October 5, 1988
THE LANCE
page 7
Quill & Tnk
WHAT DOES IT MATTER
what does it matter,
how many times my
tongue slides in
and out of my mouth,
if i speak or if i
slobber, if i even
make a sound,
who cares if i feast
or if i fetter, sit
beside me at the
table, close enough
for your hands to
eat, i’m an animal
and you’re a vege
table, but i want
the taste of iron
in my teeth, i
swallowed the dry
heat of the sun
until even my eyes
were hidden in
their holes, dig ging
deepwr in the
skull, i could hear
the bones crunching,
i painted paradise,
but paradise was
dull, my finger tips
turned their heads
toward femjde breasts
in search of spiritual
inspiration,
PAUL E. DINKINS
SUBTITLED
your words
are a foriegn film to me
the words I don’t
want to hear
so under the picture
I place my own
and read them
knowing they will never
match the movement of your
lips
PfflL STILE
NO MERCI
i gave my love
i gave my love
i gave my love
my love
she looked at me
and her dark eyes
said softly
thank you
no
JON PARGAS
FRAGMENT
mountains gently guarded by the fog
gracefully reveal their ancient secrets and
below show their city shame
LEAH COOK
1
Reminding me the moonlight reflected
from the sand of you
I thrice think
One of love a second of sorrow
and then say goodbye
to the summer of angels
six hours southbound 95
and static radio silence
and a cool confidence
hope for the future
arriving the friends I had missed
and a feeling that we had
parted only yesterday
beer-mn
bourbon shots and pool
the girls next door smiling and tan
a blues mix on the box
Zeppelin Joplin Hendrix
the night wears on to Billie Holiday
and I pass out in a pickup
raindrops and a cop tapping
me into slow consciousness
my hair still grows curls O/C
tangle around my shoulders sun-dried
thick beneath a hat with saltwater
as we enter the pizza shop
with a round of beers a pie and subs
we celebrate a recent coming-of-age
and a toast to the best year yet
the good times roll revolve
around a keg at the last hurrah
on a Saturday night
a dollar donation ‘til the well
runs dry and a quick walk to
Fast-Fare for a quart o’ Bud
nightcap
in the morning there is no Matilda Bay
yet the sun still rises over
shimmering surf and
the sand stretches for miles at low tide
staring long enough at the horizon
sea and sky will meet, melt into
one another in liquid swirls
and the grasses will sing in the wind
at home on top of the school the
grasses will form glyphs which I am
unable to decipher in the sunrise
overhead a mourning dove circles
and I will not be afraid
but that was years ago
and hundreds of miles away
6
by nightfall we wiU have journeyed
back to the land of the free and
the wise once again to mak
our beds on the banks of the strange
Carolina pond and I am not afraid
JON PARGAS
TOXIC WASTE
Stillness of the lake
Conu-asts with the waves in us
Memories change things:
No drinking games, no drunken bmges
Just fun Fun from being together or thoughts
of Us together:
Along the lake a Heron breaks
The stillness of the water.
rob McLEAN
I ALWAYS LIKED YOUR SHOES
Will you always be the three
armed dervish, dancing for the
delight of others?
Must every single action provoke
the proper response, will you come
swim with me again, lift your lid,
let me peek behind your eyebrows
where your storehouse of wisdom
lies unguarded
When can I bring you back
to the dark of the room with the
teapot boiling, the proper books
laid out, for still I must impress
you, the red light of the radio steady
Then will we be old friends again
and why can’t I tell before then,
the moment you look at me as if
I’m mad when before you would have
laughed with the joke - you know
they will follow you’re lead and I
must wander again when will be
the day when we can speak softly
of the important things while sitting
on the floor lightly touching shoes,
those damned shoes you always knew
impressed me, is this the reason you
still wear them? When will I be
able to throw mine out, the identical
pair to yours, the pair I bought for
I believed it could bind us like blood
Perhaps if we both went barefoot
I could have that which was the real
you, has to be the real you, for shoes
or not, surely 1 could not like you
otherwise
Let us wish then you and I that
someday in our slightly daft future
you will explain, but if you don’t —
I’ll throw these shoes away mister
It may make my heartbleed like
a stigmata on Palm Sunday
Let me promise you I can do it
while smiling and i would be glad to
let you watch
TANYA OLSON