Fall 2000, Volume 4, Number 4

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Fall 2000
Volume 4, Number 4

Please post a message on our community bulletin board, or send email to editor@serpentinia.com to let us know what you think about a poem or story in this issue,and we'll pass your message along to the author.

About our contributors ...

The Execution of the Sun

by Jason DeBoer

A Short Story

Upon a chance encounter during a long journey on a train, a writer debates the merits and value of writers and writing with a publisher, and then seduces the publisher's wife out of anger, revenge and lust.

Time was eating his youth, so with little more than a nod Speed parted from his wife... slender, forlorn, fingering her gold ring. The train moved forward impatiently, ignorant of loss. Travel vanquished their marriage like so many before. There was engine noise. A whirlwind. The departure of faces. The wife suffered away, a jewel worth nothing. Sullen and undone at the window, Speed tried to weep but his eyes were dully dry. Heavy with shame. Sleep, a remorseful drift inward, delivered him from the day, and the night descended as a slow twinkling death.

Morning seized open. The sky came out naked and unwelcome. Deeply uncertain of his journey, Speed tried to nurse his fears with liquor and talk. A breakfast of vices. The other passengers, a sea of couples, read the disgrace on his cheeks and soon shunned him as a traitor to love. Closest to him were a dignified man and a girl of about twenty. A proud waxen figure and a fresh young ornament, a companion with the stature of a mistress and not a daughter. After hours of silent exile, Speed entreated the man for the time.

(more ...)

Stares

It was for my own good that I had such hard times. But your love
protected me from doom in the deep pit, and you turned your eyes away
from my sins." -- Isaiah 38:17

Badgered by silence,
fearing every whisper,
questioning every stare,
the cracks in my heart became
old mortar and wrought-iron;
gray, wind-dried and crumbling.

If someone had visited
no one would have known;
the snow and gales had hidden
every trace of footprints to my heart

(souls in prison,
monkeys in cages,
penguins sad-dancing in metropolitan zoos)

Fearing every stare whether
noses to the window or
eyes hidden behind whispers and
programs,

I could see the pit from where I stood,
I could feel the pitiless black,
I absorbed the stares, front or back,
I discerned what was meant or unmeant
in every whisper.

But I could not face the fact that
the Most Beautiful Eyes might stare
as well at my imprisonment.

Till I knew

You had turned
Your eyes
from my sin
And silence only said
You accused no more.

by Mark Phillips

Gay Pride Parade

Most of the men are skinny
and the women, broad. I don't know why
they both prefer short hair. The women
hold their placards like pick-axes
and the men walk that stork-walk,
you know -- knees leading feet.

The Tool Shed banner promises
"You'll never leave alone."
A black man in fishnet dances over,
bumps and grinds a brother,
gives him a jeweled sombrero.
The crowd applauds.

Hairy-armed mermaids float by,
advertising another bar.
Their hips morph into sequined fins.
Behind them, white-haired straights
in rumpled jogging suits hold signs:
We Love Our Gay Son And His Partner!

The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence
don't dress in black-and-white.
On skates, in a gold lame' habit,
one swoops from curb to curb.
Behind, the gay car club's Dodge Challenger
proves muscle cars aren't hetero.

A vast, rainbow sheet follows,
hanging from a loom of moving hands.
The crowd throws money in.
My ten-year-old asks,
"How come they get the rainbow?"
I explain it belongs to all of us.

by C. E. Chaffin

The Slippers

by Diane Payne

A Short Story

A man tries to use a simple pair of slippers as a gift to win the heart of the women he loves.

With a boyish-grin, Joe handed Lucy the gift. "What's the occasion?" she asked.

"I got a fifteen cent raise at work today," he said, proud of his new carpentry job. "Come on, just open it."

Lucy's five-year-old daughter watched this transaction with an evil eye. Most people brought her a gift, not her mother.

"Ah, slippers," Lucy remarked.

Joe laughed, thrilled with his gift. "Try them on, Lucy. Your floors are so cold, these'll keep you warm."

Lucy gave a stern look to her daughter, silently warning her to remain quiet. She had a closet filled with new, unworn slippers, but Joe didn't need to know this. Joe's slippers were without question the most unique. They looked like gigantic foam thongs.

"One size fits all, so they'll be just right," Joe beamed.

(more ...)

Crocodile Penniless

*** That translucent alabaster of our memories... -- Marcel Proust (1871-1922)

Caught off guard, stomped down ghosts
resurface now like crabs
emerge from winter sand.
A son you've loved but never seen
is prickled hair on tender nerves.
His quaking chin, receiver pressed
against red cheek, all that possibility
becomes some rose about to bloom.
Explaining doesn't change the facts.
Seventeen without a ring.
Pregnant. Sorry. Happy. Sad.
Shaken up like ketchup bottles
bearing lids that fate unscrewed.

Ring around the shackle shame
in halos of a parchment moon.
Memories are mimes and mines.
A baby shower was never planned.
Anger is a rabid dog.
Tears seem frail monuments.
Right now it hurts so much you die --
like Plath or Proust
fishing in some prison camp.
Crocodile penniless
in terms of naked confidence.
Mandolins of void redressed --
this time ready for the light.

Birthday parties. Mickey Mouse.
Cinderella at the Louvre.
Kittens scratching at a screen
for bird seeds of a heritage.
The business card of love is there;
just press it in his open palm.
Impotence and ankle bracelets --
capricious shadows of our past --
the hosts of all our viruses.

Unleashing locks and leaving scars.
This sort of reach a painful stretch
no yoga teacher, scented prayer
can lift and box, avenge and trap.
Flues of past turn flutes
of living muddy streams.
Matches draw out ticks of wishing,
lynching lice that came with birth.

by Janest I. Buck

Changes

I mean, what's goin' on?
I'm gainin' about a pound a day
like I'm this big bug
that gets bigger by breathin'.

I usta sleep on a cot
now it's the floor,
takes me hours to roll over.
And when I gotta go, forget it.
I need me a pit
cept I don't crap no more.
It's not like I don't eat
but there's all this stuff inside
buildin' up. It keeps on growin'.
Some day it's gonna explode
and you don't wanna be around.

It's somethin' they done in the hospital
or in the bar, or somewhere. I dunno.
No matter, I just know now
I ain't what I usta be.

by Joseph Lisowski

Hi-Tech Haikus

Three things are certain:
Death, taxes, and lost data.
Guess which has occurred.
------------
Everything is gone;
Your life's work has been destroyed.
Squeeze trigger (yes/no)?
------------
Windows NT crashed.
I am the Blue Screen of Death.
No one hears your screams.
------------
Seeing my great fault
Through darkening blue windows
I begin again
------------
The code was willing,
It considered your request,
But the chips were weak.

-- Anonymous

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