Editorial Note |
A colleague once wrote "that
editing a journal resembles writing a poem in that the finished product may
end up very different from the sum of many small, incremental
decisions." The decisions one
makes in editing are not easy and sometimes deciding what photo to place next
to which poem can enhance or take away from the image or the words. It's only
at the end when it all comes together that each assumes a different power
that is strengthen by the whole as the book/poem takes shape. As we go into
our third year of publication, we salute our students, their creative talent,
and their willingness to share with you the reader.
Patrick Collins served as editorial assistant for the
Spring issue and Deb Duval of Student Activities provided, as usual,
continued support in ways too numerous to list a thank you goes to each of
you for your time and patience with this project. Cherry
Luedtke, reference librarian for the Northridge Campus, continues to offer
web support, for which we are most grateful. The back issues are available
for viewing on our web site at <www2.austin.cc.tx.us/RioReview>. Donetta Goodall, Associate Vice President and Margie
Huerta, Dean of Arts and Humanities continue to make the journal possible
with their generous support again, thank you. We look forward to the fall when another book/poem
takes place; we hope you enjoy this one. Spring 2000 |
The
Poems
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Skipping Stones
(for WCW)
Mark Armstrong On the old creek bridge my father and I skipped stones as the locust's creaked like a thousand rusty hinges and the sun sank down. |
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Black
Sunny Ashabranner
Black is not hollow or shallow Black is bold and strong standing on the Earth as if to shield us from red demons and death How magnificent is the sky when this black backdrop is let down Standing above holding up stars Allowing imaginations to run Scorpio wishing the flesh would pass Orion standing arrow in hand until eternity Eight other spheres with objects in orbit Showers of florescent light Black holding all this Must have Shoulders of steel How can one explain These phenomenon Day in and day out Black’s job is clear-- |
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Broken Star
Mike Avila
There I am at
abuelitas house between the old pecan
tree and her clothesline. I am playing,
dreaming, not knowing or caring how life is
going to be or turn out. In the early
morning the winds chased each
other from one window to the other
taking with them the warm scent of
abuelitas tortillas. The sky is
happy blue as I am then. All the family
gathers there, mis primos,
tias y tios. Bright paper
colors-star-shaped, bursting and
releasing candy. All of us rush to
fill our bolsas full of
the broken star. |
If that star had not fallen from its
place
above, breaking into sweet candy, then the old pecan tree or the delicate Chinese plum tree would have fed us some kind . . . of sweet pleasure. |
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Que Ella Es (ni aquí ni allá)
Mike
Avila
Ella no está ni aquí ni allá Ella es la lluvia el sol
brillante la flor
marchitada y el arbol
fuerte Ella es aquí un
momento como el rayo tibio del sol luego desaparecido con la brisa fuerte de la muerte |
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Ella revolotea con
sus alas que cambian los vientos agitados mandándome un nuevo sendero En las mañanas ella me canta canciones en la voz del pájaro en la tarde ella susurra su historia en mi oído recordándome que ahora ella está ni aquí ni allá |
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What She Is
(Nowhere
and Everywhere)
Mike Avila she is nowhere
and everywhere she is the rain sunshine the wilted flower and strong tree here one moment
like a warm sunshine then gone with the
stale breeze of death
she flutters by
with wings that change
ruffling winds sending me on
new paths |
in the mornings she sings
me songs in the voice of a bird in the evening she whispers her story in my ear reminding me that now she is nowhere and everywhere |
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But, Baby
Shawn
Badgley
(An Ode to
Winston Lights) But, Baby, they
want me to quit ya' they say you're no good for me & that I'm too good for you. They say each seven minute kiss steals seven minutes from my
toothless, loveless old
age; seven minutes from my bowel |
breaking afternoons
in the public restrooms at the rest home; seven minutes from me mourning them. But, Baby, see, I don't care. They don't realize you burn for me over & over like some pagan sacrifice, |
van had a
flat tire; three bucks to my name; Paige introduced us. I must admit I was ashamed of you at first, couldn't let you meet Mother in Malibu, but you understood. Followed me back to St. Louis & we reconciled; sat for hours almost silent on the porch & days later in Baltimore we came to a decision: |
we were an item,
kissing under leafless trees nearly 40 times a day & going out with other couples to Fell's Point & the ballpark it was, in a word, wonderful. We were married by the time Mother moved to Zurich; looked at our visit as a honeymoon; |
marveled
at the architecture & the fact that the French & the Czech & the German & the Dutch & the Danish & the Spanish & the 'Talian all do it differently; do it all the time; do it everywhere. So we did it too When in Rome, right? We giggled, fools crazy for each other. |
I came home
coughing blood that was too red with love. You, darling, were fine somehow, immune to the consequences of commitment; we separated for a time while I recovered but soon decided to move down South, together again. |
Here in Austin
things are different you act distant & I'm distracted; I gotta lot going on, & you should know that by now. We rarely have time for each other, & when we do, your kisses taste bitter; taste nostalgic; taste like you belong to someone else from your past. |
Maybe you do,
who knows? Mother thinks we're over with; says she can tell by my voice so hoarse from our arguments. But, Baby, I won't let you go; I simply can't. I still think of you all day, even while I sleep. So supple; so textured! |
So patiently beautiful
with your burning orange saintly crown & grainy golden belt! I will stay with you now; I will force you to love me again & to stay with me as well, for if you leave tonight, tomorrow you'll come back |
to a boy
furiously chewing Trident & suffering blind lovelorn seizures of regret, & I promise in his blindness he will not recognize your perfume. |
Now, Even, Sometimes
for the Dying Shawn Badgley
(SHE SAYS) You really wanna know? You must be crazy or somethin'; you must really be outta your mind! (I SEE) The purple cactus keeps swaying & lately I think it must not be what I thought, but something more like an outline or ghost of an outline or the bruised sticky film of that cactus, rotting. (SHE SEES) Cathedral-skinned bones of the blue fish still pricking my throat, pink holes showing veins. |
(SHE ASKS)
Isn't that enough? Isn't that enough, to see your own flowing blood in a bowl? (I SAY) I'm not lying, Sweetheart. I wouldn't lie to you. It's the way it had to be, has to be. You know me, babe; you know how I am. (SHE REMEMBERS) Even the simple gift of memory as suspicious back then, glad now it's gone but refusing even to play the tape in our makeshift kitchen, trapped in porcelain; |
trapped in my memories
since they're still there & I'm not trying to forget. (I KNOW) Trapped is not a bad way to be, at least right now, & let's face it, man, everything's a trap, most of all what doesn't seem it, & maybe she can't find the tape anyway, who knows? (I HEAR) Another appliance make noises I never learned to understand & another daughter says, My God, I can't believe what's happening to him! & more footsteps in the hallway I can't recognize, & she hears them too but pretends she doesn't & four ears trying to work as one |
maybe is love but is more likely
something so constant, like the heat; the humidity. (SHE'S EMBARRASSED) That we're poor now & don't have a bathroom & go like dogs outside under trees & sometimes even on the motel room rug if my legs won't work or it's too cold. (SHE KNOWS) My greatest fear is to be blind or deaf or for God's sake both & (I KNOW) Hers is to drown in cheap cement. |
(WE FEEL)
Wicked sometimes when we share my drugs & don't blame the priests for what they'll sometimes do to little boys or even girls, 'cause we understand what it's like to look forward only to death, & sometimes she'll be the priest & I'll be the little boy, or sometimes we'll switch, or sometimes we'll just watch T.V. (I FEEL) Sorry sometimes that it's come to thisI really do. (WE ARE) Sick of sex & drugs but we still like rock & roll, & is there a doctor around who can explain that to us? |
(I'M
CONVINCED)
Life is a liar & death is a lover too honest to live with, & not even God could tell me any different anymore. (SHE IS) Wearing headphones, canceling appointments, reading the Bible & washing my bedside bowl. (I WANT) To sculpt her when she does that & take the statue to my tomb. (I AM) Simply not who I was an hour ago when you stopped by for coffee & won't be who I am tomorrow for very long, & now, even, sometimes, |
I cry 'cause I can still remember
Everything; now, even, sometimes, I wonder what she'll do when I'm gone. |
Since 1884
Shawn Badgley
1. At O'Connell's,
the wood wears
ancient scars & stains of
blood & beer mark the
tables, cave paintings, vague shapes
ingrained that catch
occasional light & bounce it green
off the walls, where framed
photos of great Irish
writers hang suspended above
college kids who know the
old joke: If you glance
in a mirror & look drunker
than Behan, it's time to
get a ride home. "So you're
telling me you still don't
remember kissing Lucy
Williams?" "That's
right, man, no recollection
whatsoever." "That's
bull, is what it is. Bull." |
2.
Red & Henry flirt with Wendy at the bar like they've been doing for 40 years, she throwing her bald head back with a squeal; smoke escapes her nostrils as she laughs thinking of Wicklow & the cricket boys out back calling her name while Old Mama O' brushed out her auburn curls after dinner. The sun sometimes stayed out 'til midnight there, she often tells them. "I dunno, Hanky, this chemo is really startin' to take its toll." "Well, it sure as hell shows what kinda woman y'are when ya' show up to run this place everyday." "Oh, you know I'm just comin' to see you, love." |
3.
1:35 a.m. the streetlamps on Kingshighway are mostly dark, shot out by streetkids, their grayish shards still dangle from wires like dead fruit about to drop. Sweaty cooks in their torn t-shirts smile & sneak a beer; they feel that breezy asphalt air suck away the damp along their necks as they rest before cleaning the kitchen & going home to something that lately seems too much like nothing. "You wanna come over & watch the game Sunday night or what?" "Sure, I guess. You wanna mop tonight or shall I?" |
"I'll take it. Just make sure
y'all clean out
that damn dishwasher drain you was s'posed to do it last week." |
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their hands brush by the stove and
they try not to notice, hoping no one sees the awkwardness between them. He too is trapped, but in her eyes he can see that she too looks forward to the tears the onion brings. |
The Poet
Mark
Boyle
He wraps
sentences around his fingers grips his pen, glides the ink,
as he funnels
the imagery into a ribbon
of silk. The audience
reaches out to grab the
poem, but it envelopes
them instead, tells them
things, they already
knew but in a way
they finally understand. If you listen
to the poet his persistant
p's or his falling
t's even the hidden
vowels between, you may hear
the word sing a lullabye that
puts babes to sleep or the purr of
a cat as it nuzzles
the sides of your legs feeling your
expierences. |
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He sent us newspapers from Chicago, Dallas, San
Francisco. We sprawled out on the floor, by the fire, shucking all the paper
that was not comics or entertainment listings. Everything was in color,
everything was huge. We concocted jealous fantasies of Karena's contemporary
life as if it were some future event of grandchildren. There would be: 7-11s,
rap music, IHOPs, 24 hour television and radio, cartoonish violencerampant
sex, with the shadows of home movie fifties, Super-8 cam sixties, the
burgeoning prospect of malls. There our cousin Karena, would be stuck pleasantly between the
everlasting prepubescent glow of Punky Brewster and the perky-breasted sexual
spectrum presented by the girls of Facts of Life.
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