan and collecting notes for his book on Oprah's favorite recipies.
  He's available for dramatic reading at parties and Bar Mitzvahs of his
  own, family-oriented poetry.

  o Matt Armstrong ([email protected]) is a recent graduate of The
  University of Kansas, where he received degrees in English and
  Philosophy. For the past few years, he has dedicated himself to the
  task of feeding himself on an endless diet of rejection slips. This is
  his first published piece.

  o William C. Burns, Jr. ([email protected]) is an Artist,
  Poet and Engineer (APE). Poetic and illustrative works have appeared
  in _The Morpo Review_, _The New Press_, _Beyond the Moon_ and _Sparks
  On Line_. Having no shame, Bill has held public readings at the local
  Barnes & Noble and Open Book book stores. He is an artist as well.
  Many of his murals and sculptures are on permanent display at various
  colleges as well as numerous, privately held works. He is indigenous
  to the eastern part of the planet and sustains his family teaching
  electrical engineering courses. Other occupations have included
  pumping diesel, mining coal, peddling heavy equipment and fixing
  traffic lights.

  o Leonard S. Edgerly ([email protected]) has published poetry in _The
  New York Quarterly_, _High Plains Literary Review_, and _The Morpo
  Review_. A member of the Western States Arts Federation Board of
  Trustees and the Wyoming Arts Council, he makes his living as a
  natural gas company executive in Casper, Wyoming.

  o Jim Esch ([email protected]) is a writing skills specialist at
  Washington University in St. Louis. He is also is a freelance writer.
  Originally from Pennsylvania, he co-edits the literary 'zine,
  _Sparks_, with his wife Stacy.

  o Ray Heinrich ([email protected]) is an ex-Texas technofreak
  and hippie-socialist wannabe who writes poems for thrills and
  attention. He likes dogs, owns a blue fish, and is a real smart-ass.
  You'll only encourage him if you send him e-mail. He regularly posts
  poems to the newsgroup rec.arts.poems and always puts his initials
  "rh" in the subject line. He also emails one or two poems every Friday
  to a small group of people including his sister. If you would like to
  be in that group, send him e-mail.

  o Chuck Kershenblatt ([email protected]) is a native of
  south Jersey and spends half of the year working at The Brandywine
  Zoo, studying the Tamarins and Marmosets; the other half of the year
  he collects unemployment and reads Jules Verne. In his spare time he
  collects hairballs and empty beer bottles.

  o John Landry ([email protected]) is from New Bedford Massachusetts.
  He has lived in San Francisco, Austin, Texas, Louisiana, Washington,
  D.C. and on the islands of Maui and Patmos. He has survived as a
  factory-worker, quahogger, scallop-shucker, library assistant, AIDS
  educator and shelter worker. He's read his work at _City Lights_ (SF)
  and (at the invite of Gwendolyn Brooks) the Library of Congress.

  o Clem Padin ([email protected]) is currently a senior
  programmer analyst at Dupont Merck Pharmaceutal Company. He's helping
  to implement a LIMS system there. He has too many interests, is
  married and has a 9 year old son.

  o Gail Reichert could not be reached for a biography by press time.

  o Todd R. Robinson is happy to announce his impending nupitals on
  Saturday, June 24th. He currently earns his daily bread at the Mutual
  of Omaha Companies, but hopes to escape to the dubious comfort of
  graduate school in the Fall.

  o Ronald E. Tisdale ([email protected]) is a software programmer,
  literary enthusiast and Internet junkie who occasionally writes
  poetry. He has been writing and publishing poetry since 1983. He has a
  World Wide Web page at http://www.netaxs.com/people/kinokawa/.

  o Ben Wiebe ([email protected]) is 29, a writer, a cynic, a fan of
  art (literary, musical, cinematic, etc.), a member of the Pickle
  Suppositories Movie Club, a Mennonite, a Canadian born in Brazil to
  parents of German descent, a soccer nut, still a student and engaged
  to Rachel Anderson.

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                             In Their Own Words

  o _A Box of One's Own_ by Matt Armstrong
         "Most stories arise out of nothing tangible, and this is a
         prime example. I have no first-hand experience of the events of
         which I write, but the characters are so archetypical that they
         are easily recognizable. I was attempting to address the
         absurdity of a prison, that even when you're free of it, your
         thoughts continually revert to your confinement and to those
         you left behind."

  o _The Honeymoon_ by Jim Esch
         "_The Honeymoon_ depicts a classic 'missing the forest for the
         trees' scenario. Relationships commonly harp on details,
         leaving fundamental incompatibilities aside in a repressed
         netherworld. In this case, the religious hangup overshadows the
         husband's species. It seemed like the short-short format was
         the best way to dramatize this point. Beyond that, any
         symbolic/comic significance is probably too predictable to
         mention here."

  o _A Conversation Between A Luminous Being And An Enlightened Soul_ by
         Clem Padin
         "I occasionally have these 'experiences'/awakenings. They
         usually come after spending a concentrated amount of time
         reading/thinking about some philosophical issue. But after a
         few days, the 'mist' re-descends. This latest one (which
         prompted me to write this story) came after listening to Joseph
         Campbell. What hit me this time was that nothing changed, only
         my perception. No one could tell anything was different in me
         and I couldn't communicate what was happening. It was like that
         joke: 'someone broke into my house, moved everything in it,
         then put it all back exactly how it was before'. That's part of
         what I wanted to say. I also wanted to have a little fun with
         some recent scientific ideas (although Cold Fusion is a bit
         dated)."

  o _Corn Lover in Winter_ by William C. Burns, Jr.
         "My grandfather's porch seems to show up in a lot of my poetry.
         It covered three quarters of the house and it was painted
         battleship grey. In my youth, we often ate dinner on the porch
         then watched the day dissolve sitting in lawn chairs and on the
         rails. It was a place of family passions, mint juleps and grand
         gestures."

  o _Mabel_ by William C. Burns, Jr.
         "The last line of the poem kinda says it all, Mabel is the kind
         of woman that holds a family together. Yes she is a real
         person, but Mabel is not her real name."

  o _HAIKU #337_ by William C. Burns, Jr.
         "Spring is the most difficult season. Its like when you stop
         someone from committing suicide and they slap you. Consider the
         terrifying, eerie power of the engine that forces dead matter
         to rise, hold itself erect and dance."

  o _Does He Limp?_ by Leonard S. Edgerly
         "This poem has no right to be good poetry, since it was such
         good therapy, and the two usually do not share the same page. I
         was in an airport kicking myself for a dumb comment I'd made at
         a business meeting when I remembered the exact same feelings
         (and sick stomach) 35 years ago in fourth grade. Writing the
         poem was embarrassing and painful, but it seemed to help. I
         still say dumb things at work, but they don't seem to take such
         a toll any more."

  o _< homesick for the lost continent >_ by Ray Heinrich
         "_< homesick for the lost continent >_ started as a novel which
         became a short story and the basis for a ballad that lost its
         music in a legal action. The small collection of words that
         remained, refused to die, and became the poem published here.
         Though I am constantly accused of making up most of my poems,
         this is not the case. They are discovered in the course of
         everyday life and are exactly what you think they are. Feel
         free to write me at [email protected] and explain this to
         me."

  o _Fine Wind, Clear Morning_, _Boat Returning in a Storm_, and _Baton
         Rouge During the Gulf War_ by John Landry
         "In general, my poems bear witness to the real dizzy world in
         which we try to operate. _Fine Wind..._ happened from 3 points:
         a mtn. trip, looking at Hokusai woodblocks, and the actual
         response to a streetlight in D.C. _Baton Rouge_ was all fact, a
         response to the dangers at hand. The harbor poem, something
         inside everyone who's every lived by the sea and known families
         who live from its resources. Transience is maybe the main
         point; everything changing, impressions remaining. Maybe some
         lessons learned along the way."

  o _Soren at the Sweetwater_ by Todd R. Robinson
         "I'm reluctant to tarnish the enigmatic luster of my poem, but
         suffice it to say that it sprung from a seething cauldron of
         Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, Kierkegaard's _Fear and Trembling_, and
         a very limited knowledge of German."

  o _Degrees of Separation_ by Michael S. Adams
         "I like this poem. I've showed it to a few friends (including
         Ms. Susan Mitchell, National Book Award finalist, author of
         _Rapture_ [HarperCollins; 1993]) and they all ask, 'is it
         true?' or 'who was she?' To which I answer, 'that doesn't
         matter.' And this is strange, because I love to talk about
         myself. But back to the poem, there's a lot going on here. In
         the textures, in the layering, in the language, the images.
         There's a very condensed, thematic development happening, as
         suggested by the title. To hear some more of my comments, call
         me. Only two bucks a minute."

  o _I Remember ..._ by Ben Wiebe
         "_I remember..._ was writen during one of those times when I
         feel particularly homesick for Brazil, the place where I was
         born. I was seven when my family emmigrated to Canada, which
         leaves me with scattered pictures of my childhood in Curitiba,
         or the small Mennonite colony where I was born. I have not been
         able to return, even for a brief visit."

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+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+

                       WHERE TO FIND _THE MORPO REVIEW_

Back issues of The Morpo Review are available via the following avenues:

  o Electronic Mail (Send the command "get morpo morpo.readme" in the body
    of an e-mail message to [email protected], exclude the quotes)
  o Gopher (morpo.creighton.edu:/The Morpo Review or
    ftp.etext.org:/Zines/Morpo.Review)
  o Anonymous FTP (morpo.creighton.edu:/pub/zines/morpo or
    ftp.etext.org:/Zines/Morpo.Review)
!  o World Wide Web (http://morpo.novia.net/morpo/)
  o America Online (Keyword: PDA, then select "Palmtop Paperbacks", "EZine
    Libraries", "Writing", "More Writing")
  o Dial-Up Bulletin Board Systems
    - The Outlands BBS in Ketchikan, Alaska, USA [+1 907-247-1219,
      +1 907-225-1219, +1 907-225-1220]
    - The Myths and Legends of Levania in Council Bluffs, Iowa, USA
      [+1 712-325-8867]
    -  Alliance Communications in Minnesota, USA [+1 612 251 8596]

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+

                      SUBSCRIBE TO _THE MORPO REVIEW_

We offer three types of subscriptions to The Morpo Review:

  o ASCII subscription
       You will receive the full ASCII text of TMR delivered to your
       electronic mailbox when the issue is published.
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       You will receive a ZIP'ed and uuencoded PostScript file delivered to
       your electronic mailbox when the issue is published.  In order to
       view the PostScript version, you will need to capability to uudecode,
       unZIP and print a PostScript file.
  o Notification subscription
       You will receive only a small note in e-mail when the issue is
       published detailing where you can obtain a copy of the issue.

  If you would like to subscribe to The Morpo Review, send an e-mail
  message to [email protected] and include your e-mail
  address and the type of subscription you would like.  Subscriptions are
  processed by an actual living, breathing person, so please be nice
  when sending your request.

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+

                      ADDRESSES FOR _THE MORPO REVIEW_

! [email protected] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Robert Fulkerson, Editor
 [email protected] . . . . . . . . . Matthew Mason, Poetry Editor
 [email protected]  . . . . . . . . . . . .  J.D. Rummel, Fiction Editor
 [email protected]  . . . . . . . .  Kris Kalil Fulkerson, Layout Editor

 [email protected]  . Submissions to _The Morpo Review_
 [email protected]  . . . Requests for E-Mail subscriptions
 [email protected] . . . Comments about _The Morpo Review_
 [email protected]  . . . . . Reach all the editors at once

+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+

                        SUBMISSION GUIDELINES FOR TMR

Q: How do I submit my work to The Morpo Review and what are you looking for?

A: We accept poetry, prose and essays of any type and subject matter.  To
  get a good feel for what we publish, please read some of our previous
  issues (see above on how to access back issues).

  The deadline for submissions is one month prior to the release date of
  an issue.  We publish bi-monthly on the 15th of the month in January,
  March, May, July, September and November.

  If you would like to submit your work, please send it via Internet
  E-mail to the E-mail address [email protected].
  Your submission will be acknowledged and reviewed for inclusion in the
  next issue.  In addition to simply reviewing pieces for inclusion in
  the magazine, we attempt to provide feedback for all of the pieces that
  are submitted.

  Along with your submission, please include a valid electronic mail address
  and telephone number that you can be reached at.  This will provide us with
  the means to reach you should we have any questions, comments or concerns
  regarding your submission.

  There are no size guidelines on stories or individual poems, but we ask
  that you limit the number of poems that you submit to five (5) per issue
  (i.e., during any two month period).

  We can read IBM-compatible word processing documents and straight ASCII
  text.  If you are converting your word processing document to ASCII,
  please make sure to convert the "smart quotes" (the double quotes that
  "curve" in like ``'') to plain, straight quotes ("") in your document
  before converting.   When converted, smart quotes sometimes look like
  capital Qs and Ss, which can make reading and editing a submission
  difficult.

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             Our next issue will be available on July 15, 1995.

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