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Thought Issue 03
thought issue three
june twenty seven 1996
(c)1996 mindflow productions
subscriptions, submissions, or any comments to:
email : thought@www.woodford.k12.ky.us
www : http://sac.uky.edu/~jrruih0/thought
--------------------
credit where credit is due...
this is the .txt version of thought issue three. all complete issues
including visual art (photography, etc) can be viewed at and downloaded
from the web page.
cover photo : sara compton
creation : josh ruihley
editing : rashmi murthy (melissa pike on vacation)
executable versions : keith shapiro
graphics : josh ruihley, sara compton
html : josh ruihley
submissions : josh ruihley, christa sturgeon
content :
Antti
Winter War
Army made me see.
Christopher Stolle
On Judgement Day
One More Chance
When the Boys returned from World War II
Ron Shultz
Memo To The Mortician
SPEC 4 Pondexteur E. Williams
Pawn of Politics
panda
dreams of the panda an excerpt
Ben Ohmart
titled
Ray Heinrich
bosnia
the universe
--------------------
Winter War
Antti
I found a letter ,
dusty and old .
It had passed through years ,
fifty-three years in cold .
It was a letter from my grandpa ,
for his father in home .
This is what it said ,
as it slowly went on .
Dear father it's cold ,
and middle of night .
Those russians were facing ,
will for once be shown ,
that we finns aint going home .
I hope you the best ,
and maybe someday i'll see ya rest ,
tell my love to the children ,
from frontlines of war .
As i laid down the letter ,
i could see him in cold .
Protecting our land ,
from what i dont know .
For i have lived my life free ,
never able to see ,
whatkind of suffering this life ,
sometimes can be .
(Dedicated to my grandpa in heaven .)
--------------------
Army made me see .
Antti
That this world is not the one i dreamt of ,
not the one filled with people dreaming ,
or peacfully singing .
No this world is like twohundred soldiers ,
each one watching their borders eyes gleaming .
Armed to teeth in their fortress ,
barricaded with stone ,
bomb and ak49 ,
---------------------
On Judgement Day
Christopher Stolle
and on the seventh day,
he rested among the vines
to commit himself to peace;
but the moment left the sun
in despair with the moon and stars
as to whom would defend the crease.
maybe the halos were enough
to keep everything in synch
or possibly the end was near;
and in every shallow eye
there was a vision of sanity
and then everyone lost their fear.
every prophet got down on his knees
to recall a time when all was sacred
except for the virgin's apple;
"feast on this bread and wine,"
said their leader on the eve of his demise,
Rand please do not fill the chapel."
so we crossed his name from the list
and we took steps to preserve
every word that was spoken;
and if he returns to us someday
we can justify all our sins
as the ridiculous spell is broken.
----------------------
One More Chance
Christopher Stolle
it's not like it's supposed to be
in this carbon copy world
as two or three times a day
I hear many ordinary voices
being hurled at fools
like irrational choices
now is the moment for repent
to free oneself from tragedy
and words from the hoarded book
seem to disturb me more and more
but the remedy is in guidance
that's driven through the floor
put these thoughts in your head
and all they will do is sit there
we act like ants with no direction
as the memories begin to fade away
without a care in the world
leaving another price to pay again
in between the times of fortune
are quickened paces of despair
toss off your hat, set free your mind
because idleness is torture to the senses
and nothing's fair that seems easy
so tear down all the fences
crimps in the speech hurt everyone
and everything's to be kept in paper sacks
since lock and key are only material
and the tracks slowly melted away
as did the hero's serial number
we have to find a way to survive
without always looking to someone
now the fire of hell takes it toll
as the natives hold their last dance
while the sun creeps behind the clouds
and we are given one last chance
----------------------------------------------------------------
When the Boys Returned from World War II
Christopher Stolle
remember the ditches
remember the flashlight
remember the walls we tore down
with all our might
remember the soup cans
remember the morning sun
remember those letters from home
when the day was done
remember the home-cooked meals
remember the suicides
remember the skin graft faces
after the attack with genocide
remember the pressure
remember the holidays
remember the new-born baby
and the priest hopes and prays
remember the old-time music
remember the corner soda shop
remember that dream you had
of wanting to be a coffee cop
remember the ocean waves
remember the flowers that bloomed
remember the distance bombs
when we thought we were doomed
remember the ride home
remember the ticket-tape parade
remember the reunion we had
when the memories had yet to fade
remember the memorial built for us
remember the paychecks we had to save
remember all those awful times
when we thought of our buddies in the grave
remember what war can do
remember what war has done
remember what war is doing right now
and believe that no one has won
-------------------------------
Memo To The Mortician
Ron Shultz
Dear Sir: I have sent
You twenty more young bodies.
Your loyal friend, WAR.
September 3, 1970
------------------------------
SPEC 4 Pondexteur E. Williams
Ron Shultz
Fought, died, over where
To bury you, they fight 'cause
Of your colored hide.
September 3, 1970
------------------------------
Pawn of Politics
Another boy killed,
His blood spilled for what; that which
We call freedom? Ha!
September 3, 1970
------------------------------
dreams of the panda an excerpt
panda
I.
Images of Brothers born
Brothers died
Witnesses of Time's secrets
Viewers of Horrors Untold
Sorrows never witnessed
But Always known
Can one wish to dream
Of death; sweet silence.
II.
Footstep by footstep
Echoing off the buildings
Silence of millions
Echo in the stillness
Black and white shape
Moving through the remnants
Remains of a civilization
Collapsed upon itself
Wandering through it all
A prisoner set free
Whose sorrowful eyes
Reflect the black remains
As it treads eternally
A Panda in Bamboo of Man
---------------------------
(titled)
ben ohmart
"Ssshh..!" He could control his people, but the jungle still
struggled with the wind. Flakes of pollen and the scent off drug plants
told their direction but did little else to help.
The sound of water running, hitting into something. 44 feet ago
they couldn't hear it at all, now, passing just a single colossal tree, it
was ear ready.
Major Bel didn't have to do anything. But he pointed. They scattered
, each taking up a pre-arranged post. The guns were security. No bullets
anymore since after the last skirmish, but it made them feel good.
Something to grip. Hide behind, even if they were sub-things.
No one crouched. They knew it was going to be too long for that.
Then on the fifth day, a little boy chanced into the spring. Looking
back after every 3rd or so footstep, he was no fool. But only going on 10,
the black-haired child was already starting to bald badly. The tar his
mother had stolen from a wandering (always hiding, moving, or else, be
shut down) schoolroom's back wall did little to conceal his embarrassment
from the many dead bodies of the village. And on hot days - nearly every day
- his head steamed.
Hands to brook, he cleansed choice bits of himself.
The silent radios crackled loudly into plugged ear holes.
Checkpoints checked in. Jokes left one soldier and joined others. The
signal..!
All jumping up at once, the guns blazed without a call to unity.
The boy was quick, but not quick enough not to be not killed. Running all
the way home to the sound of the mad men clicking their machines, he didn't
stop for a single loose goat. Which could've meant money to his family.
Squat. The men could see each other's shinning faces in the brush.
Green and black on their cheeks, black on their teeth, they still knew
where each brother was hiding. Somehow they could Feel it.
It was worth the time. Their mission.
Cans of beefy beans and crinkly packages of shit they called
Astronaut's Ice Cream, the feast was generally completed by 1800.
Incremental watches of three hours, alternating by shifts of 4 man teams, a
different group combination every day, helped to pass the 24 hours until the
next day, which officially started at 0600. Each man's night or day was
wasted on an army blanket 3 inches thick and 2 feet wide. Army Off was
good for attracting mosquitoes, however, each man found that by going
just a little hungry every night, the paste of beans scraped from their
cans provided good camou flage against the diminutive buggers.
It went on for 6 months, and the cards they used to pass the off
hours soon had the numbers and clubs and diamonds wearing off. Fit. Tough.
Sacred. They scared off a lot of children, and were grateful for the fact
that there was no enemy army stationed nearby.
-----------------------
bosnia
Raymond L. Heinrich
The procession comes down this single street
in the town you always thought it was your
own but in dreams at night it is the same so
it can't be real you tell the person lying
by your side who you thought you'd been
married to for 10 or was it 25 years this
slides like your other visions it's possible
that there has been no one all these years
that they were all dreams even if their
names were pat and philip and susan and
michael and ginger and ginger just had to be
real in this world that possesses no more
than 16 colors and tomorrow it will be time
to stop all this time to make the only
decision allowed and it will come as fast as
the end as slow as your words wanting to
reach that ginger to tell her or was it him
or a vegetable used in the soup that
comprised your life as sacred as the cow in
that mcdonnell's hamburger or that ant you
stepped on in 1989 while taking out the
garbage which had as much an idea of where
as you do now sitting trying to decide which
is the greater sin while sitting on the
railing of the highest bridge in your home
town not high enough like new york or tokyo
or london or moscow not high enough as
she and he comes to take your hand and
you call out mother you call out father
knowing all of you are dead and the
aliens coming across the border have taken
your house and jobs and just like bosnia you
remember the slow pleasure of holding your
hands around your neighbor's neck or was it
the stereo and the cd's you wanted never
enough to have them gone forever but maybe
just a little while just until you listened
to the last chords of orchestra of the slow
sun dissolving into the next day where you
promise yourself knowing it's a lie but
hoping to fool this love you made up this
god you made up this smooth even transition
into the level plain of museums of ideas
never mentioned of the shortest day of the
year which has the longest night.
---------------------
the universe
Raymond L. Heinrich
upstairs
the rice cooks
and i
must be mindful
of the time
the rice
is not forgiving
done
at a certain time
ready
or gone
i
feel like rice
feel like the long ago
empty plain filled
with rice or wheat or
if necessary
high stalks of corn
lighted by a full moons light
lighted so they direct
our
to
the flash of weapons firing
the mental
the physical
pieces of metal
fast enough to spin through you
tearing whatever cells happen
to be in the way
out
off
gone
holes
you or i
won't mention the blood
the red
the original red
not read
as you're doing now
but red
as the light likes
the inside of us
rejoices when the skin must split
must give way
to the pure color of red
becomes a fountain
celebrating
the constant suffering
which makes us
pure
even as the portraits of
nixon and
stalin and
reagan and
some germans i won't name
grin over us
yes
they don't understand
in their illness
in their constant need
for attention
but we
have only to look
in their direction
to help them
to kiss their useful lips
we
a part of the constant pain
of weapons
of words
of the separation
of germ plasma
of DNA
we are
completely similar
arguing for the fun of it
killing our neighbors
just like the crabgrass
ignoring
the continuity
of us and snails
tragic?
no
the continuity of time
requires all of this
we
are along for the ride
and we kill
and we burn
whoever
we
want
random
molecules
compel
there is no
blame
and
from a place
way too high
to lean
into the wind
to fall
over and over
pointing
if possible
pointing up
so you don't
see the ground approaching
see the ground
which
in seconds
will crush
your skull
your body
will end
all this talking and words
will end
all this questioning
will end
this complete vacuum
which we call
the universe
the self
