AUGS8URG COLLEGE
731 2 1 s t AVENUE SOUTH
MINNEAPOLIS, MN 55454
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Official Publication o f
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Augsburg College, ~ i n n e a p o l i sM
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S U M M E R 1980
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18 Luanne By Kim Morken “Turn around." She did. I shot her. She fell backwards. bounced once, then lay still. I closed the door and went back to bed. It was 11:00. An hour later I woke up, remembered what I had done and went out into the hall. Luanne was still there. 266 pounds of solid flesh.... Show more18 Luanne By Kim Morken “Turn around." She did. I shot her. She fell backwards. bounced once, then lay still. I closed the door and went back to bed. It was 11:00. An hour later I woke up, remembered what I had done and went out into the hall. Luanne was still there. 266 pounds of solid flesh. solid. ugly, lazy flesh rolling inside a Led Zeppelin T-shirt and dirty jeans. I sat down on the floor next to her and waited. “You can't even bleed." I laughed out loud; “your blood is probably too thick with pizza. or too thin from going to the Blood Plasma Donor Center to bleed" (ten dollars a pint helped pay her rent). Poor Luanne. Poor Theodine. I thought. watching Luanne's cat pacing up and down the hall. What will he do without his mom? Luanne called Theodine “her little boy." “Isn't my little boy handsome?" she would ask me. "Yes. Luanne." She had entered him in a Best Looking Cat Contest a year ago. He lost. Luanne wrote a nasty letter to the sponsors and didn‘t sign her name. Theodine came and lay down beside me. I stroked his furry back. He lay his head on my knee. and we both looked at his mom. Still no blood. “I'm not a murderess by nature. Luanne. I love the whole world most of the time. But sometimes I really hate you." Luanne lay there. her eyes still open. staring at the ceiling. She usually did all the talking. She would knock on my door with a question like. “Did you make that call to Denver?" "No. Luanne. Ididn't." “Well, guess who I saw last night?" She went on to tell me about the man she was in love with. His name was Gary Blue. He sang in bars around the University area. Luanne had met him through her cousin. There is no law that says obesity lessens the ability to love, but I was sure no one would ever love Luanne. Poor Luanne. She told me she was dieting. In the morning before going to work. I would sometimes watch her sleep. looking through the crack in the door she left open for Theodine. Her bed was only a mattress on the floor. She lay there. her greasy black hair hanging across her open mouth, the T.V. still buzzing. and a bag of half-eaten potato chips crushed under her arm. Liar. I thought. “Death will make you skinny. Luanne. You should thank me." I wondered if Luanne had been jealous of me. I was blonde. had a good tan, for it being only the middle of J une. and two or three boyfriends. Luanne could have easily put her chubby hands around my neck and ended my happy life. She must have hated me. Show less
Geisha By Mary Deering Lucky ones . . . Freed by tradition From the burdens of too much choice. Nothing is more complex Than the proper placement Of rice in porcelain bowls On lacquered tables, Or the exactness in the lay of your hand Upon a businessman’s sleeve. I find comfort with visions of... Show moreGeisha By Mary Deering Lucky ones . . . Freed by tradition From the burdens of too much choice. Nothing is more complex Than the proper placement Of rice in porcelain bowls On lacquered tables, Or the exactness in the lay of your hand Upon a businessman’s sleeve. I find comfort with visions of that ordered life And the knowledge of brocaded silk, Tense against your bellies as you inhale. Secured. Even breathing Is done just so. Show less
Saturday, 7:15 A.M. By Angie Carlson The electric clock hums incessantly, undaunted by its crucifixion on the daisy-spattered kitchen wall, its arms spinning harmlessly. 11 Outside my window, the grey has not yet given way to light— color is dead. according to my grey feet, bare against the olive... Show moreSaturday, 7:15 A.M. By Angie Carlson The electric clock hums incessantly, undaunted by its crucifixion on the daisy-spattered kitchen wall, its arms spinning harmlessly. 11 Outside my window, the grey has not yet given way to light— color is dead. according to my grey feet, bare against the olive apartment rug. I bury my face in a tacky Hawaiian print pillow. Next door my neighbor, her eyes filmed with disease, greets the day—- singing along loudly to her gospel albums. Hallelujah! Reclining upon the floor, I read the morning news with the tea: my god does not ask much of me. Show less
I played with the geese, spreading their wings. Dad cut one of the feet off, showing me how to extend the dead foot by pulling the tendons. The men held their catch by the neck, flashes exploding in the basement gloom. I stood to the side, thinking of the day I would 4 be old enough to go along.
Logic By Lori Johnson For Professor Bailey and his many, dedicated followers. Logic— blessed knowledge. I You met me, poor and uninformed and taught me of the nature of the universe. You have made me skeptical 15 of each carelessly spewed word . . . Taught me of intricate relationships . . .... Show moreLogic By Lori Johnson For Professor Bailey and his many, dedicated followers. Logic— blessed knowledge. I You met me, poor and uninformed and taught me of the nature of the universe. You have made me skeptical 15 of each carelessly spewed word . . . Taught me of intricate relationships . . . monkeys and fleas, John and Mary, everyman, no man, (which man?) Broadened my horizons . . . Given me a new lease on vocabulary— petitio prencipii, (X) (3y) {(onBy)+ny[, A. H. S. Given new principles to guide . . . commutation. adjunction. undistributed middle. and a pocket full of frustrated pride. What, after all, shall I say— You have brought me truth (or was that “validity"?) Show less
Telescope By Maureen Cooper at ten weeks old your fetus is a heartbeat fingerprints and the reproductive material for propelling anticipated grandchildren. does this boggle your mind like mine when i look at a painting of an artist at an easel. painting an artist standing at his easel, painting... Show moreTelescope By Maureen Cooper at ten weeks old your fetus is a heartbeat fingerprints and the reproductive material for propelling anticipated grandchildren. does this boggle your mind like mine when i look at a painting of an artist at an easel. painting an artist standing at his easel, painting an artist? Show less
Art Work Cover Design Julie Docken and Rick Jackson. p. 2 Randy Rogers. P- 8 Debbie Bouchier. P- 14 Cindy Robin Johnson. PP. 20-1 Randy Rogers. P. 26 Paula Shelley. P- 32 Sharon M. Tibesar. P- 36 Ter Scott. 13- 41 Cindy Robin Johnson.
I was shocked at her language and behavior. None of my children ever did that in their mother's presence. and she was not going to be the first. I started to slap her face with my open palm. but before I got two blows in. the little witch bit me. Hard. Real hard. The blood started spurtin' down... Show moreI was shocked at her language and behavior. None of my children ever did that in their mother's presence. and she was not going to be the first. I started to slap her face with my open palm. but before I got two blows in. the little witch bit me. Hard. Real hard. The blood started spurtin' down my fingers and I just stood there like an idiot. too stuptified to do anything important. She dropped the packages she was carryin': I heard glass breakin' and boxes rattlin'. and then smelled the sickly sweet odor of Parfum de Paris as it crept out onto the floor. I jest kept standin' there; cryin'. bleedin'. sneezin'. She got her flight-bag and sailed out the door. And the only thing she said the whole while as she was leaving was, “You old ass. I won‘t put up with your crap anymore. I won't!" That girl is really mad. 29 Show less
A co-op, a bakery a laundry mat, the U.F., hardware hanks, I never even saw a fire truck in McIntosh. like theives we drive away—six hours to the city. our car laden with booty— only, we paid for it 25 God, we paid for it.
Summers By Paul Kilgore When I was younger I used to spend summers working on my uncle's farm. He lived in the rockiest, most wooded area in the state. and everyone knew how futile farming there was. But my uncle took me every summer anyway, and even managed to pay me decent wages. He always said... Show moreSummers By Paul Kilgore When I was younger I used to spend summers working on my uncle's farm. He lived in the rockiest, most wooded area in the state. and everyone knew how futile farming there was. But my uncle took me every summer anyway, and even managed to pay me decent wages. He always said it had something to do with a theory he had about keeping the money in the family. The work he gave me was never anything more than the simplest chores. One summer, for instance, I spent every day clearing rocks from a field: giant, bowling ball-sized rocks at first, and then smaller ones that were perfect for firing at the blackbirds that came out of the swamps to sit on the fence posts and laugh. The rockpile I stacked that summer still sits in a corner of the back pasture, and my uncle never forgets to tell people that I was the one who gathered all of those stones. My little piece of immortality, I guess. The hottest part of the summer always seemed to arrive just when it was time to stack hay. We were up at six every morning to work, and even then you could feel the heat. I would climb into the loft in the barn and pile up the bales my uncle sent up the conveyor belt and through the highest opening. The heat was oppressive, and the air was heavy with the taste of hay. My uncle used to laugh at the sight of me throwing bales into place (with the twine positioned so that the mice wouldn't be able to gnaw through it), all the time trying to keep my footing while making sure I didn’t step under a falling bundle of hay. “Shredded wheat for breakfast tomorrow morning?" he would roar. When it got just too hot we would give up and take the pick-up into town. “City slicker,“ my uncle would chide as I ground the gears in his truck. He didn't care. The floor had rusted out, anyway. and the rear window had a crack running across it. When we got into town—a grocery store. a bar, and a gas station—my uncle always said we’d just pick up a can of pop or an ice cream bar. but most of the time we ended up staying through the afternoon. Sometimes my uncle would take me into the bar and get us both a beer, warning me “not to mention this to your aunt." The tavern's interior, which seemed so dark compared to the brilliant sunlight outside. always interested me. There were stools, booths, two pinball machines, a pool table, and a plaque on the wall that said something about work’s reward. And the characters we met there! Harvey Mortons, for instance: a little stub , of a man with no teeth (“Can't wear false teeth." he would complain. “They don't fit right. ").There was Randy Sanders, a young truck driver who everyone said made loads of money. And there was old Floyd McKennan, the best storyteller in the county. “Working for your uncle, eh?” Floyd said to me once. “When I was your age I'd never work." My uncle winked at me. “I went around with Aaron Benson then," the old man continued. “Your uncle’s heard of Aaron, I’ll bet. He used to have an old Ford, one of the first in Show less
Rebellion By Paula Shelley I don't know many of the particulars surroundin' my daughter's rebellious behavior on that Friday afternoon before Thanksgivin' when she came home from college to spend the weekend with me. All I know for sure is that she's mad. I” knew more. then Icould say why for a... Show moreRebellion By Paula Shelley I don't know many of the particulars surroundin' my daughter's rebellious behavior on that Friday afternoon before Thanksgivin' when she came home from college to spend the weekend with me. All I know for sure is that she's mad. I” knew more. then Icould say why for a certainty: but seein' as I don't have all the facts. I really can‘t go about judgin'. She came home furious and tired. complainin' of a sore back and more homework than she's ever had to deal with and packed-full buses that passed her by. She had to walk home: she tramped a mile through that meltin' slop of our first snowfall. So she burst the front door open with that thick-booted foot of hers. her arms full of books and her dirty Amelia Erhart flight-bag. and she tramped across my freshly laundered imitation Persian rug. first new in 1923. To make matters worse. she shook out her boots. coat. and hat in the parlor. and some of that filthy slush spattered my poor cat and sent her howlin' and spittin' under the sofa where she didn't come out until nigh onto midnight. What didn't hit the cat was stuck on my good furniture; it took her nearly twenty minutes to scrape that mess off with the dishrag. I don't ask her much but to keep the house spic—an-span. but she says she always kept it clean before she went away to college and she can't see why I can’t clean it now that she's in college. If I told her a thousand times. I told her that I had to work. and what's a little readin' compared to six hours of heavy manual labor doin' laundry? But she bitched pretty loud this time sayin' she had enough work to do and ifI wanted my damn furniture cleaned up I'd better do it myself. Now I can get a might huffy at such language, so I slapped her up good and told her to clean up the snow spill. I said. “I hope the 'polstrey ain't stained." but she retorted, “I hope there's holes et through it." I had to slap her again. her not leamin' the first time to be nice to her dear old ma. She said nothing. but dumped her bags into that God-awful pigsty she calls a room; books and magazines piled high up in the comers and silly posters sayin' SHAKESPEARE IN THE STREETS or VOLTAIRE POWER stuck up above the bed. I curled up on the sofa to do some readin': I jest got one of them new Romantic type books from the liberry and was dyin' to get at it. when she stormed into the kitchen so's she could get at the week's dishes I left her neatly stacked up in the sink. I even took the garbage offin' 'em for her. She should be so grateful. But she clattered about and muttered under her breath in a nasty tone that I didn't like. and when I'd ask her. “What's that you're sayin'. Sweetie?" she'd an5wer. “Nothing, Mother Dear." But she kept on being a noisy bother 50's I couldn't get a speck of readin’ done. you know. andI finally had it. I told her to put her overboots and coat on again an' go shoppin' at Target. jest for Christmas presents, you know. I thought it would get her mind offin' matters an’ keep her out of my hair for a while. 27 Show less
February After Recrossing the Water By Mary Deering I am blank. Skull hollow and Dull as a bone. A side of beef. An empty plate Has more to offer. Somewhere a neuron snapped And my eye lost its trick To divine, to propose Fillers for the gaps between Lovers, a leap from the bridge, And a seasonal... Show moreFebruary After Recrossing the Water By Mary Deering I am blank. Skull hollow and Dull as a bone. A side of beef. An empty plate Has more to offer. Somewhere a neuron snapped And my eye lost its trick To divine, to propose Fillers for the gaps between Lovers, a leap from the bridge, And a seasonal change, The teeth-like keys that grimace Up at me. Black, white. Left-brained now, crosseyed, And still the three shadow me. Muttering of sacrifices, they offer A white cane, ringed with the promise Of red. Show less