California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Schulz, Hart

Hart Schulz 
We are fighting a war-
submarines in warm 
wet seas 
The moon is a headlight 
with gauze 


English

We are fighting a war

Rioux, Stephanie

Two Poems: "Home is Where the Dill is" and "tut tut, it looks like rain"

Kroeger, Warren G.

Photographs 
Warren G. Kroeger 
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85 
86 NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 



Photographs

Nave, Jeremy

Jeremy Nave 
some trees 
grow slanted because 
of the way the wind 
blows. I suppose 
it's easier that 
way. And when 
the top spreads out its 
leaves and fruit, the 
slant is well hidden-
like a father behind the 
movie camera who is 
never in the film. 


some trees

Slosberg, Daniel

Daniel Slosberg 
Santa Monica Pier 
Down the concrete ramp, past 
the singer who's buddy 
shouts "gimme' a quarter so my 
boyfriend'll shut up." Down 
onto dank, oil-dense planks, 
past the carousel, where frozen 
horses forever follow the 
mad music. Men entangled 
in tuxedos and women wrapped 
in mink gulp sauteed mushrooms 
while a man outside plucks 
crusts from a yellow garbage 
can. Farther down, past 
oysters on ice, com dogs 
and cotton candy, past 
celebrity card-board cutouts, 
catapult a rubber toad onto 
a mechanical lily-pad and win 
44 NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
a stuffed frog prince. Down 
past clouds of hot cinnamon, 
an incendiary crowd, alcohol 
on its breath, past Madame 
Cecelia, spiritual consultant. 
A jellyfish drifts by. A gull 
harangues the mob. Farther down, 
the pier widens into a phalanx of fishermen. A knife 
slices a white croaker's skin and snaps its neck. 
Cinnabar entrails smoulder, covered by flies with 
lead eyes. Barbed hooks tear blindly at the air. 
The pier a toppled skyscraper extending over 
the continent's edge, penetrating and provoking 
the sea; a plumb line into chaos, born 
of smoke-belching pile-drivers, bulldozers, 
and cement; its feet bound by the sea, her 
white claws climbing upward through the night-
shrouded pilings to avenge the violation. 


Santa Monica Pier

Heyn, Marion

MarionHeyn 
The Discoverers 
"One doesn't discover new lands 
without consenting to lose sight of the shore 
for a very long time." Andre Gide 
New lands, the discovery of new lands! 
Weeks on the ocean, the grey-green waves 
And still only the dream, the promise 
Of our new lands, the discovery of new lands. 
Setting sail, hoisting the sheets to possibility, 
We left safe haven and home weeks ago. 
Before us the assurance of adventure-
Eyes on hope, on the new, on the belief 
Of fortunes fulfilled, visions realized, 
Promises kept. Yes, Captain, you, you 
Promised to carry us to Fortune, to Fame, 
To a New Shore ... 
The women on the shore, wrapped in carmine, 
Saffron, livid green, potent lavender, 
Women of the gauze shawls, they 
Reach for slender fingers of hot peppers. 
Capsicum annum, long, fiery threats to sanity, 
Capsicumfrutescens, the botanist's term for 
Scorching, burning culinary torment! 
As though they lived and breathed 
This poison, this peril, each and every day, 
Fluttering hands dip into scarlet mountains, 
Play with fire, laughter on the breeze. 
In these new lands, on these ancient islands, 
Palm trees filigree the sun upon the shore, 
Upon the foreheads, white and brown, 
Upon the uncomfortable and unaccustomed, 
Upon the comfortable and accustomed 
Alike. All is sun and sand-hot wind. 
Brown hands, hummingbird-fast, sort 
The peppers, pluck the strings 
Under equatorial sun. 
Beneath tropical moon, 
Brown hands lift pregnant gourds, 
Sweet fruit, soft tongues to eager mouths. 
Brown eyes, furrowed brows, perceive white 
Hands shake in oppressive heat. Difference. 
Incom prehensiblc freedoms. 
They falter but refuse to fall. 
Persistence. Tenacity. The consenting to endure. 
the insistence on Perseverance: Mother, 
God and Country. Civilization. 
The women on the shore, under palm shade 
And island rhythm, prestidigitate, 
Sorting and gleaning, tending and cleaning. 
Saffron, pomegranate, quince, nightshade 
Splash of shawls, scent of hours 
Peppers in baskets, baskets of flowers. 
The women on the shore; the men lost 
To their dreams of discovery: 
New songs, old lamentations. 
Losing sight of shore for a very long time, 
A commerce of storm-green waves, 
Daily, daily, only the horizon itself. 
Sailors toward a new world, discover 
Familiar poses, new configurations: 
Women on the shore. 
67 


The Discoverers

Vallicella, Phillip

Crossing the State Line 
When you cross the state line 
from California into Nevada ... 
well ... the cattle-crossing signs 
in California feature cows 
but in Nevada bulls 
maybe just to remind you 
of the wide open dream 
of some coughed out 
leather and dirt cowboy 
losing at blackjack and poisoned 
with tobacco and Budweiser 
some old guy raised to carry 
low self esteem 
like a pack of Luckies 
in his shirt pocket 
and hook "I'd as soon kill you 
as look at you" glares 
across some vomit stiff patch of carpet 
in Tonopa or Montgomery Pass 
and end up in Reno drowning 
with chf and emphysema dying 
in a lucky room like 21 or 7 
with a nasal cannula and no family 
for 300 miles around and nobody 
with a Smith & Wesson .357 
stuck under the seat 
of a GMC 4X pickup 
who's going to read some shit 
like this as an elegy 
17 
Phi/lip Vallicella 


Crossing the State Line

Culhane, Kara

22 NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
Kara Culhane 
Portrait of a Steam Engine 
If the steam inlet is too close to my neck, I will surely be burned. 
Tammy sat on the edge of her bed with her hands folded in her 
lap. She sat peacefully contemplating the problem with her steam 
inlet. She always sat peacefully when she contemplated anything 
having to do with her engine. 
If the steam inlet is moved, however, it would quite possibly 
prove itself counterproductive. 
Her room was full of bright light. Tammy felt most productive 
in bright light. It served as a spotlight for her and signaled her to 
perform. It was for that reason that she decorated her room all in 
yellow, except for her dust ruffle and pillow shams which were 
white. She awoke each morning with a reminder to perform. Her 
performances varied with each phase of her life but she never 
missed a beat. 
Tammy liked to feel space. The space made her feel alive and 
ready. She could accomplish anything in a room with a lot of space. 
She had only her yellow bed, her yellow desk and her yellow chair. 
On the floor in front of her bed was her steam engine. Tammy did 
not mind that the engine took up so much of the floor space in her 
room. 
I think I will leave the steam inlet where it is and risk third 
degree burns on my neck. 
"Honey?" Tammy's mother peeked her head into Tammy's 
room. "Dave's here to see you." 
Dave pushed open Tammy's door and brushed past her mother. 
She wiped her hands on her apron and shot Tammy a look that said, 
"Smile, sit up straight and be charming." Her eyes then fell on 
Tammy's steam engine. "Nice girls don't play with steam engines," 
her eyes said to Tammy. 
23 
"What's up Tammy?" Dave tossed his backpack on the floor, 
hopped over the flywheel, and sprawled himself across the foot of 
Tammy's bed. 
I don't think the slide valve properly seals up the exhaust port. 
Tammy used to love Dave so much. She loved to live only to 
see his face, to hear his voice and to touch his giant biceps. 
"Roger's little sister said you missed cheerleader practice again 
today. She said you're gonna get kicked off the squad of you miss 
one more." Dave caught his reflection in the mirror on the back of 
the door. 
I wonder if the size of the steam chest has anything to do with 
the slide valve not sealing up the exhaust port. 
Tammy loved her steam engine. Every spare moment she had 
went into building her engine. She didn 'thave time forcheerleading 
practice anymore. She didn't have time for Dave anymore. 
"Peter's parents are going out of town this weekend. He's 
gonna have a kickin' party. Probably get a keg or something." 
Dave flexed his right arm and admired it in the mirror. 
I will definitely have to check the slide valve, the exhaust port 
and the steam chest. 
Tammy loved checking the parts on her engine. She felt that 
each check was one step clpser to perfection. Tammy savored the 
work toward perfection. This perfect engine would be it for her. 
"Peter's such a dick but he throws such killer parties." Dave 
flexed his left arm and admired it in the mirror. "Oh. I gotta tell ya 
what happened at football practice today." Dave flexed both arms 
and admired them in the mirror. "Coach caught Gibson with a pack 
of smokes in his locker. He's totally busted." 
Dave is so dumb. 
Tammy leaned forward to get a closer look at the driving rod. 
The driving rod looks good. 
Tammy's engine had been completely assembled for three 
days. Her work had come to an end. She wanted to work on her 
steam engine forever. Tammy had not tried her engine on yet. It 
would signify the end, once she strapped her engine on her back. 
Tammy didn't want it to end yet. 
24 NORTIIRIDGE REVIEW 
"My old man says I gotta work for him this summer. He pays 
me pretty good, so it won't be that bad. Long as it doesn't cut into 
football camp." Dave checked his hair in the mirror. 
I don't think the cross head is properly attached to the driving 
rod. 
"Tony heard you guys get to ride on the bus with us to the 
Jefferson game. He's gonna sneak some stuff on the bus so we '11 
get totally wasted. It's gonna be so cool." Dave checked his hair 
in the mirror again. "So don't get kicked off the squad." 
I've got to check the quantity and pressure of the steam entering 
the cylinder from the steam boiler. 
Tammy loved her steam engine so much that she wished she 
could always be near it. Even though she wasn't ready to wear it, 
she was looking forward to being able to put it on her back and to 
feelit stir violently against her skin. Those thoughts gave her goose 
bumps. 
"Andrea's pissed at you. She says you're trying to act all cool 
or something- you don't hang out anymore." 
How fast the flywheel turns and how much work it can do 
depends on the quantity and pressure of the steam. Yes, !will have 
to check it. 
Tammy knew that her engine was going to change her life. 
Having the engine fastened to her back would validate her - it 
would validate her whole being, herwholeexistence. It would stand 
for her and she would stand for it. 
Dave is very dumb 
Dave looked at Tammy for the first time since his arrival. 
"Andrea's right. You don't act the same anymore. You don't 
go to cheerleader practice anymore. You don't go to parties 
anymore. You do skip classes but it isn't for the right reasons 
anymore. And you don't hang all over me anymore." He looked at 
her engine. "Ever since you started putting that thing together. It's 
so dumb. It's like that thing made you forget what's important. 
Why do you always have to do stuff with that thing? I know what's 
gonna happen. That thing's not gonna work and then you'lllook 
around and you won't have nothing. All the important things in 
25 
your life are gonna be gone - no cheerleading and no me." 
I can't believe how dumb Dave is. 
Tammy stood up. "That thing, as you so ignorantly call it, is a 
steam engine," she took a step toward her engine, "a machine that 
produces work by the pressure of expanding steam against a 
movable piston in a cylinder." She knelt down in front ofher engine. 
Yes 
"Like the automobile engine, the steam engine is a reciprocat-
ing engine." She put a hand on the flywheel. "The piston travels 
back and forth in a straight line." Tammy quickly and sharply 
turned her head to look at Dave in the face. She gave him a hard look 
and then slowly turned back to look at her engine. "This to-and-fro 
action usually has to be changed into a rotational movement, since 
most steam engines are used to turn wheels or other revolving 
devices such as drive shafts." Tammy stood up again. 
This means something. 
"The piston is therefore connected be a straight shaft, or 'piston rod,' 
to a crosshead outside the cylinder, that slides back and forth 
between supporting guides." She moved to the back of her engine. 
I feel it. 
"A connecting rod joins the crosshead to an off-center pivot point 
on a large, heavy flywheel." Tammy slapped her flywheel. Dave 
jerked from the suddenness of her action. 
I am moved. 
"As the piston in the cylinder moves from one end to the other, the 
flywheel completes one-half of a revolution." 
I am changed. Truly changed. 
"As the piston returns, the revolution is completed." 
This is it. It is time. It is now. 
Tammy bent down and turned around. She straightened out the 
shoulder straps and slipped her arms through them. Dave leaned 
forward. Tammy closed her eyes and took three short, deep breaths. 
The steam inlet's connected to the steam chest, the steam chest's 
connected to the slide valve, the slide valve's connected to the 
exhaust port, the exhaust port's connected to the cylinder, the 
cylinder's connected to the piston, the piston's connected to the 
26 NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
piston rod, the piston rod's connected to the driving rod, the driving 
rod's connected to the crosshead, the crosshead' s connected to the 
flywheel ... 
Tammy looked up and saw her yellow desk. It was the spotlight 
and it was time to perform. Her life up to that moment had all been 
a preparation. She was prepared for this. She had rehearsed it over 
in her mind countless times. Thoughts of that moment had been 
what put her to sleep at night and what had awakened her in the 
morning. She was ready to stand with her engine and speak to the 
world. 
I can. 
Tammy adjusted the straps so that the cushions rested on her 
shoulders. She started up the steam boiler and her engine chugged 
intensely. Steam began to rise and fill her room. 
I am feeling it stir violently. 
She leaned forward to find her center of gravity. Her engine was 
big so she needed to balance it perfectly on her back. She slowly 
began to rise. It wobbled and she began to sweat. Her engine was 
heavy. As she rose, she continued to lean forward so as to keep her 
engine under control and on her back. 
This is a heavy engine. 
She lifted her engine one inch from the ground. Her sweat dripped 
down her forehead and into her eyes. 
I should have taken off my sweatshirt. 
Tammy blinked her eyes several times and took breaths like a 
weight-lifter does before lifting his weights. With every atom of 
strength, determination and inspiration she possessed, Tammy 
forced her body upward. With her, her engine rose. 
It's working. 
Tammy stood up with her body bent forward at a 90 degree angle 
and her engine riding high on her back. She held that stance for a 
fraction of a second. Her engine was too heavy. 
Uhoh. 
The engine itself worked perfectly; she couldn't have built a better 
one. It was justtoo heavy. Tammy started to stagger. Dave jumped 
up from the bed but it was too late for him to do anything to help her. 
27 
In one giant motion, Tammy's engine pulled her fOiward, flipped 
her over and wedged her, upside down, between her yellow bed and 
yellow desk. 
"Jesus fucking Christ!" DavechargedtowardTammy. Tammy's 
mother burst into the room. 
"What in the world is going on? Tammy, I knew that thing was 
trouble from the first moment I laid my eyes on that wheel!" 
Tammy's mother and Dave grabbed Tammy's legs and started to 
pull. Her engine let out an ear-piercing shriek and so did Tammy. 
"Leave me alone! Get the hell out of here. I mean it." Tammy 
reached behind her back and shut off the steam boiler. "Go away." 
Tammy's mother and Dave looked at each other, shrugged and 
quietly left the room. Tammy closed her eyes. She cried. Her 
engine was too heavy. She reached back and touched her neck. 
Definitely third degree burns. 


Portrait of a Steam Engine

Butwell, Scot

28 
Scot Butwell 
Day Before Spring Break, 3:08 a.m. 
I want to write poetic newspaper 
stories about drug babies slamming 
computer keys staring holes into 
screens, amateur movie-makers 
in San Pedro with $40 budgets, 
undeclared major files 
in administration basement, 
teeter-tottering sororities 
at 4 a.m. in the rain 
holding umbrellas with one hand 
like Mary Poppins, capturing 
the beautiful ugliness of 
the world, the double dimension, 
subtle what's-it-all-about aspect. 
I see myself as Tom Wolfe, 
riding with Ken Kesey and 
Merry Pranksters, LSD-spiked 
cherry kool-aid in tow, hanging out 
with Black Panthers, american 
astronauts. Up at six a.m., reading 
newspapers, looking for drama, 
love, conflict, love, out already 
talking to the all-night newsstand 
guy. Anything going on? Pull out 
notebook ready to move hopping 
lilypads improvising vigorously 
to internal saxophone notes full 
of flow beat chord life time speed, 
slowing down only for a moment 
because I learned from Poetry 
beauty is in THE MOMENT. Everybody 
should read poetry, nobody, man, 
nobody has hands jammed in pant-
pockets like they have to go, 
be, do, find, hear, see, make, 
smell, love. Poetry! Writing is 
about the poetry of life showing 
it to those who don't know poetry 
breaths or the beautiful ugliness. 
3:20a.m. 


Not a member yet

We are fighting a war

Two Poems: "Home is Where the Dill is" and "tut tut, it looks like rain"

Photographs

some trees

Santa Monica Pier

The Discoverers

Crossing the State Line

Portrait of a Steam Engine

Day Before Spring Break, 3:08 a.m.

I\u27m OK, You\u27re Full of Me: Inner Thoughts In a Session of Group Therapy

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