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T M M OOOOO RRRRR PPPPP OOOOO RRRRR EEEEE V V IIIII EEEEE W W
MM MM O O R R P P O O R R E V V I E W W
H M M M O O RRRR PPPP O O RRRR EEE V V I EEE W W W
M M O O R R P O O R R E V V I E WW WW
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Volume #2 April 3, 1995 Issue #2
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CONTENTS FOR VOLUME 2, ISSUE 2
Column: From the Belly of the Dough Boy . . . . . . . . Matt Mason
Column: Start the Madness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J.D. Rummel
Still Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Maree Jaeger
Dear Saturday . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . d. edward deifer
Liquid Legacy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . David Mastroianni
Seven Rains . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Daudazyurkye Xene Axis
at night . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A.J. Wright
my name is my rock . . . . . . . . . . . . Daudazyurkye Xene Axis
Entropy Increases . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . David Mastroianni
How does Psyche Kiss? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Maree Jaeger
Masterpiece Theater . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . d. edward deifer
some suburban evening . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A.J. Wright
tattoos on the mind . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A.J. Wright
Third Grade . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . d. edward deifer
Amphibian Hand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M. Otis Beard
The Joyce Kilmer Service Area . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jeff Brooks
About the Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Authors
In Their Own Words . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Authors
Suggested Reading: The Blue Penny Quarterly . . . . . The Editors
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Editor + Poetry Editor
Robert Fulkerson The Morpo Staff Matthew Mason
rfulk@creighton.edu + mtmason@morpo.creighton.edu
Layout Editor Fiction Editor
Kris Kalil Fulkerson J.D. Rummel
kkalil@creighton.edu rummel@creighton.edu
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_The Morpo Review_. Volume 2, Issue 2. _The Morpo Review_ is published
electronically on a bi-monthly basis. Reproduction of this magazine is
permitted as long as the magazine is not sold and the entire text of the
issue remains intact. Copyright 1995, Robert Fulkerson and Matthew Mason.
_The Morpo Review_ is published in Adobe PostScript, ASCII and World Wide
Web formats. All literary and artistic works are Copyright 1995 by their
respective authors and artists.
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EDITORS' NOTES
o _From the Belly of the Doughboy_ by Matt Mason, Poetry Editor:
Well, I've spent the last few days trying to figure out what to write
this column on. I started a musing on the opening line to Allen
Ginsberg's poem "Howl" ("I saw the best minds of my generation
destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked...") but that quickly
went nowhere. So I started editorializing on why anyone who gets to
the highest levels of national politics is most likely a deceitful
bastard whom we should discuss with shame rather than support blindly
since they seem to lie a little less than whoever or whatever comes
from the opposing party. But that, also, quickly sputtered out after a
few angst-filled belches.
So I've decided to write about cows, instead.
Why cows? Sometimes it's just necessary. We live in confusing and
depressing times. I think of "Howl" and can't help but think that if
it was written today, Ginsberg would start: "I saw the best minds of
my generation enter law school.." and I don't know if that or the
original version would be more harrowing. And politics? The word
itself has become synonymous with "deceit" or "self-aggrandizement."
No, today I talk about cows.
Gary Larson said, "I've always found [cows] to be the quintessentially
absurd animal for situations more absurd." How true! That's why I
bring them up today, they act as a sort of balance to my more
depressing subjects.
Imagine if TV news handled things similarly. They would have one story
on an important news item, then balance it with a story about a cow
(say, the cow shot by Irvine police after it broke loose and ran along
the San Diego Freeway). Then they'd have another news story, then
maybe an expose' on Matild, the cow rumored to have fallen into a
crevice during San Francisco's 1906 earthquake.
Granted, this would require a lot from the media. It would, first of
all, require them to cover actual news stories to act as balance for
the cow info. Then they'd need a complete Bovine News Crew to research
and find the best cow news to be found locally, nationally, and
internationally.
Just imagine! All the reporters covering O.J. would have to leave the
L.A. courthouse, they'd be ideally suited to form the new Bovine News
Crews! No more hype about Rosanne, Fergie, or Tonya Harding, but
fascinating tell-all stories about Bessie, Elsie, and la Vache Que
Rit!
It just might make the world seem more tolerable, more in perspective.
Anyway, enough digression, on with cows.
Uh. Well. I guess I'm about out of room so that'll have to do. Enjoy
this issue of _Morpo_ and maybe scoot off a quick letter to your local
TV stations asking for more cow coverage in their reporting.
----------
o _Start the Madness_ by J.D. Rummel, Fiction Editor:
Lately, I have been contemplating suicide. Hold on, now! Don't start
sending mail to Bob, blaming him for driving us Morpites too hard. I
only mean I've been thinking about why people take their lives. You
know, there's lots of ways to do it. Some do it real fast, but others
spend their whole lives at it. That's what I was thinking the night of
the storm.
The night of the storm I was wide-awake-tired. The guy on the news
said I should stay in. I was old, but I was sure I used to walk to
places in this sort of weather. I looked out the window of my safe
place at the falling, drifting snow under the streetlight. I was sick
of myself. I wanted to go out there, to defy the t.v. guy. I wanted
out.
So I announced that I was going for a walk. The Aunt said I was crazy,
but she also said if I was going out, I should shovel. Even crazy
people should accomplish something.
I went out, but I didn't shovel.
Function. Purpose. Accomplishment. Responsibility. Promises. I wanted
none of them. I just wanted out.
Out the back door south was how I started, but after a time, I
reversed and went north, into the wind. Into the wind, something said,
face the wind. For a while my face burned, but the burning didn't
last. Soon I felt nothing. The streets were barren. No traffic. I
walked down the middle of once busy thoroughfares and all I heard was
the sound of snow crunching under my boots. If I stopped, I heard
nothing in the whole city. I watched white snow swirl down off of
roofs and silently congregate.
I walked through an old neighborhood, remembering old friends and
broken promises to stay in touch. Somewhere else in the night time I
heard tires spinning and nothing else, just a frustrated sound, an
insistent, angry whining. I knew that feeling. I wandered on,
frightening one young woman as she stepped from behind a van. "How are
you?" she said, her eyes large in the storm. The question came from
some place that read the paper and filled her with fear of men out
walking late. I wanted to ease her fear, replying, "Kinda cold," and
laughing. She laughed, but she would feel best when I was gone. I
walked past apartments, and houses, wondering who was behind all those
dark windows, guessing at their faces and lives. Rarely, a car would
pass by, intent on unknown destinations.
Illuminated with bright flood lights was the mortuary that handled my
mother's funeral. A long ranch style structure steeped in frost. I
have forgotten so much. The parts of her that remain I cannot name.
At some point I went into the park, surprised to see that the
playground I expected was gone. Whiteness stretched out before
me--gathering on the rolling, dipping hills. My feet vanished beneath
me. Below, down in a deserted parking lot off in the edge of the
streetlights, I saw a single truck, idling, windows fogged. A couple
snuggling, or a killer and his victim? The choice was mine. I had to
decide.
Life or death.
I chose the lovers.
They weren't cheating. No, tonight only there were no complications
from human interactions, no misunderstanding, no lies, no heartache,
no disease. Tonight, these lovers were playing for free in the snow.
In that clean, crisp air, distantly I heard it, an arrhythmic metallic
clanking from the train yards. I followed it, leaving the lovers
behind their clouded glass. I plodded through the powder, sorry to be
tearing the virgin snow, walking, making my mark, legs sinking and
rising, no hint of fatigue. I was the only one here. With misty words
I said my name in the pale night. All that white reflected the barest
light and the earth glowed underneath me, stretching to meet a
strangely grey sky. I kept walking , licking the flakes in the
whistling wind like a dog, pressing on past the caves where I played
so long ago. No one knew where I was, and I felt bubble light for just
an instant.
A fence halted my march. It separated me from heaps of discarded iron.
The source of the clanking was still beyond my vision. Past the scrape
I saw clouds rising up, lights beaming rock steady in the chill, but I
could never make out the source of the sound. It was one of those
things you just can't reach, I knew. I walked the fence, but it never
yielded. I didn't think it would, but the action was one you do
anyway. My beard was stiff and my chin was numb. The cold was
beginning to press me, so I had to c lose the circle. It was time to
be safe again.
I went north yet again, and the wind was mean. I dipped down a hill
into a valley of pavement and houses leaving the wind above me.
Grinning, full of myself, I felt like some ancient voyager, some trail
boss who had outwitted the weather and bought his mission some time.
Nothing happened on the last few feet to my home. I didn't disturb the
mounting snow on our steps because it was so pretty. I wound back into
the alley the way I'd come, seeing the steps I'd made. In the house,
the Aunt knew where I was once more, and she told me I was crazy.
And being crazy felt good.
Find something crazy and do it.
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"Still Life" by Maree Jaeger
Orange crayon-like paint
with dimples
Still Life one
and Still Life two
side by side
I don't like still lives
I like my flowers
connected to the root
and my fruit bowls
moving.
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"Dear Saturday" by d. edward deifer
These weeks so many now
Counting back from this frosty corner
Shut in snow-drifts of winter's windows
My time slowly falls through autumn
Content to be alone with you, Saturday
Your photo-album returns again
____________________
Together we stood
In the shallows of Little Lehigh River
Those yellow wafts of light
Bouncing from our heads through trees
Wearing a comfortable sweatshirt
Careening over the tall grasses and weeds
Brown dungarees stained with earth
Our memories fade, though, my favorite one
Boondockers, with sturdy thick soles
Brings me back to where I started
Dad's old army hat shadowing my eyes
On pebbles between banks
I contemplated my soul
Caught in mid-stride with a walking-stick
A sling-shot and a pocket-knife
(all captured in a photograph)
It was a day of sunshine
When I first found peace
Panhandling springs of perpetual gold
I Danced on that river
+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"Liquid Legacy" by David Mastroianni
Sometimes when I enter the sanitary gallery
I get no choice in the flushnrun rush.
I step up whenever I can,
study the wall,
pull the plunger and leave.
An honorless duty.
But this is a moment of luxury.
Alone, I have four drooping white lips
inviting me.
I make a measuring frown, I pace like a sergeant.
Three sterile puddles, transparent and lifeless
(very well).
But the fourth pool is marked
by one who was here before me.
A rich amber spring of lifestuff.
Lean in and find it fragrant with the scent
of human endeavor.
Some may call me a follower or worse
but I sure don't pass up the chance of joining a great cause.
I feel the warm thickness of my blood at the thought
of contributing to one man's work
to make it something greater.
Respectfully, I approach this forbidden aqua vitae
and let spill my humble gift,
my wet, closest flesh-friend of the past fifteen minutes.
No plunge into the deep below for him,
I shan't cast him down.
He shall shine in this room,
an acrid beacon to the parade of release.
Once I saw a masterpiece
nearly the color of coffee. Sadly,
I was too dry to join that effort.
That stuff is pregnant with power.
The Waters of Creation too were dark.
I back away. An ochre ghost dances under the surface
for a few seconds, and fades away,
sacrifices himself to further gild the water.
I feel myself a solid achiever, in love with myself and my kind,
who dare to build glory from the simple
or crude.
Someday I may call on them all to march with me.
And they will come, not my followers,
but brethren,
aspiring to take part in bringing forth
humanity's one great monument.
Coarse carvings in stone come and go like bugs or weeds,
but water is something eternal. It will pull down the world
before it passes away.
Put aside chisels and paintbrushes,
and let the primordial flow freely from your guts.
It has an honesty you won't find in any art gallery.
Do you truly want to leave great works behind?
Have you slipped out of your sanitary bit and harness?
Then join me.
Form a row along the shore.
Together we can turn the oceans bronze!
+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"Seven Rains" by Daudazyurkye Xene Axis
six simple red rains and
the leaves exit to the north
flying like wooden winter
and smelling of rock talking
about seeing the sea seething black
worried white with a fish wall
and trying to make us do it's will
but we would not
we were busy walking to the left side of the world
and could not find it
some say that it is in the fists of moss
we tried to pry them open with no success
some say that it is in the cloud of wasps
we didn't try that
instead we sat and waited for the seventh rain
and it was very wet
+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"at night" by A.J. Wright
my young daughter always
kicks the covers off
as if to say
here i am
see the way
i can curl
and uncurl
during darkness
like those morning glories
above your grandparents' porch
see the way
i can toss and turn
like that beached fish once did
for you and uncle richard
as if to say
i'm only three years old
as if to say
pull no white sheets
over me yet
daddy
+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"my name is my rock" by Daudazyurkye Xene Axis
my name is my rock
face of fire fish father,
it is an egg, a book of days
and little bridges in a box of snow
sad glue of gold, meaning of walking
through closed doors with no less
than five feet of ash...
my name is my harbour in
mirror countries,
it is an ice bush mask and
the lake closed with a keyword island.
my name is four umbrellas of present tense,
the beak of running mountains,
a picture made by eating salt and peaches.
my name is a valley with the neck of bamboo.
+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"Entropy Increases" by David Mastroianni
I hang limp between the grays of my dreams and my life.
Reasons to get up forgot me long ago.
Way back the factory's guts worked themselves loose
from fittings of metal turned to rusty toast
and spun out and kicked the husky walls.
That was after my job went over the cliff with everyone else's,
after Norman, marching the building,
squinting and held erect by a necktie,
scraped at his face with a hankie on such a warm dusty day,
until we found him swimming on the floor,
his head sanded down to a small wailing potato.
I used to tell Honey (for I think that was his name)
how the world was full of such strange harbingers.
He'd say "Ruth" (for I think that was mine)
"The world ends not with a bang, nor with a whimper, but with a"
and sit there for a minute with his pointy little smile.
And now I see it, maybe better than he did.
The universe is a pendulum too tired to stop swinging,
though you couldn't see it moving some days.
You couldn't mark the date when everything started failing.
It crept up on us and slowly soiled our lives.
In an age of decay, our marriage was bound to be
first thing on the compost.
He decided panic was the most rational choice after all,
took off to try to get himself killed
where no man had been killed before.
That was the fad then, but now it's hip
to stay in bed, last I heard.
I don't have to attend to the baby anymore either.
Gave her the bottle once and walked off,
later came back to find a gray pasty-tasting gruel
reclining in her crib and empty diaper,
piddling out and finally sleeping on the floor.
Took a couple days to clean up.
Later on I remembered that I was supposed to cry,
but I couldn't get wet over this spill.
I was so stupid,
the doctors had told us to quit liquids,
but I found this jug of milk in the fridge
from before the FDA ban, and habit took over.
TV was last to go, as far as I remember.
Toward the end they ran these stream-of-consciousness sitcoms,
and anchormen complained about their personal griefs.
It was hard to take your eyes off,
even when the programs stopped,
I sat for days in a static trance.
And once not too long ago I actually took a walk.
My toes crushed the brittle concrete,
and my joints argued with me the whole time,
setting my rusty cables sparking.
Only saw dust-devils around,
but maybe that's what other people look like these days.
Now my sheets arch over me, protecting my lungs from the air.
Crawl out carefully, so as not to tear or break anything.
Look at the floppy snail shell stomaching my pretzel-stick bones.
The stain, my last friend, has faded away.
The brown multicolored stain from the pipes across the room,
in the shape of the face of a storybook grandfather,
the last drop of color I could find,
has finally been defeated by the dusty film
which gets between my fingers and my lips.
I sigh and blow a graceful little smoke ring,
a cold little jellyfish that wanders into the wall and bursts.
I feed myself back to my bed.
I offer my head to the mercies of my pillow,
trying not to crack my skull.
I'm an ancient dried out corpse, but death has forgotten to come.
It's sleeping in a gutter somewhere,
with a clipboard ruffling out reams of names
to be forgotten to the wind.
Maybe it will come, eventually,
blinking and slicking back its mussed-up hair,
call me, "Ruth,"
and blow me apart like a sand dune.
But not in a hurry.
Nothing comes easily when the world is ending.
+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"How does Psyche Kiss?" by Maree Jaeger
How did Psyche feel
when she received her first
kiss?
The wings seem very thick
the material seems thin enough,
real enough.
The background,
superimposed.
She gives away a few subtle hints,
the whisper of
space between
finger and ear.
Finger and thumb
spanning the perimeter
of her breast.
Vacant face;
might of been there.
As I concentrate on
the whisper space,
the thin lips,
I wonder how
Psyche would kiss.
+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"Masterpiece Theater" by d. edward deifer
Your daddy warned you about me.
I could tell from his asterisk eyes
As we sat in the breakfast nook.
The dingy wallpaper is starting to curl
Aging his face into one canyons scar.
The windows must've been painted shut.
I stubbed my toe late last night
Walking with a candle past
The relative heritage of his fear.
It was the same blood I tasted
When I pierced your ear.
The attic creaked that night.
His books have settled into dust.
Last time I looked his teeth have grown.
The leg of your chair looks appetizing.
The terrible black bat squeaking in
And smashing his photographs
Framing the upstairs memorial hall.
+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"some suburban evening" by A.J. Wright
i step out of the kitchen
onto the patio and suddenly
there's a hummingbird
seconds from my face
interrupted on his (her?) journey
to the feeder just behind me
and wings beating so fast
all i can see is a body
and a beak. the bird
reminds me of the blonde
i saw today in the grocery store,
so cool and beautiful and unknown,
the wings of her life
invisible to the naked eye.
+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"tattoos on the mind" by A.J. Wright
merely a fragment of moon floats
over the early evening sky
a crescent as white as bone
rising in my sleep
and nearly forgotten tomorrow;
as authentic and forsaken
as test patterns once decorating
dark rooms across america
as safe as fingerprints
discarded on the sand.
later in the night
as an image joins the skin
we can dream
the souvenirs together.
+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"Third Grade" by d. edward deifer
Berenger's went out of business
We skipped school and bought eclairs there
My brother and I weren't allowed to eat in the school cafeteria
We would walk home for sandwiches dunked in tomato soup
It was a big deal when they built the cafeteria
In the basement of Washington School
Clay beat Frazier that year
Paul Kozman ripped out Dwight Shantz's ear
The fight spilled out into recess
Mr. Fatula broke up the fight
Principal Parks came to each classroom to calm everyone
And inquire about the missing ear
I kept a straight face and looked through my desk
When he asked me about the ear
'I don't have Dwight Shantz's ear' is all I said
Principal Parks talked to Mr. Fatula outside the door and left
Lucky he didn't ask my brother Rich cause Itchy would never lie
Gates' corner store is closed though the big window is still there
Covered with curtains
My brother and I use to buy candy there before school
Mr. Gates wouldn't let us buy anything anymore
He just let us come in cause we were friends with his son, David.
We use to listen to Dave's sister's Simon & Garfunkel records
Up in his room
It was a big deal when she got the Beatles
Itchy showed me a five dollar bill that year
He bought a box of Topp's Baseball Cards
And he got me a box of Whacky Package Cards
After school we went to the woods above the scrap metal yard
With Doni Kipler and Scott Nonnemaker
To open up all the cards
I traded half my box of cards for Scott's birthday present
A new Timex watch
Doni was showing Itchy the best rocks to turn
For salamanders and nightcrawlers
All for a look at a moldy pierogi with dried ketchup
We filled our pockets with em and went home
While I counted seconds from my wrist
Mrs. Nonnemaker called our parents
'I traded for it fair and square' is all I said
Came down to the five dollar bill
Turns out Mom musta lost it in Itchy's path
I didn't say a word, just looked at my brother
Mom took my Timex watch
Dad beat the salamanders outta our pockets
I caught one on the way to our room
Without supper
And put it in the pickle jar with Dwight Shantz's ear
Yoccos' is still there
We use to spend silver dollars we found
In the basement
Playing pinballs and eating Yocco dogs
Just me and my brother
We stopped hangin with troublemakers
We didn't want to go to Catholic School
+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"Amphibian Hand" by M. Otis Beard
He spoke a jagged language that no one understood
and camped out on the open palms of strangers
In his pocket was a lump of coal
Xmas present from the cracked vellum years
that had rolled off his back and gurgled in his throat
Magnets frightened him. The aluminum foil hat he wore
repelled their evil waves and kept him safe
Safe from change, safe from harm
safe from eyes that tracked him, seeking wine
safe from tiny machines that craved his salty blood
Dumpsters held discarded secrets, held the scales
fallen from the eyes of sages far from shore
In shopping carts he stacked lost things he'd found
rooster's eggs and Dead Sea scrolls
philosopher's stones and mateless socks
If you asked, he could or would not tell his name
or where he was from, or when, or why.
He spoke a jagged language that no one understood
and crawled, new lungs choking on thin, dry air
up from the ancient sea to live on land at last
+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
"The Joyce Kilmer Service Area" by Jeff Brooks
Greenest in the system. That's what a highway guide said. The New
Jersey Turnpike Service Area 46E had chestnuts, oaks, elms, maples --
72 of them, growing like canopies over the lawn, shading the corners
of the parking lot, bending down to scrape the roof of the concession
building.
The trouble started when 31W became "Walt Whitman." Suddenly "46E"
just didn't work anymore. They asked around for other New Jersey
Poets: "William Carlos Williams Service Area" sounded too New York; no
one had heard of any of the others. So they committed to Joyce Kilmer.
At the rededication ceremony one bright spring morning, the Service
Area Director stood on a picnic table, one hand in his pocket, and
said, "Her love for trees is the quintessential spirit of our New
Jersey Turnpike."
"Joyce was a man," his assistant whispered.
"His," the Director said. It was official.
The 72 trees of the Joyce Kilmer Service Area seemed to like the
attention. They sprayed out leaves like bouquets to the life of the
Nation. That fall, the leaves turned yellow, red, brown, then dropped
off, as usual. But the following spring, they didn't return.
The best tree surgeons in New Jersey were called in. They stood around
one of the trees in a semi-circle, hats off, looking up. Trucks roared
past on the Turnpike.
One of the tree doctors spat into the lawn. "Shit," he observed.
"These trees are dead."
The others agreed. They advised the Director to have the dead trees
removed. "Mosta that's good hardwood," they said. "You could sell it.
For money."
The Director pounded his desk with his fist, making about as much
sound as a robin's heartbeat. "Goddamnit," he said, "I can't cut down
those trees. This is the goddamn Joyce Kilmer Service Area."
He hired an artist from Camden to design and install artificial
leaves. The artist was poor and desperate, but he had his pride. He
made metallic purple lightning-bolt-shaped leaves and started wiring
them to the branches of the dead trees. He'd covered about a third of
one tree with his pulsing neon vision when Service Area customers
complained and word got back to the Director in his office.
The Director stormed out to the grounds, called the artist down from
his ladder, and screamed at him before an appreciative audience. Then
he canceled the artist's contract and had the leaves torn from the
trees. "Goddamnit," he said. "It's almost summer. I need leaves on
those trees."
He tried everything. When he grafted live branches onto the dead
trees, they wilted and gave off a sour odor. He injected the root
systems with doses of vitamins, but the grass under the trees turned
black and damp like seaweed. He even hired a shaman from the Indian
Reservation out on Long Island who did a shuffling dance around each
tree, moaning and smearing rust-colored pigment on himself and the
trunks. Nothing worked.
That left the Director with one option. He could take out the dead
trees and transplant new ones in their places. "Not saplings," the
Director said. "Adult trees. No shitty little saplings at the goddamn
Joyce Kilmer Service Area."
Of course, buying, transporting, and planting 72 live, full-grown
quality hardwood trees would have far exceeded his Grounds budget, but
the Director was a resourceful man: he siphoned his union's pension
fund. It was that important--and this was, after all, New Jersey.
The new trees looked even taller and grander than the originals; they
smelled of lemon, basil, and mint. All summer, the butterflies chased
one another through their leaves, and children leaped to touch the
lower branches. In the fall, the trees flared out like torches. "It's
just like Vermont," people remarked. The guys at Walt Whitman were
jealous.
Fall and then winter passed. In the spring the new trees of the
goddamn Joyce Kilmer Service Area remained as gray and still as
statues.
The poor Director was beside himself, but he didn't waste any time: he
embezzled money from both political parties and had 72 new trees
trucked in.
Well, you can imagine the rest: every year, after a fine summer and a
lovely fall, the trees of the Joyce Kilmer Service Area would refuse
to come back to life in the spring, and every year new ones were
brought in to replace them, all financed by the Director's illegal
activities at great cost to the economy and moral fiber of the State
of New Jersey. Which raises a question: Would Turnpike travelers find
the irony of a treeless Joyce Kilmer Service Area too great to bear?
"You bet your goddamn life," the Director would probably answer while
72 healthy trees growing out of canvas bags were driven into the
grounds of the Joyce Kilmer Service Area like an extended clan of
summer people.
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ABOUT THE AUTHORS, VOLUME 2 ISSUE 2, TMR
o Daudazyurkye Axis (hive@intacc.web.net) is a fine specimen of
extraterrestrial frog, currently living in the Canadian "Baldness
capital of the world" habitat, otherwise known as "Toronto". His
ambition is to become a glistening opal tooth in the mouth of Truth.
You can learn more about Daudazyurkye on the World Wide Web at
_http://www.io.org/~hive/_.
o M. Otis Beard (ear@fred.com) lives in Anchorage, AK. He is a member
of Loose Affiliation, an organization of Alaskan writers currently
working on an anthology of prose and poetry funded in part by the
National Endowment for the Arts.
o Jeff Brooks (mtic@aol.com) lives in Seattle with his wife, son, and
daughter. He writes junkmail and radio infomercials for a living, but
plays Double Bass to keep his soul active. His fiction has appeared in
a number of paper and electronic literary magazines. One of his
current projects in "Giovanni Bottesini: A Life", which is a satirical
semi-fictional biography/criticism of a 19th century Italian opera
composer and Double Bass virtuoso. Critiques of this project are
welcome. "Giovanni Bottesini" can be found on the World Wide Web at
_http://www.webcom.com/~redwards/gbmain.html_.
o d. edward deifer (deifer@pobox.upenn.edu) is a thirty two year old
computer network specialist at the University of Pennsylvania. He is a
published poet, a founding editor of _CrossConnect_, which is a new
literary review based at Penn. A consecutive Poetry Slam Champion for
Philadelphia, he is looking forward to the National Slams. You can
read more about him and peruse _CrossConnect_ on his World Wide Web
home page at _http://pobox.upenn.edu/~deifer_.
o Maree Jaeger (maree@tasman.cc.utas.edu.au) has had work published
in books, magazines and anthologies in Australia and internationally.
She is also a seasoned performance poet. She has a B.A. and a Masters
degree. She has suspended her third degree to pursue her acting
career. Loves the moon, the sea and swiss chocolate.
o Matt Mason (mtmason@morpo.creighton.edu), _Poetry Editor_, is.. uh..
well, ya see he's.. uh.. well.. gosh..uh, let's just say he's in
transition right now and'll get back to you as soon as details are
available.
o David Mastroianni (damastro@unix.amherst.edu) could not be reached
by press time for a biography.
o J.D. Rummel (rummel@phoenix.creighton.edu), _Fiction Editor_.
Sometimes, in the course of human events, through a strange
combination of fate, genetics, and blind luck, a man rises above
mediocrity, forging himself into a character of unique vision, a
figure whose presence improves his surroundings and makes the people
around him richer. J.D. Rummel once used the same urinal as such a
man.
o A.J. Wright (meds002@uabdpo.dpo.uab.edu) is Clinical Librarian,
Department of Anesthesiology, University of Alabama School of
Medicine. His other writing interests include the history of
anesthesia and the history of medicine in Alabama and the U.S. South.
He is guided by the words of Marshall McLuhan, "Even mud gives the
illusion of depth".
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IN THEIR OWN WORDS, VOLUME 2 ISSUE 2, TMR
o _The Joyce Kilmer Service Area_ by Jeff Brooks
"There really is a Joyce Kilmer Service Area on the New Jersey
Turnpike. I believe naming things after people can have
unintended consequences; this story is an exploration of that
concept. The story was once rejected by an editor who asked,
'Why did the trees die?' I didn't have an answer then, and I
don't now. If anyone can help me out, I'd appreciate it."
o _Seven Rains_ and _my name is my rock_ by Daudazyurkye Xene Axis
"I have absolutely no idea why I write what I write. I just
have a strong compulsion to do so. My friends accuse me of
being a graphomaniac. I usually indulge in this mania before
the sun rises and I'm too tired to think."
o _Dear Saturday_, _Masterpiece Theater_ and _Third Grade_ by d.
edward deifer
"These three poems are all reflections from youth. I tried to
write from my experience/language; as a third grader in _Third
Grade_, from a photograph of myself as a 10 year old standing
in a shallow creek, where I felt a oneness with nature in _Dear
Saturday_, and my relationship with my first Jewish girlfriend
at age 13 in _Masterpiece Theatre_."
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SUGGESTED READING
The Blue Penny Quarterly
"The Blue Penny Quarterly is an electronic journal of fine writing and art.
Our mission is to act as a bridge between the literary small press publishing
world and the electronic communities -- as such we publish fiction, poetry,
interviews and essays by both beginning and established writers who are
serious about their craft. (Some of our authors include Deborah Eisenberg,
Guggenheim winner Robert Sward, and Canadian Journey Prize Anthology
contributor Richard Cumyn.)"
The Blue Penny Quarterly comes in three formats: as a self-contained
Macintosh file, in PDF (Adobe Acrobat) format or as a plain ASCII text file.
You can retrieve back issues of The Blue Penny Quarterly via Gopher at
gopher.etext.org under Zines/BluePennyQuarterly, via anonymous FTP at
ftp.luth.se under /pub/mac/misc/BPQ/ and ftp.etext.org under the directory
/pub/Zines/BluePennyQuarterly or via America Online in the Writer's Club
Ezine Library (keyword "writers").
To obtain submission guidelines or make a submission to the staff of
The Blue Penny Quarterly, send electronic mail to BluePenny@aol.com.
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WHERE TO FIND _THE MORPO REVIEW_
Back issues of The Morpo Review are available via the following avenues:
= Electronic Mail (Send the command "get morpo morpo.readme" in the body
of an e-mail message to lists@morpo.creighton.edu, exclude the quotes)
= Gopher (morpo.creighton.edu:/The Morpo Review or
ftp.etext.org:/Zines/Morpo.Review)
= Anonymous FTP (morpo.creighton.edu:/pub/zines/morpo or
ftp.etext.org:/Zines/Morpo.Review)
= World Wide Web (http://morpo.creighton.edu/morpo/)
= America Online (Keyword: PDA, then select "Palmtop Paperbacks", "EZine
Libraries", "Writing", "More Writing")
= Dial-Up Bulletin Board Systems
- The Outlands BBS in Ketchikan, Alaska, USA [+1 907-247-1219,
+1 907-225-1219, +1 907-225-1220]
- The Myths and Legends of Levania in Council Bluffs, Iowa, USA
[+1 712-325-8867]
- Alliance Communications in Minnesota, USA [+1 612 251 8596]
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SUBSCRIBE TO _THE MORPO REVIEW_
We offer three types of subscriptions to The Morpo Review:
= ASCII subscription
You will receive the full ASCII text of TMR delivered to your
electronic mailbox when the issue is published.
= PostScript subscription
You will receive a ZIP'ed and uuencoded PostScript file delivered to
your electronic mailbox when the issue is published. In order to
view the PostScript version, you will need to capability to uudecode,
unZIP and print a PostScript file.
= Notification subscription
You will receive only a small note in e-mail when the issue is
published detailing where you can obtain a copy of the issue.
If you would like to subscribe to The Morpo Review, send an e-mail
message to morpo-request@morpo.creighton.edu and include your e-mail
address and the type of subscription you would like. Subscriptions are
processed by an actual living, breathing person, so please be nice
when sending your request.
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ADDRESSES FOR _THE MORPO REVIEW_
rfulk@creighton.edu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Robert Fulkerson, Editor
mtmason@morpo.creighton.edu . . . . . . . . . Matthew Mason, Poetry Editor
rummel@creighton.edu . . . . . . . . . . . . J.D. Rummel, Fiction Editor
kkalil@creighton.edu . . . . . . . . Kris Kalil Fulkerson, Layout Editor
morpo-submissions@morpo.creighton.edu . Submissions to _The Morpo Review_
morpo-request@morpo.creighton.edu . . . Requests for E-Mail subscriptions
morpo-comments@morpo.creighton.edu . . . Comments about _The Morpo Review_
morpo-editors@morpo.creighton.edu . . . . . Reach all the editors at once
+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES FOR TMR
Q: How do I submit my work to The Morpo Review and what are you looking for?
A: We accept poetry, prose and essays of any type and subject matter. To
get a good feel for what we publish, please read some of our previous
issues (see above on how to access back issues).
The deadline for submissions is one month prior to the release date of
an issue. We publish bi-monthly on the 15th of the month in January,
March, May, July, September and November.
If you would like to submit your work, please send it via Internet
E-mail to the E-mail address morpo-submissions@morpo.creighton.edu.
Your submission will be acknowledged and reviewed for inclusion in the
next issue. In addition to simply reviewing pieces for inclusion in
the magazine, we attempt to provide feedback for all of the pieces that
are submitted.
Along with your submission, please include a valid electronic mail address
and telephone number that you can be reached at. This will provide us with
the means to reach you should we have any questions, comments or concerns
regarding your submission.
There are no size guidelines on stories or individual poems, but we ask
that you limit the number of poems that you submit to five (5) per issue
(i.e., during any two month period).
We can read IBM-compatible word processing documents and straight ASCII
text. If you are converting your word processing document to ASCII,
please make sure to convert the "smart quotes" (the double quotes that
"curve" in like ``'') to plain, straight quotes ("") in your document
before converting. When converted, smart quotes sometimes look like
capital Qs and Ss, which can make reading and editing a submission
difficult.
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Our next issue will be available on May 15, 1995.
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