Amanda sat, Releasing bundles ofleaves Onto the table between us. Taking up minimal space in the Perkins booth, She lit a cigarette and said it would be her last. Her thin fingers tweezed the pale smoking wand. Biting the tip of my tongue, I held my breath—she knows My casual hatred of the habit.... Show moreAmanda sat, Releasing bundles ofleaves Onto the table between us. Taking up minimal space in the Perkins booth, She lit a cigarette and said it would be her last. Her thin fingers tweezed the pale smoking wand. Biting the tip of my tongue, I held my breath—she knows My casual hatred of the habit. She quickly sucked it away down to A white twig ofsinged trash. We are college students who flick away Cash like Chinese paper footballs. We watched those leaves float by too, And discussing the world and Dying children, we Agreed that we are over—privileged. She drew a rainbow shape in the air, explaining And looking up at the leaves Sailing invisiny over our minds. Leaves ofthought she called them — Which we are not to grab as they drift on. Let them fly by and peace will be yours, she said. But I raked them into the black bag of my soul As we conversed of relationships and trendy religion. ‘21 LEAF MErDITATION .S‘am/J Alt/Ir She takes shrooms on occasion, For clarity. And I play my red guitar. She has always wanted to date a girl. And I want to be an artist. But some leaves are blown away, Browning and taking seed in other dimensions. Only in the spring ofdreams we see them — Sprouting. Finally at home in the soil. Show less
ll Half—drenched in guilty medicine and half-tormented by thieves who weave a white cloth from your ghostly cries, l have wandered for months night after night through my beloved city of ice (full of moonlight and railroad ash) uncovering its noblest evil: Time empties here like rose petals set... Show morell Half—drenched in guilty medicine and half-tormented by thieves who weave a white cloth from your ghostly cries, l have wandered for months night after night through my beloved city of ice (full of moonlight and railroad ash) uncovering its noblest evil: Time empties here like rose petals set upon a rush of water, driven through darkened passageways.“ too many forget drip drip, drip drip: the dance too many Here I have become only a rusty tree of bones, leaden in thought and deaf to the ring of sweet summer chimes and your merciful country tone. Now this diamond cityjust howls into the November night driven mad by a deep organ sigh. ~l Ill Together for perhaps an hour, we should have sung winter melodies along the frozen riverbank: emerald voices in the mist. Show less
took to Maine, I was reminded. I told him how I drove through a suffocating night of fog. I couldn't see any road signs and didn’t know my exact location, but I must have been some- where in Pennsylvania. When I looked up from rubbing my eyes, a mouth of reflective shark teeth was floating in my... Show moretook to Maine, I was reminded. I told him how I drove through a suffocating night of fog. I couldn't see any road signs and didn’t know my exact location, but I must have been some- where in Pennsylvania. When I looked up from rubbing my eyes, a mouth of reflective shark teeth was floating in my headlights, right in front of my windshield. Dad interrupted my story. "That’s a UH—IA Huey helicop- ter," he said. “We flew ‘em in Vietnam. Used to scare the hell outta people." Even in my twenties, that statement summed up my knowledge of Dad's service in Vietnam. I would be almost thirty before the pieces would come together and form a picture more realistic than abstract. One Saturday night, we were up late waiting for boxing to start on HBO, a weekly pay-per—view fam— ily tradition. My mother played Casino Tycoon on the computer in the dining room, and waited in her usual fashion for the theme music to start. My sister and her husband, who I believe started the whole family boxing night phenomenon, sat across the room from one an— other because there wasn’t enough room on the couch. I was firmly planted on the left cushion, smoking a ciga— rette. My parents’ dog, Ytzak, was sprawled over his pillow in the middle, and moved his head only when he heard my dad open his bag of potato chips. Dad sat in his usual place to the right, and sipped an Old Milwau— kee. The theme music came on, followed by an in— troduction to the fighters. One of them had evidently “grown up on the street” and "been in a lot of trouble." The voice—over told us that all of this had changed when he learned discipline in the Army. My father started to laugh. He said that not everyone learned discipline in the Army. He began to speak ofa man from boot camp \ named Willie. The whole room froze. Even my mother, who had moved from the dining room to the floor at his feet, leaned forward and rested her chin in her hand. We did not blink. Dad told us Willie had been infamous for sneaking out of the barracks at night. None of us lit a cigarette as we heard how his buddies would wait in anticipation every morning just to hear what VVil- lie had done the night before. I almost cried when Dad leaned back on the couch, let out a long laugh, and told us about the day that Willie had to go to the infirmary with the worst case of the clap man has ever seen. The moment both terrified me and left me captivated. I believed my father ill. He had opened his mouth and told us, all of us, that the war had been more than photographs. He fell quiet after that, and said only, “I don’t know what happened to him after that. It’s been a long time." Because of that story, I started asking questions over the next several months. I found out how much I really hadn't known. I hadn’t known that my parents met in 1970, one year after Dad came home. I always thought the photographs had been sent from Dad to Mom, that she had waited and worried, up nights. They hadn’t even known each other then. My sister was born on an Air Force base in Ohio. I thought it strange, since my father hadn't been in the Air Force. But he said, “When I got out of the Army, there weren’t any jobs, so Ijoined the Air Force instead." Mom said they tried to send him back to Viet- nam right after that. The photos were tucked away in Mom's album by then. And that green Polaroid picture. My dad point- ed to it at the dining room table one night and stopped me from turning the page. “There,” he said. “You see Q8 Show less
+0 42 +3 +4 +6 nave m—ozooo @4- 0‘ CI 01 Ln £7! bi OI (A: CI (3 on ‘1 a Riley Conway Aaron Hoehn John Mitchell Michael Schroeder Graham Petersburg Sonya Krimsky Aaron Koehn Aaron Koehn Amy Bethke Teddy Fabel \Vallace O'Connor Darby Lorents Samantha Mitchell Jenny VVheatley Angela Olson DE. Green... Show more+0 42 +3 +4 +6 nave m—ozooo @4- 0‘ CI 01 Ln £7! bi OI (A: CI (3 on ‘1 a Riley Conway Aaron Hoehn John Mitchell Michael Schroeder Graham Petersburg Sonya Krimsky Aaron Koehn Aaron Koehn Amy Bethke Teddy Fabel \Vallace O'Connor Darby Lorents Samantha Mitchell Jenny VVheatley Angela Olson DE. Green Jeff Moores Sara Beth Olson Claire Pettry Jamee Blixt Maura Nelson Sarah Gilbert Dawson Goddard Samantha Mitchell Jeremy Anderson Graham Petersburg John Mitchell Empire Builder Portrait of Self? Third Night Virus Walking Man Self Portrait 2 Anorexia Mystic My Gourd Friend Zen Approach Bus Notes Slouch Vision: \Vinter Untitled New Mary Asian Feet Fruit Ganges River Don Quijote Broke My Pate Polar Forces Springbreak Untitled Milligan Cotton Candy Amsterdam’s April Family The War Orphaned Stares Self Portrait I Went to Paris Contributor Biographies About Augsburg Murphy Square Editors Show less
EMPIRE BUILDER Ri/g' Caz/way Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Chimes and red flashes an— nounce the train. From my living room window, I watch it pass. Dusk light bursts between cars as they clank over tracks. Our home rumbles and sways to the pulse of the train. Glasses clink in our kitchen sink. Four... Show moreEMPIRE BUILDER Ri/g' Caz/way Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Chimes and red flashes an— nounce the train. From my living room window, I watch it pass. Dusk light bursts between cars as they clank over tracks. Our home rumbles and sways to the pulse of the train. Glasses clink in our kitchen sink. Four steady moans from the whistle echo through the hallways of our house. The Amtrak races past the cold, still, quiet world. The house I grew up in is located less than one hun— dred meters from a set of train tracks. Dozens of trains sped past my home each day. I learned to disregard the whistles and the sounds of the cars clattering past. I de— tected a passing train only when we had company who noticed the thunderous noise, or when a train that less frequently passed our house, such as a steam engine, blasted its unique horn as it passed. Amtrak trains rode by our house each day as well, but I was rarely home when they did; so to see one cruise by, and to hear it blast its magnificent horn, which sounded like the wail of tornado siren, was a real treat. Despite my daily encounter with passing trains, my first train trip wasn't until this past October. My mom and I decided to take the “Empire Builder" line to I-Iavre, Montana for a wedding. \Ve began our journey at the Minneapolis Am— trak depot, which was a very quiet place. No loud an— nouncements boomed over a public address system. No gift shops, coffee shops, newsstands, bars, or restaurants bustled with activity. All I heard was the low mumble of passengers’ conversations as they waited to board the train. There were no security checks, nor were there moving walkways between multiple terminals. The sta— tion consisted ofjust one room with a check—in counter and a door near the back through which the train was visible. A conductor cried, “All Aboard!" and checked our tickets when it was time to board. After we figured out which car was ours, my mom and I selected our seats. The train wasn't full, so I sprawled out between two large chairs, reclined fully, and stretched my legs out in front of me. I didn’t have to wear a seat belt, and I was free to get up and walk about the wide aisles of the cabin; I could even pass between the cars. This was the way to travel. It was much more pleasant than my trip this past summer along I-90 from Rapid City, South Da- kota to Albert Lea, Minnesota. I squirmed in my seat the whole way. My neck ached. My hamstrings tight— ened. My lower back throbbed. I had to scan the radio waves every few hundred miles when the previous Old- ies stations faded out. My gaze was fixed on the endless expanse of asphalt before me, flanked by barren yellow fields on either side. I drove and drove and drove to- wards that Eastern horizon, but I never reached it. The only deviations from this path were the infrequent ex- its to small towns or rest areas so that I could get out, stretch, and splash water on my face. I didn't have to steer the train. It was bound on rigid rails, which left no opportunity for deviation. The route I was on was determined well before my birth. Unlike my I—90 trip, I could not see what was coming up ahead of me, nor could I look back on what I had already passed. I could only view the endless expanse of the place I was in. The world seemed to stretch in— finitely to the North and South in the open plains of North Dakota and Montana. My favorite place to sit on the train was the lounge car. Window panels stretched along the length of the walls and arced around the ceiling. All of the seats 4-0 Show less
We work in the dark—we do what we can—we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art. - Henry James, "The Middle Years"
I WENT TO PARIS jo/m Mz'z‘r/Jel/ I went to Paris the real one of dreams where streets are cobble stoned with heads guillotined by American poets determined to be free of all recrimination who admit they had and wanted to have sex behind the scenes kicking legs and drugs revolutionary thrills made... Show moreI WENT TO PARIS jo/m Mz'z‘r/Jel/ I went to Paris the real one of dreams where streets are cobble stoned with heads guillotined by American poets determined to be free of all recrimination who admit they had and wanted to have sex behind the scenes kicking legs and drugs revolutionary thrills made gaudy by poems too sad and beautiful for money to buy actual dreams which require sleep and unconsciousness to a fault. Show less
Augsburg College Lindell Library Minneapolis, MN 55454 John Mitchell wears the bottoms of his trousers rolled and has measured out his life in coffee spoons in the English department. Samantha Mitchell is a senior double—major in market— ing and English and an Engman winner. Jeff Moores is a... Show moreAugsburg College Lindell Library Minneapolis, MN 55454 John Mitchell wears the bottoms of his trousers rolled and has measured out his life in coffee spoons in the English department. Samantha Mitchell is a senior double—major in market— ing and English and an Engman winner. Jeff Moores is a senior English major with a concentra— tion in writing; he is the 200+-2005 Echo News Editor and is a tutor in the Writing Lab. Maura Nelson is a senior English major. She enjoys living, loving, learning, and laughing. Madeline Nyvold is a sophomore, double—majoring in English and public relations who spends most of her free time expanding her knowledge of pop culture via VH1. Wallace O’Connor water—skied to the wrestling room where he found his bike. \Vhat’s your philosophy? Angela Olson is a senior religion major. Sara Beth Olson loves to dance and is obsessed with Brit hands, all things Hawaiian and Australian, cake, and Scout, her bunny. Graham Petersburg is a freshman studio art major who likes puppeteering, the forefathers of America and post—evolutionary America. Claire Pettry is a senior art history major who thinks everyone should listen to Neil Young. Anthony Rathai is ajunior English major whose inter— ests are not applicable. John Ricker is a sophomore majoring in computational philosophy and is interested in science fiction. Michael Schroeder is a junior art major whose inter- ests include literature, music, and world domination. Ryan Sobolik is a senior interested in poetry, philoso— phy, and film. Jenny of the Wheatleys is a junior who enjoys per— forming in theatre and painting. Choua Yang is a senior, majoring in business manage— ment. She writes and takes pictures in her free time. \l [5 Show less
WHITE TARA: TIBETAN GODDESS Ange/a 0/me She was like a pile of blubber Half woman Half whale Sitting Drowning in an ocean of wool \Vith no way to tell where her legs ended And the blankets began Unable to verbally communicate Her eyes told me she had wandered through the desert And found treasure... Show moreWHITE TARA: TIBETAN GODDESS Ange/a 0/me She was like a pile of blubber Half woman Half whale Sitting Drowning in an ocean of wool \Vith no way to tell where her legs ended And the blankets began Unable to verbally communicate Her eyes told me she had wandered through the desert And found treasure Her skin intoxicated me Her face matted with sacred dirt and dried sweat From lifetimes of practice Her hair, long, braided and wild Like the wife ofan Indian war chief Here she was queen of the yaks I wanted to pick her like a dandelion puff And blow Show less
SLOUCH VISION: WINTER Teddy Ftl/Jt‘l Specters of snow coast And frighten past the closed Windows Cacophonous wind drops Hints \Vliisping and winding Around skyscrapers' right angles Bleached ants biting at checkhones
THE ARENA OF THE PROSE POEM 10/111 A Ii/r/Jel/ Where is the goddamned puck. lt flies without wings from stick to crooked stick. Like a word in in prose poem. A word kicked about by the inspired one who has left his skates at home. The one troubled by a broom bank in grade school. And the mugs... Show moreTHE ARENA OF THE PROSE POEM 10/111 A Ii/r/Jel/ Where is the goddamned puck. lt flies without wings from stick to crooked stick. Like a word in in prose poem. A word kicked about by the inspired one who has left his skates at home. The one troubled by a broom bank in grade school. And the mugs—pugilistic noses, missing teeth. eyes broad as an Amoco sign lit up for freight car- riers at night. Think of the puny movie stars sitting on stools in a Barstow cafe. There you have the loneliness of the unspoken word, the dirty tricks, the snapped spine and yellow streaks. Fame and fortune they “ill tell you is just another name for the goalie, the reader masked, slit eyed, breathing through a tube, waitianr for the word. As figure 5's come slicing down the ice, the crowd roars, but not for literature. It screams for blood. And light. Show less
33 VINYL fem/{y Ant/mm” the needle silky, smooth, and elegant cascading down into the revolving black the path, the groove dark‘ mysterious, coarse, and rigid the friction, the vibration. bridging the rhythm spinning endlessly spinning from one perfect note to the next as the needle tears into... Show more33 VINYL fem/{y Ant/mm” the needle silky, smooth, and elegant cascading down into the revolving black the path, the groove dark‘ mysterious, coarse, and rigid the friction, the vibration. bridging the rhythm spinning endlessly spinning from one perfect note to the next as the needle tears into the vinyl like flesh the journey through words, through chords through sunshine. through heartbreak through worse from the nostalgia from the outer rings where it enters tirelessly rummaging its way to the center the static the purity spawned from distortion the passion, the innocence‘ captured in every portion the longing for the time we don’t remember this mess found only when looking back at the complex the climax where the melody steals us from life's riddle then the needle stops as the needle reaches the middle Show less
Each trip to the cabin is formulaically success— ful—campfires, s'mores, canoeing, catching fire flies in glass jars, and the endless dangling of feet in bottle- green water. But by the end of the weekend our feet look like prunes and twenty-three experiments have proven that Mountain Dew does not,... Show moreEach trip to the cabin is formulaically success— ful—campfires, s'mores, canoeing, catching fire flies in glass jars, and the endless dangling of feet in bottle- green water. But by the end of the weekend our feet look like prunes and twenty-three experiments have proven that Mountain Dew does not, in fact, attract attention from sunfish, pike, or muskies. Who knew? And unlike my brother and dad, who have the courage, I'm not about to slide a hook through the guts of a flailing worm simply to capture a fish. \Vhile the others watch their bobbers intently from the pontoon on the far side of the lake, Chrissy and I wonder how to occupy our time. At ten years old, she is the more mature and sophisticated of the two of us and is prone to decision-making. Why not a card game, she suggests. After thirty minutes, we ex- haust go—fish. Rather than concede to death from bore— dom, I offer my own suggestion: a staring contest. We choose a large green couch for our duel. The material ripples like corduroy but it is sharper, some- thing synthetic and durable. Any bare skin falls victim to its prickliness, making it hard to sit still. Chrissy and I turn toward each other and count: one, two, three! I look into her right pupil then switch to her left. I breathe softly and think about the fish my brother and dad are catching and how soon school is going to start up again. Ten seconds. Chrissy exhales through her teeth. The sound is slight, just a hiss, but we both waver. My heart beats faster; I tighten my lips. IfI smile or giggle I'm done; I'll lose. Chrissy stares forward like a soldier at attention. I hear a boat ripping across the lake, cicadas buzzing in the trees outside, and waves slurping like tongues against the shore. Staring into Chrissy’s eyes was simple twelve years ago, and I could do the same with anyone in my 17 family. As an adult, however, my family avoids all forms of staring, whether physical or verbal. Ask too many questions and it will seem you are prying—to be safe, don't ask any questions at all. As a child I couldn't see it, but my family's con- duct is obvious now. Despite living in a language rife with words that support, enjoy, and delight. words that hold, care for, and emote, my family remains silent. Afraid to express anything at all, my family forces its children to learn that love must sometimes be assumed. When I was nine years old, I responded to “How's Jeff?" enthusiastically, like a puppy hearing its name. Now I cringe at being referred to in the third per- son, as if my grandmother is asking about the Jeff she imagines her grandson to be, not the grandson I am. In- verted in form, the staring contest I began twelve years ago still thrives. Instead of resolutely peering into each other's pupils, my family members seclude themselves and glance away we now compete to see who can keep from looking into one another, to see who can keep the most distanced. I stand inside the chapel doors of the church watching Donny and his fiancee go through the mo- tions of their wedding. I look from my grandparents to one of my aunts to each of my cousins. If our gazes happen to meet, they look away, demure on the surface but pathetically stoic in reality. They flex the corners of their mouths and remain as empty as the unadorned drywall and lightly stained crucifix. They win. Show less
