Kelsye Nelson (5.28.06)

Petit Mort

Forgive this sweetgrass woman
This sweet scent bare back
Plagued by the passion king
Tremble in your dream death, man in my bed
Dream death, dream death and
Trace the terrible scar across my belly, my breast
Tactile woman, purple woman, oversleeping
Luxury of laxitude, trash mouth
Trash mouth man in my bed burning my insides
Sparring chitchat, fearing my father, together,
The threat of the boot
Ducking under cover of tall meadow grass,
Sandal-free toes tracing curve of freckle-dappled leg
Only the animals know where we lay
Trash mouth trash mouth my sides are burning
My insides are burning on this
Lonely pine needle bed, magnificent receptacle of death
Dream death, dream death, my dream death
My little death, passion king
Forgive this sweetgrass woman.


Desert Revival

I.

I met my friend in the desert; the woman who is occasionally blonde and who sings in bars where people stand and clap and fall in love with the way her voice breaks on the high notes and overpowers the clamor of the bar, the street and the din in their heads. She held my hand. She led me into unknown lands, over dry, crumbly ground. She identified the Joshua trees, warned me not to scrape my bare white shins on the stubby cacti and whispered to me that whiskey tastes better when it's warmed by the sun. She loves Jesus. She wants me to love Jesus too, and I do, when I am near her and she is singing to me, or laughing drunkenly at what I have written in recent wandering weeks, or when she is standing near and our arms rub against each other. I'm not supposed to lust for her, so I pretend that I don't. She pretends that I'm not pretending.

I'm married. She's divorced. We both partnered with those sweet sensitive types. Neither of us are as patient or giving as our husbands. We boss and bitch. We moan and groan. Her husband wouldn't stand for it. He left. He was strong in that way. My husband is not strong in that way. Thank Jesus for that.

She loves me. We pretended otherwise. I acted like I didn't know that she was pretending not to lust for me. She suggested the wine. I read her what I wrote on the plane, on the way to see her. She cried. Then she laughed. Then she took me to the guest bedroom in her grandmother's house made me kneel on the bed, facing her facing me.

She likes to sing songs written by men with deep thundering voices. Those Seattle men. Those forceful, soulful, dreary, men. She assumes their power. It isn't right – their darkened voices, darkened souls, darkened songs coming out of her round desert glow face. She has baby pure skin. She has chubby arms. She has Marilyn Monroe lips, and breasts. She has dark circles under her eyes. She had draped my arm across her thighs and run her rough, guitar string fingertips from my wrist to my shoulder. Goosebumps in sweltering summer heat.

She wouldn't like what I am writing. I'm not supposed to lust for her. She would tell me this isn't the way to Jesus. This isn't the path to salvation.

I gave her the money to record her first CD. My husband told me not to do it. I said he doesn't understand how talented she is. He told me I don't understand how poor we are. I do understand. That is why what I do give is all the more valuable. I would much rather invest in her songs than a week's worth of beer and bread. Which is really the pointless waste? She doesn't know about our money problems. You're a success, she says. I'll never be like you, she says. Thank Jesus for that.



II.

It's Tuesday and I left her a week ago. My husband is cooking spaghetti and listening to the war reports on the radio. I'm sitting at the table with my laptop, surfing the Internet, tying up the phone line. She called me earlier, but I made an excuse and hung up. I loathe the sterilized long distance connection. I can't see her skin. I can't see the dark circles under her eyes. God has a new plan for me, she told me. The record producer loves her. He's going to marry her and make her a star. She'll send me a signed CD in the mail. Fantastic, I said. I hate the record producer, but I love getting mail from her. Evidence of her existence.

III.

My husband pretends I don't lust after her. He takes me to bed and lets me assure him of my fidelity with my rolling moans and rocking hips. He spoons me afterwards, his arm heavy on my hip. His thick fingers intertwine with mine. I make my breath deliberately slow and pretend I'm sleeping, not daydreaming. It'll be at least another year until I see her again. Thank Jesus for that.

Amanda Hare (5.28.06)

My Grandmother's Hands
- Amanda Hare

Why do people value pictures and family portraits so much? Is it to keep a shrine of reverence to the dearly departed? Or to keep the presence of a stern hand pushing down on the still living? Or is it just to keep fresh the image of someone who has passed on which we would otherwise forget?

Whatever the reason I'm glad I live in an age where photographs are a real thing and not just wishful thinking in some science fiction book.

Every day my grandmother smiles up at me from the family portrait that I missed because I had to work. Don't worry, I'm there thanks to my mother's skill with photoshop.

The woman in the picture is very much the one I remember. Her gray hair still shot through with streaks of blond and an intricate map of wrinkles laid over her face. She was strong enough to raise 10 children under the umbra of an alcoholic husband an d yet not lose her sense of generosity. Every person who walked through her door was welcomed and asked their fod allergies. It might be five years before she saw them again but she would remember who had an allergy to peanuts and who to brusselsprouts.

Most of all, Gramma was patient. She ran a tight ship but there was always time to stop and wait for the child who was slow at picking berries (me) or a kind word and gentle guidance when someone spilt an entire bowl of cake batter all over the floor (also me!).

There are only a few memories of my grandmother that are very clear. In each one her face is fuzzy although I clearly remember in one her eyes but most of all, her hands.

One morning when I was five, I woke up just after the sun and being five I jumped out of bed and went to see who else was awake. My grandmother was ambling around the room that served as kitchen, dining room, laundry room, entryway and in the winter, clothes drying space. Oh, and don't forget the old fashioned wood stove and the homemade barrel stove that served to heat the house.

My grandfather designed the house and most of my uncles chipped in to build it. Still today the trunk that was the main house support is in the kitchen of the same, but slightly remodelled, house where my cousins now live.

Gramma was a short woman, she got progressively smaller with age thanks to a calcium deficient diet from being poor, and at the age of five I almost came up to her shoulder. That morning I found she had already gone out to the woodpile and laid a bed of wood on last night's cold ashes. She was busy balling up newspaper and stuffing it in the stove.

Seeing me she called me over and said, "Do you want to learn how to light the stove?"

Now this was an exciting thing. By this time I had already learned the power of flame after almost setting the house on fire by playing with my mom's cigarette lighter behind the couch. Although the house didn't go up in flames the drapes certainly did and I still burn with embarassment at the thought of a firefighter's daughter burning down his home.

Hooking her foot around a stool so I could peer down into the stove, Gramma explained how she had put the wadded newspaper between the logs so the dry bark would catch.

Covering my hand in hers, she helped me hold the match to the side of the Eddylite box at just the right angle and strike. To this day I still light matches at that exact angle but cigarette lighters are beyond me.

Marilyn Mendoza (5.28.06)

Waiting

Writing is lighting my path
stumbling and bumbling my way for a laugh
Just for today
I strive to obey
I cry, I sigh,
but TRY, always TRY
You must move ahead until your dead
or die before your time
active, not passive
taking chances
never refusing dances
The prance of life
Is full of strife
but all we know until we go
never let life defeat you or beat you
just greet you
rise up and be brave
Its your life you:ll save
we;re too soon in the grave
be great
don:t wait




Manilla 1990 Tondo

Looking out of my air conditioned taxi or *aircon* as they say ther in Tondo. Tondo- Manila, where the poorest of the poor live. Tondo, the slum of slums. Sights sounds and smells of Tondo engulf me.

A mother in rags sits on a sidewalk holding her naked baby. It Christmas in Tondo.

Another family push a cart. The cart is their home. A baby is asleep in their home. A baby is asleep in the cart on top of all the familys possessions.

The streets are full of garbage. Some of the garbage is on fire. Some of the garbage just rots in the hot tropical sun. The smell is detestable

People talk here of *Smoky Mountain:, the major grbage dump of Manila. People live there right in the middle of the dump, mostly orphins, and make a living by scavaging rubbish. It reminds me of a living hell, like Gehenna, the burning garbage dump in Jerusalem depicted in the Bible.

People in Topndo speak of Smokey Mountain with hope. "At least the children are earning more than we can here" they say.

Grease tht hs be reused it seems since the beginning of time permeates the whole Manila, but in Tondo its much worse. It combines with the worst pollution you can imagine to form a burning noxious poison that affects all the senses. In Manila most people have handkerchiefs pressed to their faces at all times. In Tondo I saw not one.

In Manila, the residents are poor but they sacrifice and scratch for their dignity. They hide their poverty behind * Calvin Klein* jeans and gold chains. I am told they sometimes don:t eat for days to acheive this,

In Tondo there is no such pretense. The poverty is deeper. The residents accept their poverty and try to survive and even thrive despite it.

Children of all ages and sizes, looking in our aircon taxi, with longing begging for a Christmas present. I look at them hopelessly, give them a few pesos, and wonder how I would feelif our places were changed. My friends here call it an accident of birth. I call it frightening. How would I manage in their place. What can I do for the children?

Do I see hope in Tondo? A "calesa" (a horse drawn carriage) is being used to give a lucky family a Christmas ride to a lucky family in Tondo. The horse is so skinny you can see all his ribs, and yellow foam is seeping out of his mouth. I wonder how such a skinny hourse can carry such a load. The family is a large one, as are so many Filipino families. This is an extended one, grandparents, parents, and as always children upon children are packed in the calesa dressed shabbily but in their holiday best. I wonder how long the family has saved up for this treat. All year probably. They look happy. This is a major characteristic of Filipinos . To be happy despite adversity, despite this hell of a life in Tondo. Filiipinos call it being flexible, I call it a miravle.

I see mostly happy people here in the Phillippines. "We are happy because we are together", a Tondo store owner tells me. " We have our family, friends, we share our food and possessions, we gather together. The family is everything." I observe the Tondo residents touch constantly. Haznds join, arms around shoulders, pushing, crowding against one another, laughing together, teasing, always together.

Some say there is a paradox in Tondo----The Santo Nino Church-- Santo Nino means child Saint and represents the baby Jesus. There are many Santo Nino churches in the Phillippines, b ut Tondos is one of the oldest and well known. We attend Midnight mass but we cant fit inside. The humanity is overwhelming. We end up in the parking lot. A loud speaker blasts "God bess you merry gentlemen" and two priests wse can hear but not see conduct a mellow but lovely service. A stranger takes my hand and wishes me a merry Christmas.

After the service the church empties and I climb the gray stone steps to peek inside. I am dazzled by gthe sight of the Santo Nino shining wsith a crown of pure gold framing a sweet face with silky brown hair. Flowers surround him. I am surrounded suddenly with the feeling of joy the people must feel when the Santo Nino is paraded through the streets during Tondos famous festivals.

There is no accident the people here shine with a spiritual beauty I have never before wittnessed.

An old toothless woman takes my hand. Merry Christmas and welcome to Tondo. She looks happy this christmas. So am I

Kevin Keane (5.28.06)

Monday Morning, 5 a.m.

under a sullen sky
you make this barren house
your lover, doors whining
in the wind─
and search for a dream that would
erase the armies of hate
and swallow up the night
and hug the relentless
infinity of waves
and light


─by Kevin Keane





Prehistory

Silence is silver,
shifting chrome reflecting
dreams grasped by the eyes
Up on green hills the wind
speaks in mute syllables
born before language cried
out after the womb.


─by Kevin Keane