California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Thompson, India

18
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A Poet By Any Other Name | India 
Thompson
May I compare thee to a summer’s day: 
Hot, wretched, and terribly unpleasant.
I was lost only 
to be found, 
Turned around, 
And lost again.
A shame, I’d say, to know that 
If a person is lost in a forest 
Without guidance from 
the Sun, Moon, or Stars 
They are bound to walk 
themselves in circles 
Until death.—
If I were cast into darkness 
For the rest of my days, 
Would I spend every waking minute 
Struggling to find my way? 
Would I squint in the pitch black 
Searching for the path back; 
Alone in the night 
Waiting for the sun 
To shine some light 
On the shadowy unknown?
I don’t know.
I 
Don’t 
Know.
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I fought it. 
Like a trained boxer, I fought it. 
Like the sun on a clouded day, I fought it. 
Like a poor soul being pulled into the 
 ocean, I fought it. 
Like a determined optimist, I fought it. 
Like a lost cause, I fought it.
I am fighting 
And I can’t a!ord to lose.
This 
Lost soul 
Can’t 
A!ord To lose.
But it never mattered 
what I couldn’t a!ord to do. 
I’ve lost anyway.—
I wish to sleep, perchance, to dream 
Of a better place 
Of a better life 
Of a better me. 
And to stay 
in that beautiful lie 
And never leave.
To stay 
In 
This 
Beautiful 
Lie 
Forever.
It’d be like Wonderland 
Only I’m no Alice, 
I’d be an imposter 
Living in a child’s fantasy. 
But oh, how I long for the peace 
Of an innocent fantasy.
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I’m lost and losing 
A battle with sense; 
Mad and dizzy with my
Dense 
Sporadic 
Emphatic 
Thoughts.
When given the choice 
To jump o! of this cli! 
Or merely lean over and fall, 
I decided on neither. 
For even though, 
This cli! has been eroded 
And become drastically unstable,
I am unstable too.
Therefore, it’d be far 
more reasonable to 
Wait for when we will 
Both meet our violent ends 
As Time sees fit 
And enjoy the view while it lasts, 
For it truly is beautiful.
It is 
Truly 
Beautiful.
May I compare thee to a summer’s night: 
Warm, mysterious, and full of life.
Waiting for the right passerby 
Who’s up to the challenge 
To notice the beautiful starry sky 
And pursue the adventure that awaits.
Is that passerby me?
To be honest, I don’t know.
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I 
Don’t 
Know.
But I sure hope the answer is yes.


English

A Poet By Any Other Name

Erikson, Chip

CHIP ERIKSON 
HIM 
May (the earlier part) 
He's dying. He hasn't told me this, but it doesn't matter. I know. He's in bed 
with a sheet wrapped around his head and jaw. Like Curly with a toothache. 
"I can't move." 
him 
We're drinking White Zinfandel and taking some of the pain pills his doctor 
gave him. I tilt the plastic cup back to his lips and he swallows. He really can't 
move. 
Long, long before (in fact, it might not've happened) 
The speed is incredible. Not the sense of speed but the actual speed. Thir-
teen year old boys sometimes reach 50 miles-per-hour when they're running 
downhill. I swear to God. 
"My feet aren't touching the ground!" 
him 
I'm laughing so hard I can't answer. When you're moving this fast, you 
can't help it. It's funny. 
There are bigger, angry kids right behind us. On bikes. But they won't catch 
us. The field is right in front of us, and they'll have to get off their bikes to 


Him 
follow us in. 
We reach the low fence around the field and leap it like hurdlers. 
Stop 
In midair 
It's this moment that I'll never forget: 
We're in the air, and nobody, not even bigger kids who just got hit by water 
balloons can catch us. We're in perfect synch, we've jumped this fence so many 
times before, and we know exactly where we'llland, and exactly where we'll 
run to after we land. In this moment, we are Gods. We could've hovered over 
the fence if we wanted to. 
5 years later 
We're in my mother's Chevrolet Caprice at the drive-in, drinking Mickey's 
Big Mouths and eating those shitty hot dogs they sell. Sometimes we fart and 
the vinyl seat makes them vibrate. This still makes me laugh. 
I don't know how it came up. The loops and tangents a conversation follows 
are impossible to remember, but the bigger points tend to stay with you. 
"I think I like guys." 
him 
I wanted to tell him I already knew, but I could tell he wanted to tell me. So 
I made myself look surprised. 
"Not you, you know, but 
other guys. I think about 
what it would feel like to 
sleep with a man." 
him 
And that was it. We talked a few more minutes about it, then I farted and we 
laughed for a while. We stayed for both movies. 
6 years later 
We're 24. Both pursuing jobs in the entertainment industry. He's an actor 
and I'm a writer, although I can't remember having written anything. 
The guy who takes tickets at the Nuart looks at us suspiciously. Were we the 
ones who left beer bottles under the seats last week? He gives us our change 
and we walk past, the bottles clinking quietly under our coats. 
I ask him about his surfer-guy. 
He laughs. When he laughs there's a low rattle in his lungs, like he's getting 
over a cold. 
"Why can't you ever call him Ken?'' 
him 
I tell him because he doesn't look like a Ken, he looks like a surfer-guy. I 
ask him what his parents think, and we both start laughing. Quietly at first, then 
we're hysterical. Tears are streaming down his face as he manages a quick 
sentence: 
"They're happy that I've finally 
found a nice Jewish girl." 
We fall off our seats, trying to clutch our cokes. 
him 
We've never laughed so hard in our lives. The manager comes down and 
kicks us out. 
May 
I'm working on a project and I haven't called him for a while. I go to his 
restaurant. It pisses him off when I order cappuccinos, because he has to make 
them. So I order them whenever possible. 
He's not there. Hasn't been for two weeks I'm told. Tell him to get well, we 
need him back. 
54 
Him 
Before that (March, I think) 
He finds out that one of his friends is dying. I get right to the point: did you 
sleep with this guy? He doesn't answer, and suddenly I want to cry. I'm pissed 
off and angry, because my best friend has no right to risk his life without con-
sulting me first. 
"I'm not getting tested. They 
say that stress only makes it 
worse, and if I knew I had it 
I'd be a mess." 
him 
He coughs again and I want to grab him by his shirt and take him to the 
hospital, because I know that when we're together, in synch, we can beat any-
thing. 
But I didn't. Amazingly, there are certain boundaries of respect you never 
want to cross. 
Some Night in May (after we drank wine together) 
He called me in the middle of the night. 
"I'm sweating all over the place." 
him 
I asked him if he wanted me to come over. 
"No. You'd bring wine or beer 
and we'd get drunk and I know 
I'd get sick." 
him 
We talked about nothing for a while, then he simply told me. Like he was 
telling me the Laker's score. The weirdest thing: he sounded relieved. 
The Terrible Events In June 
This disease carries so much fucking baggage with it. It's not enough that 
you're dying, but you're marked: He s got the plague, the fag-plague, the drug-
user plague, hes EVIL! I'll bet hes had sex with black people and monkeys! 
The green ones from Africa! 
His parents are religious. You know, the religion where you're supposed to 
love even your worst enemy? They won't come to see him. They are shocked 
that he's gay. 
"It's a sin, and I'm sorry. He's 
my son and I love him very much, 
but he shouldn't have been involved 
in that lifestyle." 
his mother 
I'm on the phone with her for over an hour. I've already thrown my favorite 
mug against the wall and hit my refrigerator door with my fist. I think someone 
in my building has called the cops. 
She won't budge. Her husband feels the same way. In fact, hes ashamed. 
Not quite sure if he should tell the relatives. WHAT'S THE FUCKING DIF-
FERENCE WHAT YOUR SON IS DYING OF?!! I try to pose this as politely 
as possible. 
"I'm sorry, you're very angry. 
You've made me upset again. I'm 
hanging up." 
his mother 
Then there's a lot of glass breaking. I pull out my shelves and throw them 
into my den, hitting my TV. This isn't something I've carefully thought out, so 
I unintentionally break all my dishes. I think about UPS-ing the broken glass to 
his parents. 
The House 
I can't write or say that other word anymore. The one that starts out like 
hospital. I just can't do it. Anyway, that's where I go. I'm pissed because the air 
conditioner in my car doesn't work and I'm sweating like a dog. 
I've brought him the new Sam Kinison. There's some stuff on it that' 11 make 
56 
Him 
him laugh. He loves jokes about homosexuals, particularly Kinison's. 
I park outside the house. It's a nice place on the southern border of Hancock 
Park. I'm going to come here every single day if I can. 
We're going to switch tenses, because I'd like this next bit to remain in the 
past. There's a man outside the house, a neighbor, I was told later. He carried a 
sign, like he was on strike. I don't remember what it said, but it was angrily 
worded and said he didn't want this ... house in his neighborhood. Children 
play infront of this house for Godsakes! 
I walked toward the house and tried not to look at the man or his sign. He 
was a big guy though, and he was hard not to look at. I could tell he wanted to 
get in my way, but was reluctant to do so in case I was one of "them." Instead, 
he mumbled something under his breath. It sounded like "dirty faggot." I bit 
my lip. I told myself I wasn't going to get involved in the politics of this thing, 
it would take too much energy out of me. Energy I could spend taking care of 
my best friend. He said it again, but added something very derogatory this time. 
Something he hoped would happen to all gay people. I'm not gay, but it hit me 
as strongly as if I was. 
Then he's sitting on the grass and his nose is turned to the side. He's put his 
hands on his face and he's trying to scream through the blood: I'm calling the 
cops, I'm calling the cops! I hoped he would, maybe they'd take his sign away. 
The last part 
He died. I know this sounds like a movie, but I was there. I was holding his 
hand. Caressing it, like his mother should've been. I knew he was gone, but I 
kept wiping my tears off his face anyway. 
He said something about his mother before he died, but I can't remember 
what it was. She came to the funeral and I told her that he wanted me to tell her 
that he loved her. I was hoping this would make her cry, but didn't stick around 
to find out. 
Later, dusk 
I'm running. I'm still wearing my suit, but I took off my dress shoes. My 
feet are tough and I'm sprinting on the pavement, trying to reach 50. There's a 
gate by my house, and I zero in on it ... 
This is somebody else's house, but I don't give a fuck. I'm so mad, I'm like 
a lunatic, a train gone out of control, and nobody better get in my way -
I'm yards away from the gate, and suddenly the big kids are behind us 
again, on bikes, but we're faster- I plant my foot far away, I've really gotta 
get some air to clear this thing ... 
Jumping 
higher 
higher 
together, again, in midair 
we both have wings 
and for a split-second 
(that tiny fraction of time that actually lasts a lifetime) 
we're thirteen again, 
and nothing else matters. 
58 


Dean, Lance

Kickdrum Heart 
Lance Dean 
-sweet children 
it's premeditated spontaneity 
finger poppin' 
jive talkin 
hip rocking 
wall to wall floor me horns: 
Jazz-
ditty and slick 
sliding like a 
raw wood talcumed cue stick 
shooting my balls 
click - click/ click 
rolling down felt 
let me tell you how it felt 
sinking into pockets 
making me ring 
making my nerve endings scat sing 
-jazz. 
52 
Now, 
let me just 
stretch this metaphor 
like a bass string 
and thump on it 
for a while ... 
I mean 
you and me 
shaking out a rhythm 
w I sweaty slick skin 
slap-slapping together 
and the Gods themselves 
pounding out a backbeat 
on thunder dmms; 
Reach into my soul -
grab my blues by the bone 
and drag it out 
all boogie buns 
in smoky clubs 
w I whiskey voiced gospel 
and tribal dmms 
as saxophones 
c1y w I the voice of the damned; 
- I mean screaming Coltrane 
swinging a wild cat by the tail 
smelling all sweat 
sex and scorched sax 
but rising clear as Gabriel's tmmpet 
clear-eyed Machiavellian innocence 
howling brass serendipity 
kicking like a stripper in a titty saloon -
I mean a shiver shake-shaking 
jones for you baby, 
Northridge Review 
Lance Dean 
-Jazzz. 
In cognito shades 
chewing razor blades 
drinking bathtub gin 
and snake oil tonic 
in a dusty Chevrolet-
parked in back of a madman'sjook 
shooting craps w/Mephistopheles 
-sharing smokes and trading jokes with 
and his Succubustin' prick tease; 
farting sulphur and 
laughing midnight w/ 
a sickle-like gold tooth gleam 
and a black silk tuxedo 
w/ Robert Johnson's soul 
pinned to his lapel like a corsage. 
I blow on the dice 
and rattle them twice-
sweet children let me hear them sing 
-Jazz. 


Kickdrum Heart

Moran, Tom

68 
Urban Unrest 
Tom Moran 
Behind a bolted window, 
I lie in sultly darkness. 
Thin sheets cling randomly. 
I'm discomforted by disquiet 
and the vague feeling I 
need to piss. 
Over the aluminum channel 
and through the venetian blind 
(the one that never falls in place) 
comes the jangling clamor 
of a rambling shopping cart, 
pushed by a refugee 
scouring the blue light. 
Fmther out, 
a wailing ambulance 
dispatched 
to some minous mishap. 
A car alarm empts nearby. 
In a distance three 
gunshots, a Cadillac 
becomes a casket. 
Sweeping daylight explodes, 
Northridge Review 
Tom Moran 
the walls revolve into 
a shadowy centtifuge. 
The rotors pound the 
exhaust through every crevice, 
buming the blackness. 
Downstairs, Sam threatens 
to finally kill the bitch. 
Through the drain 
muffled pleading 
echoes from the porcelain. 
The wall on which my head rests 
booms under 
the thump of matted hair. 
I roll over, 
momentarily cooled 
by the dampness of 
my fossil impression. 
Again my room thunders, 
the door slams below, 
perhaps at last 
unhinged. 
Outside, shattering glass. 
A car window, a bottle, 
or a pipe 
fallen from numbed fingers 
blindly foraging 
among the blackened shards. 
Another car alarm 
sluces down the alley 
surging over graffiti, 
into the canyon of 
urban cliff dwellers. 
70 
Another round 
tears from its chamber 
finding home 
somewhere soft and 
sudden. 
Northridge Review 


Urban Unrest

Jump!

Pfeil, Ken

Scream

Minafar, Sean

.. , e J .. .. nt· .:· "J :: ' ; ' J ,.r; ,-,; ,,-..,v.-
Introduction 
I have a problem. It goes beyond trying to define or explain what 
lesbian poetics is. I guess it could be said that my problem even con-
cerns the text of women-identified writings. The problem I have is this: 
Is a man able to write in a lesbian poetic form? 
I must have been searching for an answer because I asked Jane about 
it. Jane never did much of anything outside of everything she wanted to 
do, so it would have been her who could have ananswer. To her, everything 
would 
had a 
normally be things which normal people normally didn't do. She 
relationship that seemed normal. Almost normal. 
Jane went out with a Tarzan of a guy. Not a guy named Tarzan,but a 
guy whose body was covered with massive, rippling muscles whose name 
should have naturally been Tarzan. It depended on Tarzan's mood for 
whether they would dine in or dine out. In and out. Tarzan had this 
habit of howling which Jane didn't much care for. 
Most things irritated Jane. She spent the majority of her time just 
sitting at a bench. She would sit at her bench and scream. No one ever 
heard her, not because no one ever passed by. Many people would pass by 
her sitting on her bench. Joggers would jog by, people walking their dogs 
would walk their dogs past her sitting on her bench. Some even sat by her 
on occasions. They would never begin a conversation. All that Jane 
would do was scream. 
She would scream and no one would hear her. No one carne to her and 
asked her if she needed help or anything. She would hear her own scream. 
Hear it screamed so loudly that her ears would ring. But no one bothered 
to answer. 
Before she ever had the name of Jane she never had a name. People 
needed something to call her. They didn't have much of an imagination and 
decided to collectively label her Jane Doe. They unimaginatively labeled 
her Jane, but expected her to live her life as if she should have been 
named Barbie. 
SEAN 
MINAF'AR 
They packaged clothes for her and told her to wear elegance. They 
set the temperature of the sun out in the sky to give her the perfect tan. 
For the occasion of anything they also would give her her latest sports 
car. If the button on her back was pushed just right, she would wink at 
you. Then there was the complication of getting Ken together with her. 
But in the end it was always a happy ending. A dream packaged, labeled 
and wrapped for mass consumption. 
That was the story written for Jane. She didn't much like the taste 
of it. Either as Barbie or as Jane, she sat at her bench and had some-
thing to say, but things which no one bothered to hear. She said, that is, 
she related a story and said; This is the story that needs to be desired a 
conclusion but never needs to be concluded. 
Time and Space 
There was a cake. A whole piece of cake not just a slice of one. 
It sat in the sun to bake. I found myself sitting next to it. How are 
you doing, it had asked me. I wasn't sure whether or not if talking was 
allowed so I nodded. Then I said, the sun burns nicely on your tanned 
body. It's raining, it said. 
Sure enough the clouds were gone. I hoped something happens soon, I 
hoped. A mist fogged my vision and I saw the sun disappear. You can't do 
anything when the sun disappears, it told me. Then snow began to fall. 
Everyone was doing nothing so they all stopped what they were doing 
and looked at the disappearing sun. When the sun disappeared and the sky 
was filled with snow, it began to rain but the wind said it should snow. 
So it did. 
So it was. Snowing. 
Cats and dogs. 
We sat somewhere and thought it better to go nowhere. The sun was 
still out so everyone was doing nothing. We were walking. As we walked, 
my eyes caught little creatures burrowing out of nowhere. They were doing 
something so we told them that they had to do nothing because the sun was 
nowhere in sight. They came from somewhere underground and didn't know 
about the sun being not being. They didn't listen to us and did something 
to go back to the somewhere they came from. 
I asked the cake, I said, where is time. It said to me, it, it is 
in your head. So a man with a big stomach carne and sat down between us in 
no time at all. He looked at the cake and smiled. The cake looked at him 
and didn't smile. Then the man smiled a frown. 
The man looked hungry, but didn't eat anything. He ate everything 
because his stomach was huge and had everything in it. He looked at me and 
said to me, he said to me, do you know what ruins a good German chocolate 
cake. Its the almonds. 
He said this then he wasn't there. He never left, but went nowhere 
and that is where we were, the cake and myself. 
The fat man was watching his weight. Then it left him. He never 
followed. He wondered where it went, but never cared to find it. Soon it 
carne back to him and he never was there again. He got up and left after 
getting up. 
The cake left too. It got up without saying goodbye then it left. 
I asked it what time was it, but it wasn't there so it said nothing. 
I asked where can I find time. It said that time was etched in stone on 
its chocolate icing. I looked for time but didn't see it, the cake but 
not the time. Where is it, I said. It used to be there, it told me, but 
now layers have covered it over and under. 
won't be there tomorrow. 
It was there yesterday, but 
hello, 
hello. 
I wanted to know what space was. It is the final frontier, it said. 
Beam me up. 
Everyone was looking at me, but I didn't look at them. No one said 
so I looked down at their shoes. Then they left and all said 
I could still see their shoes without looking. 
Water began to build up on the ground. The sun wasn't out. It was 
raining. Most everyone got into a boat and began to row away. I joined 
them and then they all began to, they all started rowing and singing. 
Row, row, row, merrily, merrily, merrily. Then it happened. 
again like it once was before. Time was no more. 
I saw time 
A passenger in the boat began to tell a story. This is whatwas 
said:. 
words 
Precious was a flower. Precious was hanging out on the side of the 
window. May I join you, I asked. Yes you may, Precious said. So I put 
two and two together and they became one. I asked the one of them if they 
had some free time and the one said that time was money. So I spent fif-
teen minutes of it and bought some fame. 
The one asked me where I found fame. I said to the one, I said, I 
found fame all wrapped up in an envelope of cloth. I licked the sticky 
sides for good measure. Ten inches to be precise. Then the one asked if 
I cut the sides with a paper cutter. No, I said to the one, I said, if I 
had I would have cut the time in half. But I didn't. I had fifteen min-
utes. The one became jealous and as Jealous he took a knife and killed 
time. Killed all fifteen minutes of it. 
Jealous became well known for doing this act. 
act three to be precious. It made Jealous famous. 
It was scene four, 
Famous never really 
received rave reviews. The critics usually sent them to his agent. His 
agent knew that the truth was that Famous was really a poor actor. Of 
course he had to know because it was him, the agent, who was stealing all 
the money that Famous made. So one day Famous threw out his print shop 
and quit making money. 
Looking back on it through my point of view, I really can't blame 
the one for killing time. In fact it was quite dark where I was sitting 
and there also was a wall in the way. So anyone, not just the one, could 
have done it. Come to think about it, time was held up several occasions 
before. 
It wasn't long before I got over grief. A few steps and I was 
already on the other side. For Famous it took longer. No one ever came 
around to talk to Famous anymore. All that was left was a shadow of Hope 
and even she went away when the lights went out. 
The Lights were also well known although there were many other 
lights around town. They loved spending long nights out all over the city. 
It appeared that the Lights led a perfect life, it was almost guaranteed, 
but it was only a matter of time before they eventually broke up. It 
appeared that Mr. Light cracked at work. Maybe it was the long grueling 
hours. Whatever the case, Mr. Light just burned out. 
The one tried to tell me this story of murder and mayhem, but I was-
n't too much into dirt. I told the one to wait and dug a little deeper. 
After covering myself I said it was alright to continue. Instead of 
telling me the story, the one noticed me burying time and uncovered me as 
the killer. I would have run but the one stood with Surprise and there 
was no getting away from the two of them. 
They asked me how could I murder the Time of its life. I tried to 
get around it, but the subject was pretty big. Pleasantly so. I tried to 
inflate its ego and before I knew it, the subject exploded. I took advan-
tage of opportunity, fondled her a little, then ran like a bat out of 
hell. The one let all the events sink in and rolled his eyes. I didn't 
see how far they went. 
found it. 
Instead I was looking for a way to escape and 
Blender 
Jane finished her story with the passenger finishing his story and 
related what she desired to be: 
Someone has taken me while I was sleeping. My mind was clouded with 
dreams of which I forget and now I find myself brought into a land in 
which I forget, but a place in which I am. As much as I am and as much as 
I can be. Which I am. Someone studies my head, my hair. Fingers brush 
through my hair, a caress like a cat. Then the someone grabs, pulling 
handfuls of hair from my head, a clawing like a cat. Fingernails scrap my 
head and I itch. I itch bad. I need to touch, to caress, to sooth the 
pain. Desire to relieve the call of the itch, the itch that moans to be 
relieved. I cannot. Cannot relieve the moan. I hear it eternally. 
Internally. My head aches. Headaches. Itch. Moan. Call. Scratch, like 
a cat. 
Someone holds my head within a barrier. 
tightened into place. I cannot move. I try. 
A screw turns then I am 
I cannot. I can't. I 
can't move. I feel a chisel placed on the back of my head. It is cold. 
Cold on the back of my head. Then I hear a clink and a flash bursts 
before my eyes. A pain throbs the back ofmy scalp open. THLONK my skull 
opens. I can see my brain in my mind. I feel a pleasure come over it. I 
see a big tongue, in my mind, lick from the back slowly to the front. I 
lose myself. Uncontrolled. I grow out of control. I become out of con-
trol. I revel in the taste I cannot sense with the pleasure I can feel. 
I open my eyes to see my body held above an inferno. Flames grow 
and grow and reach out to me. They strike me. Flicker before me before 
they lick me before they, they lick me. Not the kind of lick I had on my 
mind, my brain. They lick me and I lose myself. Beyond control. I grow 
out of control and scream, no moan, no scream, no moan and I melt away. 
The flesh falls from my body and I am left naked. Flames burn me naked. 
My bones sizzle and before they shatter to ashes the flames stop licking. 
The flames dim, darken, grow cold. 
What is left of me? What is left of me is put into a blender. Into 
a blender I am shoved. Electricity pulses into the machine, I can feel 
it. I feel it spin and I spin and I break. My brittle bones break into 
chunks into bits into a malty liquid and I feel, I feel, I feel. I feel 
free. I feel my malty bones mix with mymelted flesh and stirred together. 
I become one again, I become one, I become complete. 
I slide onto the surface of lips. Darted tongues taste me. Surface 
of lips vibrate a sound. A sound I longed to make, long tomake, make for 
someone else. Lips part and I file inside to consume the tongue. Draw 
forth saliva, mix with saliva, become one with saliva, give myself to 
saliva and fall into, where I hav eheard the sound I want to consume. I 
slide down the darkened walls, cover the walls and leap into the opening 
darkness, to be consumed, to decompose, to moan. 
Conclusion 
Jane fell silent. She seemed to create her emotions every moment, 
recreate. She sat and I sat and I waited for her to answer me. I didn't 
say anything. A maddened dialogue entered my head: 
So here am. I'm in love again They are 
speaKing ForeiGN laNguAges to sPite me. i THiNK i SHOULd BiTE my 
TONGUE simply because i CaN. 
Im StARVin. iVE HAD no LunCH. How did thEY FIND OUT abOut my LiFE? 
No one told THEM, they DONT NEED to KNow. 
PoliticaL idea isnt SUch A BAD pLan AT alL. 
What ArE yOU rEAding? my forTUNE. 
being REincarnated as A 
when You think About it. 
The voices echoed and died out of my head. I was with Jane for some 
time. After everything she began to scream. She screamed until her ears 
rang. I picked up and said; Hello? 


Jane

J Julie

BEGIN 
J Julie 
NOT ONLY BEHIND THE GLASS: 
a multivoice, multimedia 
lesbian production 
AUDIO/ VISUAL 
Sometimes I feel I can just say it. And then there are other times when I find myself 
just listening, not wanting to tell. So, go ahead. I see you out there. Ask me. 
Maybe I'll laugh. Maybe I'll just sit here. And maybe, maybe I'll tell you. 
Jamie wanted to be a drummer. Days were filled rummaging through cupboards 
looking for coffee tins and Tupperware to set up a new elaborate percussion 
system. Gathering her days collection she wandered outside to the freshest patch 
of sunlight where the line of shade was still cool under her feet and then she just 
took off her shirt and sat in the field with her blue jeans torn at the knee, breasts 
bare to the sun. She searched for a daisy to pick and hold in her palm like a butter-
fly before sticking the stem in her mouth. She knew that Fran would come out soon 
and she smiled, the daisy hanging from the corner of her broad lips. She would ask 
Fran to sit down and tell her a story, maybe even sing to her. At the spur of any 
moment Jamie would fling herself backward into the pillow of daisies, scattering 
the bumble bees to other unoccupied flowers for she liked so much to be in the 
middle of picnicking. 
I had a sexual encounter with a woman when I was in high school but I had a 
steady boyfriend. I enjoyed having this boyfriend, because I fit in better, but always, 
I craved the encounter with the woman. I would always envision pressing against 
her on a sandy beach with our breasts intertwined and touching, rubbing myself on 
her leg but I never thought of myself as homosexual. It's the softness of women's 
skin that I love, the curvyness of their hips and legs, the inside of their lower belly 
where it comes down to a V but still, I never would have labeled myself "lesbian." 
Fran had always been very popular in town which was the very reason she was 
elected the towns spokeswoman. Fran had a strong passion for keeping bullfrogs 
in her apron pocket and drinking red tea in the shade. Sometimes, if the angle was 
just right, she would allow her toes to wiggle in her sandals as she stuck them 
out from behind the podium. Her most brilliant ideas came to her while walking 
through the acres of shrubs she had planted one year. She held open forums on 
Tuesdays and special events on Wednesdays, but when she got to the mic all she 
could do was look out among the townspeople and fold her hands on the podium. 
She always saved her stories for Jamie and egg salad sandwich picnics. 
I've always liked to look at the National Geographic magazines. I like to look at the 
pictures of the animals, of Africa, of South America. But I also really like to look at 
the pictures of the women. These women are usually wearing close to nothing so 
their breasts sag on their lean bodies and the muscles in their arms and legs look 
overworked and often undernourished. And I don't know what it is but this huge 
part of me always wants to just be there, in the pictures, walking and working near 
them. And maybe I am a lesbian. Because I can sit on my bed with a National 
Geographic and think about smelling the crushed colors of the land and the sweat 
on their labored bodies. 
Camera Angle: Camera is suspended high on a tree branch somewhere off the 
coast of West Africa. Two leaves hang in front of the camera and 
touch only when the branch sways in the wind, only it is completely 
undetectable because the camera is also swaying so the bare and 
folliaged ground below appears to exist on two circular planes which 
intersect each other in infinite places. 
Scene: 
Sound: 
Two women sit on the ground next to a bowl of dark purple berries. 
The wind is blowing to the North East, rustling leaves and hair. A 
large rock separates the bare spot on the ground from jungle on one 
side, sand on the other. 
A hyena in the distance answers the war cry heard from atop one of 
the trees and the ground vibrates from the herd moving forward. A 
vulture tears away at a rotting cub. 
You are lying face up with you/r arms at you/r side. I sit on top, m/y knees to either 
side of you/r hips. You crush the dark purple stain in you/r hand, you/r lips, wipe it 
across m/y shoulder, over m/y breast, the color like a scar tearing into open flesh, 
marking the insides of my nasal cavities, the snot, the mucus. A second hand, mine 
in you, dips across you/r cheek and down the belly marking the place you are 
forced to hold life and you scream and tear up the middle in blood wretch vomit an 
I stain the ground purple too. 
Having a relationship with a man might be easier in outward appearances because 
I don't have to deal with the homophobia and hate and questions and looks and 
comments from everyone else because everything looks normal. But it's hard 
because I have to suppress what I really feel, what I really want. Sex is awkward. 
Sex is silent. I always have to talk myself into it like I'm convincing myself that 
that is what I really want when deep down I know it isn't . I'm just too afraid to 
admit that to myself for what being homosexual means. I can sometimes handle 
the foreplay, the fondling and caressing, but when it comes down to penetration, 
I must think of something else. And I am silent. In my dreams, I think of women. 
Jamie and Fran sat on the picnic blanket together, picnicking. Jamie remembered 
the days she'd spent jarring honey out in the field and Fran remembered the dishes 
she had left in a pile for the sake of watching Jamie in her bareness, eating daisies. 
It was on this day that they would, in the middle of picnicking, remember the 
avocado tree and stroll across the daisies to explore that side of the garden. It was 
also on this day that the novel would be forgotten under the fence somewhere 
between the orange groves and the time it took for Fran to tell a story. 
I always sleep naked. I always sleep naked so there is never the possibility of 
getting tangled in my shirt until it is pulled over my head to hold down my arms. So 
there is never the possibility that I will hear the sound of cotton tearing from 
between my legs. So there is never the possibility that my favorite pair of Calvins 
will end up as a rag torn into three pieces and used to wipe up the cum stains of 
each one. So there is never the possibility of having to lie in that discard pile until 
the sunlight forces my eyes open. So there is never the possibility AGAIN. 
I was in a few sexual relationships with women before I would accept responsibility 
for being gay. I'm not sure if I was avoiding it because I didn't want to believe it 
myself, denying it, or if it just never occurred to me that there was a label for me. I 
was always just doing what I felt was right even though I had always felt somewhat 
different but never really knew why, I never really knew what I wanted. When I told 
my Mother I was in a sexual relationship with a woman she cried and blamed it on 
herself. Then she claimed I never really told her what happened to me in Riverside. 
I was gay before I got to Riverside. Being raped is beside the point. 
camera Angle: Camera is shoved under the bed on a cold hard dorm room floor. 
Scene: 
Sound: 
The room is dark so the camera only picks up the shuffling of three 
sets of tennis shoes, jeans around the ankles. The space under 
the bed seems to get smaller and larger in rhythmic patterns. 
Small dark dorm room with two single beds. One is unoccupied and 
unmade. On the other, a college student, female, wearing only a 
white T-shirt and Calvin Klien underwear. She is stretched out in a 
pre-slumber state on her back on top of the sheets. A calculus 
book lies open on the desk. The door is unlocked. 
The only thing that can be heard is the tunneled sound of three 
voices laughing and whispering. At the precise moment when the 
cotton tears the audio portion can no longer be heard. 
THERE IS NO SOUND 
THERE IS NO TEXT 
THERE IS NO SOUND 
THERE IS NO TEXT 
1 think it's too hard to consider those women in the pornos lesbians. I was channel 
surfing the other day and I stopped on the nasty channel. And watched. These two 
women were having sex in a blue leather chair. One woman straddled the chair 
with her breasts jiggling above the seat and her ass up in the air while the other sort 
of fucked her from underneath and behind with three fingers and her tongue before 
she pulled out a long white vibrating dildo and fucked her with that too. The two 
moaned and groaned screaming MORE MORE into the camera with hot pink lip-
stick and her lips protruding awkwardly. Then I heard some strange voice dubbed 
in that kept repeating OH BABY I WANT YOU SO BAD and I found myself standing 
up and yelling too. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? DO YOU WANT HER ASS, 
YOUR ASS, STICKING IN THE CAMERA LIKE THAT? DO YOU WANT TO BE 
FUCKED ON A BLUE LEATHER CHAIR? Right then some man came in and start-
ed to fuck one of them, so I just went back to channel surfing. 
Camera Angle: Camera is suspended from a Gothic light fixture in the center of the 
room on a circular rotary-type thing enabling the camera to shift 
smoothly and circularly from the ceiling to the floor. 
Scene: 
Sound: 
Small off-yellow room with a faded red sofa in the right corner and a 
shredded mattress thrown in the middle. A Gothic light fixture hangs 
above the mattress. A rusty horseshoe lies on the splintery wooden 
floor. Two figures can be seen, naked on the mattress. 
The only thing that can be heard is the barn burning outside the 
room and streaks of red siren lights, random voices, instructions on 
putting out fires, and the inside of a submissive woman's head. 
you are turned on top of m/e so your course pubic hair is digging its imprint on my 
shoulder, denting the epidermis with lashing streaks of red, blood rising to the sur-
face, veins bursting. I show m/y fangs, want to sink them into you/r buttocks, the 
fleshy muscle, to the bone, gnawing and scraping the muscle to show the grey-
white skin of an exposed femur. But I sit here as you read m/y mind, sink your own 
canine incisors into the muscles of m/y abdomen, growling, ripping the flesh with 
shark-like thrusts, each time you/r skin rubs like sharp razors against m/y cheeks 
m/y lips, m/y tongue. You/r mouth on m/y breast biting hard, knee thrust up in 
between m/y legs, pulling down, outer labia majora flattened beneath your weight 
and the wooden floor and I let my/self scream for more, and I am panting with sali-fl 
va dripping from m/y tongue. I' 
( 
I had a conversation about lesbian sex over tossed green salad and chile rellenos 
one day. I was asked what is it that lesbians do, and I had to think, well what do we 
DO? and so I said ... sometimes I pretend I'm between her legs when I'm licking her 
ear. The lobe is her clitoris and I stroke it long and slow at first dipping into the 
canal on the 4th and 6th strokes, tasting her soft insides. Then I work my tongue a 
little faster against her lobe until I take it between my lips and suck on it, the whole 
thing in my mouth, thinking, pretending how warm and soft and erect her tissue 
gets ... And when I saw the expression on the other person's face I said ... and 
sometimes it's not like that at all. Sometimes it's just eating chile rellenos and a 
tossed green salad. 
Camera Angle: The camera is dropped in the middle of a flower patch. One end is 
stuck, slanted in the muddy soil so the view is that of a diagonal 
portion of the sky, the flower tops, and long green stems. 
Scene: 
Sound: 
A blanket sits in the flower patch close to the oak tree which 
provides a corner of shade on the far end of the blanket. Empty 
containers are scattered about. A blue blue Volkswagen is parked 
under the tree. 
The majority of sound is taken up by the bees buzzing and the 
flowers are occasionally rustled by passing livestock. An airplane 
flies overhead. 
They shared a picnic blanket. Jamie would close her eyes and believe that she 
could stay smiling in the bareness, listening to syllables, the rhythm of Fran's voice. 
And the story would, in certain places, stop, reminding her that if she opened her 
eyes again, it would all still be right there and not only behind the glass. And if it 
ever got too cold, Jamie would slip on her shirt and leave it untucked, because the 
sun was sure to come back later, curl in a ball at the edge of the daisies, and look 
up at Fran, wanting to hear more story. 
I saw in a store front window, a picture of Gertrude and Alice, touching. And I had 
to laugh out loud. Because the day is here. Ya, the day is definately here. When 
I walk down the street, I hear people say, "That's a dyke." And it's not because I 
have short hair and dress the way I do, not because I'm holding another woman's 
hand, but just because I AM. 


Not Only Behind the Glass: a multivoice, multimedia lesbian production

Hahn, Jae

Caution: This paper consists of 
I have explored the mauve of day, 
some days ago. I deserted the 
desert as it remained ninety 
degrees to midnight in Baker. The 
last stop to Las Vegas, it was too 
tempting. I could not wait to 
make a donation to hotel of my 
choice. There I sutter from sleep 
depravation alcohol intoxication, 
and ATM temptation 
Solace is hard to find in the desert. 
Outside the sweat of my l:xxiy 
could form a little stream and my 
burning J:xxiy could heat a third 
world conntry tor the whole 
winter. All I sought was air 
condition, the condition t the air 
to change. I became primitive in 
my search tor ice water and a 
chair. 
It is too extreme at least tor me. 
It is at one end of the spectrum or 
the other. I could not find 
would be able to distract me. 
The pictures which are created 
through memory have been seen 
through a million eyes. Eyes 
materialize truth in individuals. 
Eyes cannot disguise the feeling of 
discontent. Eyes reveal the lack of 
morality a greater cause. Eyes 
can see through the nature of a 
selfish skin. Eyes release the guilt 
So hearts throb and ask tor the forgiveness, which can only be granted by 
the angels of saCiifice. 
random thought and unconventional modes of transition 
d< 
So I search for inspiration, which is hard to find, for everything ends. I re 
guess I am looking for a religion, but not in the religious sense. I am in search of 
a prop which will occupy my time which will occupy my time without mind 
altering, controlling, or additive devices. Lord knows I have acquired enough p 
vices to last me until the beginning of the new millennium. They are too hard to a 
find and the way down is a hell of a lot longer than the way up. 
So I count the grains of sand I have spread on a sheet of vaseline. n 
I press some thorns on my sides to see what the pain will provide. V1 
I take a road to nowhere in hopes that it will get me somewhere. J. 
I await the day tomorrow comes as I count the yesterdays. c 
But most of all I wait for a definition, which will lead to my recognition. I 
I have been on many a trips in my life, which were fun until they tumed f. 
lxld. 
I retract and react to the proverbial intentions of myself. I verbalize and t 
theorize my detached form. I envision lingering realities I need to stabilize. Is it :t 
balance that gives stability or does stability arise from balance. c 
So I escape and retum to a place where cross continental travel was not E 
pJssible. A place where all I had to do was live for the sake of living. It would 
be a place and time where life was not timed. A place where the space would 
find you instead of you finding the SJX1Ce. 
It is nice to be 
alone, 
to use your senses of attachment and 
detachment. 
I can pJnder the pJssibilities of my iiralional state. A self-prescribed and 
described state. Where I can do and be anything the moment allows me to be. 
Where everything need not be precise or in control to fit someone else's mcxie. I 
ask myself where I have been, where I am and where I am going And it really 
Jae Hahn 
doesn't matter, I can't change where I have been, and I am where I an tor a 
I reason, and I'm eventually gonna get to where I an going, so why rush? 
f So now I lay on the grass to get a different perspective. The perspective 
i has changed, but the material has stayed the same. So is there a difference in 
! perspective when the material is the same? Or is it the perspective that makes 
> all the difference. But even difference is the same, if it is a matter of perspective. 
During times of anxiety, I close my eyes and thing of Josylen who has 
moved up to the Bay Area. There she is learning how to communicate with 
whales. The Biology de[XIrlment at the University of Pacifi.c has placed a metal 
plate in her head in an attempt to de-code the sonar of whales. She was 
chosen, for she was the only one quick enough to escape into the protection 
pxis, where a force field sprays an anti-whale formula which causes them to 
have a rash; it has the affect of poison ivy on human being. 
I guess I am in the process of searching for "continuous present': where 
the notion of beginning again is implied. Is this a way to get out of an ending, 
for an ending doesn't exist. The ending will become a JXIIt of the beginning 
and over again. Is there coherency in something that will never end. Or do we 
even need to exclaim its existence. 
Caution: This paper consists of random thought and 
unconventional modes of transition 
I have explored the mauve of day, 
some days ago. I deserted the 
desert as it remained ninety 
degrees to midnight in Baker. The 
last stop to Las Vegas, it was too 
make a donation to hotel of my 
choice. There I suffer from sleep 
depravation, alcohol intoxication 
and ATM temptation 
Solace is hard to find in the desert. 
Outside the sweat of my l:xxl.y 
could form a little stream and my 
Jae Hahn 


Caution: This paper consists of

Jones, Rolin

Rolin Jones 
BUTTONING YOUR DRESS 
There is a ship sailing for the orient tonight. If you 
Kill me and start running you can make that ship and 
Sell my fingertips to the natives. My hands. I traded 
Some grave robber a sack lunch for them but it wasn't a choice. ( 
He threatened me with a thermos of chloroform. He took my 
Birth hands and fled in a cloud of train smoke. Come away 
From the mirror, let me shake the toothpaste out of your head, 
Stick a straw in your forehead and suck out every juice in 
Your body. Say I smashed your face in stained glass. Made you f 
Eat the shards of your favorite saint- a feast of evidence; 
Photo booth kisses that could not move patio shingles, paddling 
Vikings lost on the Hudson. I know now it was wrong to hide 
The stitches from you, but I thought you might ask about 
All the long sleeve shirts. We can skip the movies if you 
Want to. My hands are much older than the rest of me. 
l 
1 
' 
- -
Scott Hyers 
Untitled 
- ). 


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