i
ii
The Oklahoma Review
Volume 17: Issue 1, Spring 2016
Published by:
Cameron University
Department of English and Foreign Languages
iii
Staff
Editor
in
Chief
GEORGE
McCORMICK
Faculty
Editors
DR.
JOHN
HODGSON,
DR.
HARDY
JONES
&
DR.
JOHN
G.
MORRIS
Student
Editors
JARROD
BROWN
&
CLINTON
BLACKWELL
Jr
Web
Design
ELIA
MEREL
&
HAILEY
HARRIS
Layout
DR.
BAYARD
GODSAVE
Mission
Statement
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Table of Contents
Cover Art
Jeff F. Wheeler, detail from “Somewhere Near Happy,
Texas (no. 52)”
Fiction
10 Stephen Briggs, “A Simulation of the Consequences from a
Decrease in Rations”
25 A.W. Marshall, “Appendix G”
Poetry
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
Larry D. Thomas, “The Transfer of Light”
Larry D. Thomas, “An Imperceptible Blip”
Seth Copeland, “Josef Mengele in Exile”
Seth Copeland, “First Atlas”
Seth Copeland, “Channel”
Matt Sven Calvert, “Space & Push”
Matt Sven Calvert, “Low Blood Cross”
Translation
56 Alda Merini, Three Poems, with translations by
Chiara Frenquellucci & Gwendolyn Jensen
Nonfiction
64 Rob Roensch, “the title is the photographs”
Images
84
85
86
87
Jeff
Jeff
Jeff
Jeff
F.
F.
F.
F.
Wheeler,
Wheeler,
Wheeler,
Wheeler,
“Somewhere Near Happy, Texas”
“Just Outside Lemesa”
“Somewhere Near Happy, Texas (no. 52)”
“Just This Side of Cheyenne”
5
Interview
90 Clinton Blackwell Jr., Jarrod Brown & George McCormick
“Say the Unsayable So That It’s No Longer Unsayable”:
An Interview with Aimee Parkison
Reviews
93 George McCormick, A Review of Phil Estes’s High Life
95 Casey Brown, A Review of A.W. Marshall’s Simple Pleasures
96 Nick Brush, A Review of two books by Larry D. Thomas
98 Jarrod Brown, A Review of Jeanetta Calhoun Mish’s Oklahomeland
100 Clinton Blackwell Jr., A Review of Tracy Letts’s Superior Donuts
Contributors
102
6
Contributor’s Page
7
8
Fiction
9
Stephen Briggs
A
Simulation
of
the
Consequences
from
a
Decrease
in
Rations
City:
Ropan
Sector:
8
BEGIN
{
Program:
God's
Eye
View
***
The
following
simulation
is
one
out
of
a
series
of
1000
to
be
performed
in
a
conclusive
analysis
of
the
effects
of
reducing
city
Rapon’s
ration
level
to
a
category
3,
down
from
4.
Known
negative
consequences
concerning
the
reduction
include:
a
general
increase
in
the
unrest
index
and
a
possible
incrementation
from
Non‐violent,
hostile
status
to
Violent,
hostile
status,
a
general
decrease
in
industrial
output
due
to
rioting
and
general
population
decreases,
and
an
increase
in
the
budget
of
civil
security
services.
Known
positive
consequences
include:
a
general
increase
in
the
value
per
capita.
***
…
…
…
Consult
database:
GOD’S_EYE_VIEW:
PROCEED
‐>
Report
(Preceeding_Simulation_Totals).
REPORT:
GOD’S_EYE_VIEW:
{
Current
simulation
results:
…
…
…
Against:
53.
Favor:
258.
}
PROCEED
‐>
Simulation_Initialization.
Define:
ACTION
{
10
Consult
database:
CITY_PROFILE
(ROPAN,
8):
Modify:
ROPAN_8
(HUMAN_RESOURCE_MANAGEMENT)
{
RationLevel
=
3.
}
}
***
The
action
to
be
taken
is
a
reduction
in
daily
rations
by
300
calories.
This
action,
proposed
by
sector
treasurer
Ivan
Rigor,
is
a
reaction
to
the
increase
in
the
general
price
of
foodstuffs,
which
threatens
to
increase
daily
upkeep
costs
by
10%.
***
Define:
ROPAN_8
{
Consult
database:
CITY_PROFILE
(ROPAN_8):
Import:
ROPAN_8.
Relevant
Databases:
HRE,
CUE.
…
…
…
Human
Resource
Evaluation:
Classification:
Labor
sector.
Population:
32,752
[Census
report
2.83.1].
Average
output:
32
Dim/Capita.
Ration
Level:
4
(Daily
consumption:
1500
calories.).
Population
Density:
(Population
(32752)
/
Sector_Area
(10km2))
3275.2
capita/km2.
Density
Level:
High/Moderate.
Housing
Level:
Low.
Civil
upkeep
costs
per
day
(Healthcare,
Ration
Level,
Public
Sanitation
Services,
Civil
Enforcement
Officers,
etc.):
25
Dim/Capita.
Conclusion:
Total
Value:
12
Dim/Capita.
…
…
…
Civil
Unrest
Evaluation:
11
Bloodlines:
Kildrani
(72%),
Dvorak
(18%),
Minta
(7%),
Newnka
(2%),
Aldri
(1%)
[Census
report
2.83.1].
Bio‐estimated
Aggression
Level:
Moderate.
Observed
Aggression
Level:
High.
***Evaluator’s
Note:
The
aggression
level
of
this
district
has
of
recent
proved
to
be
disproportionately
higher
than
our
social
scientists’
calculations.
Potential
causes
are
temporary
and
include:
The
emergence
of
a
religious
cult
stemming
from
the
Dvorak
population
[See
database
ROPAN_8
(Religion_Summation)
for
details],
and
an
increase
in
tensions
at
the
passing
of
the
Kildrani
patriarch.
The
immediate
measure
taken
to
maintain
order
and
production
is
a
temporary
increase
in
the
local
militia.
***
Unrest
Index
=
Unrest
Index
+
0.125.
…
Religious
Orientation:
Empirical
(52%),
Ishmanism
(30%),
Caldrism
(13%),
Other
(5%).
General
religious
fervor
(For
religions
outside
Empirical
sanction):
Moderate‐high.
Unrest
Index
=
Unrest
Index
+
0.095.
…
Sector
Classification:
Labor.
Sector
Ration
Level:
4.
Population
Density:
Moderate.
Population
Distribution:
Children
(0‐10):
30%
Working
Adult,
Young
(11‐25):
50%
Working
Adult,
Old(26‐50):
15%
Working
Adult,
Elder(51+):
5%.
Quality
of
Life:
Low.
Unrest
Index
=
Unrest
Index
+
0.13.
…
Education
level:
3
(Average
5).
Technological
Level:
4
(Industrial).
Crime
Index:
7
(Moderate‐high).
Unrest
Index
=
Unrest
Index
+
0.053.
12
…
…
Conclusion:
Unrest
Index
=
0.401.
Civil
Unrest
categorization:
Non‐violent,
hostile.
}
…
…
…
PROCEED
‐>
Simulation_Definition_Acting_Agents
***
Simulation
#434:
A
meeting
between
the
new
religious
cult
leader,
Roarc
Lindfall
and
his
followers
and
the
captain
of
civil
security
services,
Peter
Highborn.
This
simulation
follows
three
days
after
the
announced
ration
changes
and
is
a
logical
progression
stemming
from
simulations
43‐77,
124‐170,
230‐233,
275,
301,
and
423,
culminating
in
a
19%
chance
of
occurrence.
***
Define:
ROARC_LINDFALL
{
Consult
database:
ROPAN_8_CITIZEN_PROFILES
Import:
ROARC_LINDFALL.
Relevant
databases:
BioBehavior,
ObservedBehavior.
…
…
…
Biological
behavior
disposition:
Bloodline:
Dvorak
Gender:
Male
Age:
23
Height:
1.8796
meters.
Weight:
91kg.
Background:
Parents:
Holdan
Lindfall
(Father,
bloodline:
Dvorak),
Molan
Lindfall
(Mother,
bloodline:
Newnka).
Class:
Industrial
worker.
13
***
Evaluator’s
Note:
While
Roarc
Lindfall’s
parents
are
officially
classified
as
industrial
workers,
reports
indicate
that
Holdan
Lindfall
was
an
(empirically
unofficial)
priest
of
the
Caldrian
order.
As
a
class
2,
sub‐radical
religion,
the
Caldrian
order
has
a
well‐documented
history
of
working
operations
outside
the
Empire’s
approval
(though
not
without
the
Empire’s
knowledge).
While
Roarc
should
have
had
the
pacifying
conditioning
commonly
found
in
the
Industrial
class,
he
was
instead
brought
up
in
a
hostile
environment
whose
purpose
is
to
usurp
the
Empire’s
rule.
This
has
been
noted
and
documented,
and
the
following
simulation
is
run
with
the
attributes
of
the
Caldrian
order,
though
without
official
documentation,
the
class,
and
the
following
attributes,
must
remain
Industrial
in
name.
The
following
section
will
therefore
list
the
on‐record
attributes,
but
the
simulation
will
be
conducted
with
the
values
indicated
afterwards.
***
Religion:
Empirical.
***
Caldrian.
***
Education:
Standard
industrial
curriculum,
handbook
#52.
***
Caldrian
orthodoxy
***
Apprenticeship:
Forge‐master
Willoch
Froid,
Apprentice
#355.
***
Caldrian
Disciple
under
cult
leader
Aldrick
Temoi
***
Affiliate
of
social
group(s):
754
(adult),
230
(adult),
254
(youth).
***
Unofficial
social
circles
0.53,
and
0.55,
consisting
of
the
Disciples
of
the
Caldrian
order
and
the
official
and
unofficial
priests
of
the
order.
***
Physical
strength
index:
7.85
(Average
5.0)
Mental
faculty
index:
8.0
(Average
5.0)
Conclusion:
Social
categorization:
High‐value
industrial
worker.
***
Radical
religious
leader
***
Empirical
loyalty:
80%
***
20%
***
…
…
…
Observed
Behavior:
Empirical
transgressions:
Minor:
37
transgressionIndex
=
transgressionIndex
+
0.37.
Moderate:
16
transgressionIndex
=
transgressionIndex
+
1.6.
Severe:
1
transgressionIndex
=
transgressionIndex
+
1.0.
14
transgressionIndex
=
2.97
***
Evaluator's
Note:
While
Roarc's
transgression
index
is
officially
2.97,
2.03
points
short
of
warranting
Civil
Removal,
the
records
of
Social
Intelligence
report
a
private
file
containing
partial
evidence
tying
Roarc
to
three
accounts
of
Severe
transgressions.
Unfortunately,
for
all
accounts
on
file
the
civil
officers
concluded
their
investigations
just
short
of
Roarc.
In
these
situations
our
intelligence
officers
pieced
together
the
information
only
in
the
months
following
the
hasty
arrest
and
conviction
of
a
false
perpetrator.
Further
investigation
has
found
the
members
of
Caldrian
religion
to
display
high
levels
of
loyalty,
with
lower
ranking
members
willingly
taking
the
fall
for
the
higher
up
members.
As
such,
the
individual
should
be
regarded
as
more
dangerous
than
what
the
current
records
show,
and
the
simulation
will
proceed
under
the
highest
allowable
transgression
index
of
4.999.
***
Character
attributes:
***
As
assessed
by
Social
Intelligence
Officer
Fielda
Morad.
***
Tenacity:
7.5
Charisma:
9.5
Sympathy:
2.0
Presence:
7.0
Persuasiveness:
7.0
Initiative:
8.0
Moral
Convictions:
3.5
Decisiveness:
7.0
Intelligence:
8.5
Accuracy
error
index:
+/‐
1.0.
}
Define:
PETER_HIGHBORN
{
Consult
database:
ROPAN_8_CITIZEN_PROFILES
Import:
PETER_HIGHBORN.
Relevant
databases:
BioBehavior,
ObservedBehavior.
…
…
15
…
Biological
behavior
disposition:
Bloodline:
Empirical.
Gender:
Male
Age:
35
Height:
1.798
meters.
Weight:
95kg.
Background:
Parents:
General
Farseeth
Highborn
(Father,
bloodline:
Empirical),
Nola
Highborn
(Mother,
bloodline:
Empirical).
Class:
Military
Aristocrat.
Religion:
Empirical.
Education:
Militant
Management
Academy,
Class
#43.
Affiliate
of
social
group(s):
7
(adult),
23
(adult),
24
(adult)
25
(youth).
Physical
strength
index:
9.0
(Average
5.0)
Mental
faculty
index:
7.5
(Average
5.0)
Conclusion:
Social
categorization:
Military
aristocrat
Empirical
loyalty:
100%
…
…
…
Observed
Behavior:
Empirical
transgressions:
Minor:
3
transgressionIndex
=
transgressionIndex
+
0.03
Moderate:
1
transgressionIndex
=
transgressionIndex
+
0.1
Severe:
0
transgressionIndex
=
transgressionIndex
+
0.0.
transgressionIndex
=
0.13
Character
attributes:
***
As
assessed
by
Social
Intelligence
Officer
Moral
Biforth.
***
16
Tenacity:
8.5
Charisma:
6.5
Sympathy:
1.5
Presence:
6.5
Persuasiveness:
5.5
Initiative:
4.5
Moral
Convictions:
3.0
Decisiveness:
8.0
Intelligence:
7.5
Accuracy
error
index:
+/‐
0.5%.
}
PROCEED
‐>
Simulation_Run_Time
BEGIN:
Simulation
(434)
{
Include:
ROPAN_8,
ROARC_LINDFALL,
PETER_HIGHBORN.
DEFINE:
LOCATION
{
Import:
ROPAN_8
Consult
database:
ROPAN_8
(CITY_PROFILE):
Relevant
Databases:
Sector_Keypoints.
Import:
Office
of
Civil
Structure
and
Order
…
…
…
Location
details:
Psychological
alignment:
95
/
5%
(Empirical
favor
/
Rebellion
favor).
***
Analysis:
The
Office
of
Civil
Structure
and
Order
has
been
built
and
conditioned
in
the
minds
of
the
people
of
Ropan
to
be
the
epitome
of
Empirical
power.
The
outcomes
of
judicial
proceedings,
as
well
as
being
the
center
for
Empirical
relays
between
the
city’s
governor
and
the
17
Final
Council,
have
been
confirmed
to
have
fostered
in
the
people
of
Ropan
a
psychological
resentment
but
more
forcefully
a
fear
of
Empirical
power.
Like
most
Empirical
buildings,
the
Office
has
been
constructed
in
a
modern
adaptation
of
the
Brutalist
style
with
both
Gothic
and
Classical
modifications
to
achieve
the
most
psychologically
imposing
edifice
as
defined
by
empirical
standards.
***
Strategic
alignment:
90
/
10%
(Empirical
favor
/
Rebellion
favor).
***Analysis:
The
Office
of
Civil
Structure
and
Order
has
been
constructed
to
serve
as
both
a
court
of
law
and
a
formidable
fortress.
In
the
inner
chambers,
the
ceiling
has
been
lined
with
floodlights
to
blind
potential
aggressors,
while
Empirical
forces
are
situated
high
enough
on
the
walls
so
as
to
be
minimally
affected.
The
inner
chambers
are
also
sealable,
with
the
option
of
deploying
the
torturous
fire‐hide
gas
or
the
lethal
viper’s
breath
within
as
a
last
resort.
The
building
however
suffers
a
vulnerability
to
outside
threats,
most
notably
a
siege
tactic,
for
the
supplies
within
can
only
sustain
an
average
Empirical
force
for
a
week.***
}
DEFINE:
Civil_Militia_Forces
{
Import:
ROPAN_8
Consult
database:
ROPAN_8
(CITY_PROFILE):
Relevant
Databases:
Milita_Force_Profile.
…
Manpower:
5000
Technological
Level:
Advanced
Empirical.
Bio‐synthetic
Mech‐captains:
100.
Hell‐Razer
Officers:
500.
Crowd‐Control
Officers:
1500.
Civil
Enforcers:
2900.
Total
Value:
5,624,700
DIM.
}
DEFINE:
Rebel_Forces
{
Import:
ROPAN_8.
18
Consult
database:
ROPAN_8
(CITY_PROFILE):
Relevant
Databases:
Hostile_Worker_Profiles.
…
***
Intelligence
provided
by
operation
5.286.03
approved
by
Peter
Highborn
and
conducted
by
Social
Intelligence
Service
party
#43.
The
thorough
operation
has
been
estimated
to
contain
an
accuracy
rating
guaranteeing
a
maximum
5%
error
calculation.
Such
an
estimation
has
been
deemed
to
have
a
minimal
impact
in
simulations
of
complexity
5
and
lower.
As
the
current
simulation
contains
a
complexity
level
3,
the
information
has
been
deemed
acceptable
for
use.
***
Manpower:
15000.
Technological
Level:
Industrial
Empirical.
Citizen
Generals:
200.
Citizen
Forces
(trained,
equipped):
1000.
Citizen
Forces
(trained,
unequipped):
4000.
Citizen
Forces
(untrained,
equipped):
2000.
Citizen
Forces
(untrained,
unequipped):
7800.
Total
Value:
600,000
DIM.
}
Set:
location
=
LOCATION.
Primary
Entities:
PETER_HIGHBORN,
ROARC_LINDFALL.
Secondary
Entities:
Civil_Milita_Forces,
Rebel_Forces.
ENTER:
ROARC_LINDFALL.
ADJUST:
Situation_Control:
{
ROARC_LINDFALL.Position
=
offensive.
Situation_Control
=
Situation_Control
+
0.5.
COMPARE:
ROARC_LINDFALL.BioBehavior
::
PETER_HIGHBORN.BioBehavior
Situation_Control
=
Situation_Control
–
0.63.
COMPARE:
ROARC_LINDFALL.ObservedBehavior
::
PETER_HIGHBORN.ObservedBehavior
19
Situation_Control
=
Situation_Control
–
0.1.
Conclusion:
Situation_Control
=
‐
0.23
***
Analysis:
Roarc
Lindfall's
offensive
position
places
himself
in
an
environment
outside
of
his
control,
thereby
strengthening
the
Empire's
authority.
However,
a
comparison
of
Roarc's
bio‐
characteristics,
most
notably
his
height
and
intelligence
advantage,
along
with
his
observed
behavior
characteristics,
most
notably
his
charismatic
superiority,
factor
out
to
be
a
slight
advantage
in
favor
of
the
Rebel
forces.
***
}
SIMULATE:
Negotiations
{
IMPORT:
Social_Algorithms_Database.
Consult
database:
Social_Algorithms_Database.
Relevant
databases:
Negotiation_Simulation_062.
…
…
Negotiating
parties:
Civil_Militia_Forces,
Rebel_Forces.
Primary
representatives:
PETER_HIGHBORN,
ROARC_LINDFALL.
…
…
SIMULATING:
Initial
Contact.
SIMULATING:
Strengths
Assessment.
SIMULATING:
Bio‐Behavior
models.
SIMULATING:
Observed
Behavior
models
SIMULATING:
Party
interactions.
SIMULATING:
Cultural
disparities.
SIMULATING:
Linguistic
impact.
SIMULATING:
…
SIMULATING:
…
SIMULATING:
…
…
…
20
…
CONCLUSION:
Negotiations
Aborted.
***
Analysis:
The
models
of
Peter
Highborn
and
Roarc
Lindfall
prove
to
exhibit
dominant
and
unyielding
characteristics.
Lindfall’s
zealous
convictions
and
martyrous
tendency,
combined
with
an
over
assessment
of
his
and
his
forces’
prowess,
place
the
rebel
forces’
path
into
conflict
with
the
Empire.
Given
Highborn’s
field
of
advantage
and
his
observed
behavior
characteristics,
the
chance
of
reaching
a
compromise
is
minute
enough
to
be
dropped
from
consideration.
***
}
PROCEED
‐>
Combat_simulation.
SIMULATE:
Combat
{
IMPORT:
Social_Algorithms_Database.
Consult
database:
Social_Algorithms_Database.
Relevant
databases:
Conflict_Resolution_004.
…
…
Conflicting
parties:
Civil_Militia_Forces,
Rebel_Forces.
Battle
Location:
{
CALCULATE:
Battle
Location.
…
…
…
Set
location:
ROPAN_8
(Foundry_Works).
}
Generals:
PETER_HIGHBORN,
ROARC_LINDFALL.
SIMULATING:
Assembling
location
layout.
SIMULATING:
Situating
initial
force
placement.
SIMULATING:
Assessing
strategic
advantages.
SIMULATING:
Evaluating
force
movement.
SIMULATING:
Calculating
force
resolve.
SIMULATING:
Initiating
combat.
SIMULATING:
Continuing
combat.
21
SIMULATING:
…
SIMULATING:
…
SIMULATING:
…
…
…
…
CONCLUSION:
Empire
Victory.
***
Analysis:
Given
the
known
details
concerning
general
Roarc,
the
location
of
the
battlefield
would
be
at
the
Secondary
Foundry,
logically
due
to
its
high
concentration
of
militia
forces
and
low
concentration
of
empirical
supervisement,
emotionally
due
to
its
impression
on
the
laborers
of
sector
8,
and
due
to
its
symbolic
nature.
Initial
advantage
would
be
given
to
the
rebel
forces
due
to
the
easily
defensible
position
the
foundry
presents.
However,
due
to
the
lack
of
access
to
supplies
and
reinforcements,
coupled
with
the
superior
forces
of
the
empire
and
the
low
morale
of
the
rebelling
forces,
the
empire
would
succeed
with
minimal
investment
and
cost
to
its
own
forces.
***
}
CALCULATE:
Consequences.
{
CALCULATE:
empirical_losses:
{
Casualties:
200
(0
mech‐captains,
15
Hell‐Razer
Officers,
35
Crowd‐
Control
Officers,
150
Civil
Enforcers).
Deceased:
25
(0
Mech‐captains,
0
Hell‐Razer
Officers,
0
Crowd‐
Control
Officers,
25
Civil
Enforcers).
Permanently
incapacitated:
50
(0
Mech‐captains,
5
Hell‐Razer
Officers,
10
Crowd
Control
Officers,
35
Civil
Enforcers).
Injured:
125
(0
Mech‐captains,
10
Hell‐Razer
Officers,
25
Crowd‐
Control
Officers,
90
Civil
Enforcers).
Total
Cost:
120950
DIM.
}
CALCULATE:
Rebel_losses:
{
22
Casualties:
8544.
Deceased:
5937.
Incapacitated:
2607.
Concluding
executions:
1000.
Final
Casualty
total:
9544.
Total
Cost:
881760
DIM
}
Total
Empirical
Loss
=
(Empirical_losses
+
Rebel_losses)
1002710
DIM.
Previous
Population
Level
=
32752
New
Population
Level
=
23208.
Population
Decrease:
29.14%
Previous
Production
Capacity:
393024
DIM/Day.
New
Production
Capacity:
278496
DIM/Day.
Daily
Loss
(DIM):
114528
(29.14%).
Previous
Cost
per
Life:
25
DIM.
New
Cost
per
Life:
20
DIM.
Previous
Daily
Income:
393024.
New
Daily
Income:
394536
(Increased
by
512
DIM).
Expected
Recovery
Time:
3‐5
years.
Loyalty
Increase:
50%.
}
***
Concluding
Analysis:
Despite
the
losses
incurred
in
Empirical
lives
and
civilian
production
capacity,
the
net
gain
for
the
empire
from
decreasing
the
ration
levels
would
be
a
total
of
512
DIM
per
day.
While
seemingly
negligible,
Ropan
Sector
8
is
nearing
high
levels
of
population
totals
along
with
lacking
loyalty
among
its
citizens.
The
culling
of
the
most
disloyal
members
would
decrease
the
civil
unrest
index
along
with
returning
population
numbers
to
a
normal
standard.
The
recovery
is
estimated
to
take
between
3
to
5
years,
and
will
be
furnished
through
both
natural
means
and
citizens
imported
from
nearby
breeding
sectors,
allowing
Civil
Stock
Management
to
supplant
superior
members
for
the
next
generation.
In
time,
once
the
cost
of
food
has
decreased,
the
ration
level
may
be
increased
back
to
4
in
order
to
foster
a
stronger
workforce
and
encourage
breeding.
But
as
it
currently
stands,
this
23
simulation
reports
that
it
is
in
the
sector’s,
and
empire’s,
best
interest
to
decrease
the
ration
level.
***
PROCEED
‐>
Simulation_Conclusion.
DEFINE:
SIMULATION_CONCLUSION
{
***
Analysis:
Given
the
outcome
of
the
above
simulation,
this
semi‐autonomous
agent
votes
in
favor
of
the
proposed
action.
***
…
…
Consult
database:
GOD’S_EYE_VIEW:
Modify:
GOD’S_EYE_VIEW
(CONCLUDING
TOTALS)
{
Favor
=
favor
+
1.
}
REPORT:
GOD’S_EYE_VIEW:
{
Simulation
totals:
…
…
…
Against:
53.
Favor:
259.
}
}
Proceed
‐>
Program_Termination.
…
…
…
}
END.
…
…
…
24
A.W. Marshall
Appendix
G
Three
Stories
of
Pre‐Twentieth
Century
“Demonic
Possession”
Culled
from
the
Papers
of
Father
Latour,
the
Vatican’s
Librarian
for
Manifestations
of
Evil
(1898
to
1936)
Stories
transcribed
and
edited
by
Father
Sebastian
Jackson
for
a
presentation
at
the
Ecclesiastical
Forum
on
“The
Paranormal
Phenomena
and
the
Loss
of
Innocence
in
Early
and
Remote
Cultures
and
Places”
in
Madrid,
Spain
on
January
13,
1992.
Village
near
Locheport,
Ireland,
1860
1860,
Interview
conducted
by
the
priest
Caleb
McCall
in
Scotland
near
Locheport
in
the
MacIsaac’s
home,
recorded
by
Sister
Mary
Johnston,
of
Aberdeen
Upon
arriving
in
the
area,
Priest
McCall
secured
shelter
for
us
in
a
farmer’s
house.
It
was
this
farmer
who
led
us
to
the
settlement
in
question,
a
two
hour
walk
in
which
we
saw
a
tawny
owl,
all
bristled
up
for
warmth
and
bearing
out
the
cold,
and
an
albatross,
its
wings
reaching
so
wide
you
wonder
how
God
thinks
of
so
many
things.
Eventually
we
came
to
a
house
built
into
a
hill.
Two
windows
were
carved
out
and
one
could
see
the
dirt
floor
had
been
swept
so
long
it
was
like
wood.
In
a
byre
(cow
shed),
we
were
given
into
the
care
of
a
Ms.
Gillies.
The
byre
was
free
standing
and
made
of
stone
with
a
grass
roof.
Frankly,
it
looked
quite
finer
than
the
home,
which
the
farmer
told
us
had
been
there
for
many
of
hundreds
of
years.
I
could
not
help
myself
in
imaging
people
covered
in
fox
furs
trying
to
make
a
life
with
stones
and
grunts.
Mrs.
Gillies
and
her
daughter
were
at
the
cows
while
singing
a
simple
milking
song
and
a
handful
of
women
were
at
the
waulking
board,
singing
too,
expecting
us.
For
a
few
minutes,
we
listened
to
their
hands
pound
the
tweed
and
their
funny
tune.
Soon,
they
stopped
their
work
and
paid
us
courtesy.
The
women
all
wore
giant
skirts
with
white
aprons
and
buttoned‐down
blouses,
each
with
their
own
style
of
lace
collar.
Tea
and
biscuits
were
served
from
the
house;
I
gathered
the
husband
was
not
keen
on
our
visit.
Priest
McCall
made
his
intentions
known
in
terms
of
requesting
evidence
and
instructed
I
keep
a
record.
Though
names
were
given,
Priest
McCall
said
there
was
no
reason
to
record
them,
so
I
have
labeled
them
simply
as
Woman
One,
Woman
Two,
and
Woman
Three.
There
were
Women
Four
and
Five
as
well,
twin
sisters
who
held
hands
during
the
entire
interview.
Priest
McCall:
Please
tell
me
about
Claire.
Woman
One:
Nothing
to
tell,
ya
know.
Priest
McCall:
That
can’t
be
true.
25
Woman
Two:
We
knew
her,
of
course.
A
woman
of
the
Moors.
Women
One:
Women
help
each
other
out.
Women
Two:
A
hard
life.
Priest
McCall:
So
she
was
the
same
as
you?
Woman
Two:
She
died.
Woman
Three:
We’re
not
dead
of
course.
Woman
Two:
Not
yet,
at
least.
The
two
women
laughed
and
Woman
One
shook
her
head.
I
was
quite
interested
in
the
Woman
Four
and
Five’s
reactions,
but
they
simply
stared.
I
sensed
Woman
Five
was
the
stronger
of
the
two,
her
bearing
suggesting
as
much.
Maybe
her
apron
was
just
whiter.
Woman
Two:
Sorry
father.
Sister.
Myself:
We
don’t
object
to
a
joke.
God
invented
laughter
too.
Please
feel
free
to
express
yourself.
Priest
McCall:
Yes.
Of
course.
I
am
here
to
learn,
not
judge.
Woman
One:
As
Hortance
said,
Claire
died,
but
you
know
that
part.
Priest
McCall:
I
see.
I
understand.
Yes,
I
do.
And
this
is
serious,
I
know
that.
So,
how
about
her
husband?
Woman
One:
Dead
too.
Dead
too.
Myself:
Children?
Woman
two:
None,
you
see.
No
little
ones.
An
empty
home
as
they
say.
Priest
McCall:
Did
the
husband
and
wife
die
together?
26
A
peculiar
silence
followed
where
the
women
looked
down
at
their
hands.
I
saw
Woman
five
stroking
her
sister’s
hand.
Woman
One:
He
was
a
farmer
like
the
rest,
cows,
hens,
goats.
Claire
weaved
tartans
mostly.
Woman
Three:
Knew
dyes
quite
well.
Woman
One:
She
did,
she
did.
Woman
Three:
Got
them
from
the
ground
unlike
most.
Priest
McCall:
I
see.
And
how
did
the
husband
die?
Woman
Three:
We’re
neighbors.
Priest
McCall.
I
am
here
for
the
church.
Woman
Three
began
to
tear
up
and
the
priest
handed
her
a
handkerchief.
He’s
told
me
often
that
during
an
interview,
when
a
soft
spot
is
hit
upon,
it
is
often
best
to
move
on
and
come
back
again.
“Let
the
idea
peak
out
on
its
own,”
he
said.
Priest
McCall:
Was
he
an
unkind
man?
Woman
One:
Hard
to
say,
ya
know.
What
a
man
is
in
his
home.
Woman
Two:
No
children.
The
Lord
blesses
whom
he
lays
his
hands
upon.
Priest
McCall:
Yes.
It’s
true.
Though
many
good
and
obedient
Christian
hearts
suffer
for
lack
of
that
blessing.
Was
that
the
case
with
Claire?
Women
Two:
We
would
say
she
seemed
well
enough.
Woman
One:
We
would
have
said
it
of
each
other.
Priest
McCall:
Ladies,
you
know
why
I
am
here.
Woman
Two:
The
monster.
Woman
One:
Still
your
tongue.
27
Another
silence.
Woman
One
rises
and
pours
those
who
need
it
more
tea.
I
notice
that
Woman
Four
has
spittle
on
her
chin
and
Woman
Five
takes
a
handkerchief
from
her
apron
and
wipes
her
chin.
Seeing
me
look,
Woman
Five
looked
me
right
in
the
eye
and
said,
“Doctor
said
we’re
imbeciles.”
Her
voice
is
warbled,
and
I
realized
they
are
both
afflicted
with
what
is
called
“obliteration
of
the
intellectual
faculties.”
Woman
One:
That’s
all
right,
Maureen.
We’ll
get
to
work
soon.
Priest
McCall:
I
want
to
remind
you
ladies,
I
represent
your
God.
Please
tell
me
what
happened.
Woman
Two:
Out
of
mud.
Claire
told
us
that
much.
Woman
Three:
Yes,
we
were
visiting,
all
of
us
here,
on
Sunday.
Not
a
usual
thing,
ya
see.
After
Mass,
Clara
and
I—Don’t
eye
me
that
way
Clara,
you
were
there—we
visited
Mrs.
MacIsaac.
Then
all
of
us
decided
to
walk
to
see
Claire.
Woman
One:
She
had
been
ill.
Woman
Two:
Our
Christian
duty.
How
were
we
to
know?
Priest
McCall:
No
one
is
to
blame
here.
Woman
Three:
It
only
stood
knee
high.
At
this
point,
Woman
One
huffed
and
left
the
room.
Woman
Three:
Hay
stuck
out
of
its
head.
It
had
two
legs
but
only
one
arm.
Got
away
before
she
could
add
it,
she
said.
Priest
McCall:
Have
you
ever
seen
anything
like
this
before?
Woman
Two:
No!
You
hear
things
from
olden
times
and
such,
you
see.
But
not
us.
Praise
be.
Woman
Three:
We
were
shocked
all
of
us.
The
strange
little
thing
rattling
around
the
byre,
Claire
laughing
at
it,
ya
know.
Woman
One
reenters.
She
nods
at
all
and
sits
down.
Woman
Two:
That’s
all
we
saw.
28
Priest
McCall:
What
did
this
creature
do?
What
did
it
say?
Woman
One:
You
must
have
what
you
need
by
now?
Priest
McCall:
Did
it
speak?
Woman
One:
Hard
to
remember.
Priest
McCall:
It
is
important.
For
me
to
know
if
this
was
the
devil.
Woman
Three:
What
else
would
it
be?
Priest
McCall:
That’s
why
I
need
to
know.
Priest
McCall:
Please.
Priest
McCall:
Come
now.
Woman
Two:
It
yelled
Mommy.
Over
and
over.
At
this
point,
Woman
Four
began
to
call
out
“Mommy”
over
and
over,
as
if
the
word
was
a
song.
Woman
One:
Stop
that!
Woman
One:
I
said,
stop
that
now!
Woman
Five
soothes
Woman
Four
by
stroking
her
arm.
Woman
Four
is
hiccupping
and
crying.
Everyone,
including
myself,
seems
to
be
out
of
breath
by
being
startled
so.
Poor
Priest
McCall
is
beside
himself,
quite
red
faced.
Priest
McCall:
I
see.
I
feel
like
we
should
pray.
I
need
to,
I
think.
Woman
Three:
That’s
all
it
said,
in
case
you’re
wondering.
Woman
One:
I
would
like
to
go
home.
Myself:
We’re
so
close,
ladies.
Father
McCall
and
I
travelled
quite
a
distance
to
meet
with
you.
You’ve
been
so
brave.
Priest
McCall:
Yes,
thank
you
very
much.
You’ve
all
been
so
brave.
29
Woman
One:
Thank
you.
It’s
been
a
trial.
Woman
Three:
The
things
you
see
in
this
life.
I’ll
have
some
questions
for
God,
I
will.
Priest
McCall:
Yes,
I
see.
I
think
we
might
all.
Do
you
think
you
all
could
complete
this
story
for
us?
Priest
McCall:
It
would
be
a
favor
to
the
church.
Woman
Two:
It
ran
in
circles,
yelling
like
that.
Like
maybe
it
didn’t
even
know
what
it
was
saying,
just
the
word.
Woman
Three:
Poor
Claire
was
between
crying
and
laughing.
She
lifted
her
skirt
I
think
hoping
it
would
run
under,
like
the
wee
ones
will
do.
Woman
One:
We
up
and
left.
Mr.
McIsaac
had
to
give
us
all
Whisky
to
calm
our
jumbles.
Priest
McCall:
I
see.
What
happened
then?
Woman
Two:
It
ate
out
her
heart.
Woman
One
begins
to
weep.
Woman
Three
stands
and
comforts
her.
Woman
One
shakes
her
head.
I
see
Woman
Four
and
Five
have
each
crossed
their
outside
legs
so
their
boots
are
flat
against
each
other.
Woman
One:
A
hole
in
her
chest.
Heart
gone.
That
is
all
we
know,
sir.
Priest
McCall:
And
the
monster?
Woman
Three:
A
young
man,
married,
child
on
the
way,
saw
it
running
toward
the
loch.
It
leapt
into
the
water.
He
crept
up
to
where
it
went
in,
but
only
saw
a
cloud
of
dirt
and
blood,
bits
of
Claire’s
heart
drifting
among
the
rocks.
Woman
Two:
Not
meant
for
this
world
and
the
thing
knew
it,
I
think.
What
can’t,
be
explained
away.
Woman
Three:
Just
so
you,
Claire’s
husband
came
home,
saw
his
wife,
and
threw
himself
on
a
pitch
fork.
30
Interview
ends
as
Mr.
MrIsaacs
enters
and
said
if
there
is
any
talk
of
monsters
he’ll
throw
everyone
into
the
loch,
even
a
priest
and
a
nun.
Mr.
McCall
nods
to
me
that
we
are
done.
Province
of
Rize,
Turkey
1728
As
requested
by
the
local
Priest,
I,
Archbishop
Basak,
am
relating
the
events
that
occurred
in
the
province
of
Rize
in
the
great
land
of
Turkey
in
the
year
of
our
Lord,
1728
A.D.
just
before
harvest
season.
Below
consists
of
the
whole
of
my
thorough
investigation
where,
with
Jesus
as
my
rudder,
I
believe
I
have
influenced
this
small
pastoral
village
of
apparently
hedonistic
tradition,
like
sheep,
to
fertile
and
holy
ground
to
once
again
feed
on
the
lush
grass
of
our
Holy
Church.
While
I
am
ashamed
of
my
countrymen
in
this
investigation,
I
believe
I
have
represented
the
church
well,
ferreting
out
evil
and
doing
my
best
to
rectify,
resanctify
and
punish,
as
required
by
the
Lord.
Upon
arriving
at
the
village,
I
greeted
Father
Aynur,
the
priest
of
the
town,
at
his
house.
Even
though
he
knew
of
my
arrival,
I
found
his
hands
full
of
mud
from
his
garden.
He
has
served
for
the
last
twenty
eight
years
in
this
parish;
I
found
him
to
be
a
permissive
and
weak‐willed
priest..
This
is
another
reminder
of
the
poor
standards
my
predecessor,
Archbishop
Melek,
who
nurtured
sentimentality
over
religious
law
and
God’s
truth.
While
it
pains
me
to
air
his
transgressions,
I
think
it
imperative
how
much
my
able
hands
must
set
right.
I
sometimes
think
the
clergy
forget
that
God
himself
elevated
us
and
that
we
must
gain
boldness
from
that.
As
the
Holy
Office
knows,
many
Catholics
in
Turkey,
and
elsewhere,
still
participate
in
ancient
rituals—some
harmless,
many
sinful—that
preceded
the
church’s
instruction.
Despite
reprimands
and
edicts,
the
people
maintain
these
traditions,
like
sheep
hunting
out
the
sheers.
I
feel
compelled
to
tell
you
this
started
with
a
wedding.
I
have
conducted
three
interviews:
the
first
with
the
former
priest
Aynar,
another
with
a
witness
to
the
event,
and
the
groom’s
father.
For
your
convenience,
I
have
edited
down
the
interviews
to
the
portions
most
necessary.
Interview
with
Father
Aynur:
Archbishop
Basak:
As
you
know
sir,
I
represent
our
Church,
and
I
am
here
to
investigate
the
stories
of
horrific
ritual
you
have
allowed
to
take
place
in
your
role
as
Priest.
31
Aynur:
It
was
me
who
asked
you
to
investigate,
Archbishop.
I
don’t
believe
I
bear
any
responsibility
for—
Archbishop
Basak:
The
only
way
to
correct
your
relaxed
stance
on
religious
duty
is
to
sniff
out
the
truth.
Aynur:
The
truth
is
very
plain
sir,
what—
Archbishop
Basak:
What
I
wish
for
you
to
do
is
tell
me
what
happened
before
the
bride
and
the
men
entered
the
room?
Aynur:
There
was
a
wedding,
you
know
that.
Archbishop
Basak:
How
could
there
be
a
bride
if
there
wasn’t
a
wedding?
Who
were
married
and
how
did
it
come
about?
Were
they
both
good
Catholics?
Did
they
put
their
faith
in
God
above
all
things?
Aynur:
Oh
yes,
sir!
No
fault
there.
Both
families
were
hard
working
and
church
going.
Their
children
seemingly
obedient
to
Christ.
Archbishop
Basak:
Seemingly?
Aynur:
I
do
not
know
what
lies
in
people’s
hearts?
As
I
mentioned
in
my
last
monthly
report,
my
concern
for
the
church
largely
centers
on
equivocation
and
rationalization,
which
is
destroying
faith
and
papal
authority.
Aynur:
Both
families
found
the
match
acceptable
and
a
wedding
was
arranged.
Archbishop
Basak:
Were
they
pure?
Aynur:
I
believe
so.
Archbishop
Basak:
Did
you
not
ask?
Do
you
not
know
what
your
sheep
are
up
to?
I
should
think
that
children’s
purity
could
be
guaranteed
by
the
parents.
In
my
day,
Priests
cornered
young
men
on
the
issue
of
purity.
Aynur:
I
imagine
they
could,
sir.
We
can
ask
them.
Archbishop
Basak:
Didn’t
you
think
to
ask?
32
Aynur:
Both
children
are
known
to
me
from
early
on.
Both
seem
obedient,
kind
and
faithful.
I
cannot
see
behind
every
closed
door.
And
who
would
confess
impurity
so
close
to
a
wedding?
Archbishop
Basak:
The
word
“seem”
is
stuck
on
your
tongue.
I
don’t
think
it
right
a
priest
be
so
relaxed
and
permissive.
Jesus,
the
Virgin
Mother
and
the
Holy
Ghost
all
look
to
you
to
hold
their
righteousness
as
a
standard
in
this
village.
It
seems
you’d
rather
dig
up
your
potatoes
than
nurse
the
needs
of
your
apparently
periled
congregation.
While
harsh,
I
believe
my
rebuke
came
from
God
himself.
I
wonder
at
the
education
we
give
priests,
particularly
priests
who
serve
small
communities
over
many
years.
Could
it
be,
being
so
far
from
their
Archbishop,
they
lose
their
link
to
God?
The
event
that
is
under
investigation
took
place
in
a
Mrs.
Bilge’s
house,
a
middle‐aged
but
attractive
woman
whose
husband
drowned
in
the
town
well
a
year
before.
She,
and
several
other
women,
were
witnesses
to
the
event
in
question.
She
is
the
owner
of
the
house,
which
was
why
I
interviewed
her.
Interview
with
Mrs.
Bilge
Archbishop
Basak:
Ma’am,
as
you
know,
I
am
Archbishop
Basak
and
you
should
think
of
me
as
God’s
tool.
I
am
here
to
investigate
the
horrible
incident
that
took
place
in
your
home
some
months
ago.
I
am
certainly
sorry
for
you
to
have
witnessed
it.
Bilge:
Thank
you.
Yes,
the
incident
you
speak
of
took
place
here,
as
you
can
tell
by
that
wall.
Archbishop
Basak:
Are
you
a
good
Christian
woman?
Bilge:
I
am
a
woman.
I
believe
in
Christ.
Archbishop
Basak:
But
you
are
not
good?
Bilge:
I
do
my
best
and
fail
often,
which
is
why
I
have
God’s
grace.
Archbishop
Basak:
How
long
has
the
custom
under
scrutiny
been
active
in
this
community?
Bilge:
Before
all
of
us.
That’s
why.
Archbishop
Basak:
Adultery
and
murder
have
been
around
forever
as
well.
33
Bilge:
And
water
and
wind.
And
poetry,
the
most
poor
of
followers
like
to
present
me
with
a
small
bouquet
of
poetry
with
their
words,
as
if
to
impress
me.
It
is
charming
in
its
way.
Archbishop
Basak:
For
now,
please
explain
the
ceremony.
Bilge:
It
is
simple.
Like
the
church,
the
ceremony
seeks
to
recommend
purity.
Archbishop
Basak:
By
stripping
women
naked?
Bilge:
That’s
not
important.
Traditionally,
women
in
our
town
wear
handwoven
bead
dresses
for
their
weddings.
This
is
unique
to
us.
The
girl
beads
it
herself
with
her
mother’s
help
over
many
months.
After
the
wedding,
after
the
couple
are
bound
to
each
other,
we
have
a
ceremony
for
the
other
men
of
their
generation
to
prove
they
respect
this
bond—and
the
groom,
the
community,
to
the
marriage,
and
to
the
wife,
who
is
the
symbol
of
purity,
we
think.
It
is
all
supervised
by
several
women.
The
men
sit
in
chairs
in
a
circle,
facing
inward.
In
the
old
days,
we’d
place
a
basket
of
figs
or
cucumbers,
whatever
was
harvested
at
the
time
in
the
middle
of
the
circle—to
represent
the
community.
Now
we
put
a
cross.
They
are
told
to
focus
on
it.
The
bride
stands
outside
the
circle
and
ties
the
most
bottom
thread
of
her
dress
to
a
chair.
Then
she
walks
in
a
circle
around
the
men.
The
beads
slowly
unwrap
behind
her.
The
men
show
respect
to
the
community,
her
husband,
and
the
bride
by
not
looking.
Archbishop
Basak:
An
indecent
ceremony.
Bilge:
If
the
men
show
respect,
it
is
pure.
To
the
heathen,
anything
is
pure
if
you
rationalize
it.
I
fear
the
faith
will
be
explained
away
if
the
Church
doesn’t
hold
the
helm
steady.
Archbishop
Basak:
It
is
a
dare,
no?
You
dare
the
men
to
not
look,
to
not
lust?
Is
that
correct?
Bilge:
In
a
way,
I
suppose,
but
life
is
a
dare
to
not
sin.
The
ceremony
is
about
purity,
no
matter
what
sin
might
turn
it
into.
Archbishop
Basak:
The
young
woman
is
naked.
Bilge:
Young
women
are
naked
all
the
time.
34
Archbishop
Basak:
Is
this
how
you
speak
to
priests?
Bilge:
You
do
know
women
take
off
their
clothes?
Archbishop
Basak:
Please
resist
the
temptation
to
shame
me.
Bilge:
I
mean
no
offense.
When
this
bride,
Alev,
was
half
uncovered
I
could
see
she
was
turning
bright
red.
Archbishop
Basak:
Enflamed
by
sin,
no
doubt.
Bilge:
Girls
often
blush,
but
her
whole
body—
Archbishop
Basak:
Please.
Bilge:
She
turned
redder.
Her
skin
brighter
and
brighter,
glowing.
Then
Alev
let
out
a
little
moan.
Mrs
________,
her
mother,
cried
out.
Alev
fell
against
the
wall.
The
thread
broke
and
beads
bounced
and
scattered
every
which
way.
I
admit
a
few
of
the
boys
looked
then.
It
was
not
their
fault.
Then….the
poor
girl
burst
into
flames.
So
quickly.
So
fast.
Naturally,
we
had
buckets
of
water
nearby
for
fires,
and
we
threw
them
on
her.
But
she
was
gone
so
fast,
nothing
much
left,
leaving
that
hole
in
the
floor.
And
her
poor
feet.
And
some
skin.
I’ve
done
my
best
to
clean,
but
the
smell…
Against
a
wall,
I
see
a
large
black
burn
that
has
burned
through
the
wood
so
one
can
see
the
earth
below.
I
wonder
if
Satan
himself
reached
from
below
and
set
her
on
fire
himself.
Archbishop
Basak:
“But
deliver
us
from
evil.”
Did
they
bury
the
feet?
Bilge:
Yes,
Father.
Hundreds
of
years
we
have
done
this.
I
did
this
when
I
was
married.
My
mother.
Archbishop
Basak:
Was
she
known
to
speak
to
spirits?
To
do
magick?
Bilge:
She
was
a
girl.
Our
girl.
She
rolled
bread
and
fetched
water
and
longed
to
marry
a
good
boy.
Archbishop
Basak:
And
was
he
a
good
boy?
Bilge:
Yes!
______
was
like
her.
He
herded
goats
and
raised
dogs.
35
Archbishop
Basak:
It
seems
none
of
you
have
any
hint
to
how
sin
works.
Bilge:
I
suppose
not.
A
blessing
in
a
way.
I
cut
the
interview
off
there.
However,
at
her
insistence
and
my
hunger,
I
allowed
her
to
serve
me
a
rabbit
stew.
Lastly,
I
thought
I
would
interview
the
groom,
hoping
to
conclude
whether
some
impropriety
might
have
created
this
reaction.
In
my
opinion,
either
Satan
was
allowed
in
and
destroyed
the
girl
with
hell
fire
for
his
own
evil
desires
or
God
knew
of
either
the
bride’s
sin
or
the
groom’s
and
decided
to
annihilate
the
union.
However,
the
father
of
the
groom
would
not
admit
me
to
visit
his
heartbroken
son.
Despite
reminding
him
I
was
a
tool
of
Christ
and
that
he
was
bound
to
obey
me
as
he
would
God,
he
threatened
to
brain
me
with
a
shovel
if
I
attempted
to
interfere
with
his
son’s
grieving.
He
did,
however,
allow
me
to
record
a
brief
interview
with
him.
Archbishop
Basak:
To
your
knowledge,
were
both
your
son
and
his
bride
pure
before
marriage?
Berk:
Why
this
happened
I
do
not
know,
but
it
was
not
my
boy’s
doing.
And
Alev,
she
was
a
good
girl.
Both
respected
and
obeyed.
Archbishop
Basak:
You
can
think
of
no
reason
why
God
would
have
punished
the
bride
or
your
son?
Berk:
Isn’t
it
possible
that
God
wished
to
punish
her
mother,
her
father,
her
aunt
or
grandparents,
even
myself
who
also
loved
her?
He
was
right,
and
I
thought
twice
whether
to
tell
him
so.
It
could
be
God’s
judgment
fell
on
the
entire
village,
steeped
in
subtle
sins
that
let
evil
in
thanks
to
Priest
Aynur.
Archbishop
Basak:
I
have
determined
that
the
ceremony
was
impure.
That
it
was
sin.
Berk:
We
all
do
it.
We
all
long
to
prove
we
honor
our
town.
Archbishop
Basak:
You
never
looked?
36
Berk:
When
Mrs.
Aydan
was
wed,
I
sort
of
peaked
but
only
saw
her
knees.
Nice
knees,
I
suppose.
But
I
stopped
there.
She’s
had
fourteen
babies
now,
I
believe,
but
God
only
left
her
three.
You
should
see
her
knees
now,
black
with
dirt.
Archbishop
Basak:
Sin.
Berk:
From
praying,
father!
Archbishop
Basak:
And
your
permissive
Father
Aynur
naturally
absolved
you
of
this
sin?
Berk:
Isn’t
that
what
priests
do?
It
was
clear
to
me
that
the
larger
issue
within
the
community
born
out
of
Father
Aynur’s
inability
to
maintain
order
and
ferret
out
sin.
I
do
not
believe
this
was
God’s
punishment,
but
rather
Satan
taking
vengeance
on
an
innocent
girl
for
his
own
devilish
reasons.
However,
if
the
Father
had
done
his
job,
all
would
have
been
well.
As
such,
I
had
Father
Aynur
relocated
to
Istanbul
where
he
could
be
watched
and
instructed
more
closely
by
myself.
I
find
that
he
is
more
submissive
and
obedient
with
close
watching;
He
hardly
says
a
word
and
the
other
priests
say
he
industrious
enough
for
a
seventy‐year
old
man,
though
they
worry
over
his
spirits
like
a
gaggle
of
women.
Lastly,
I
visited
Mrs.
Bilge’s
house
again
to
pray
over
the
spot
and
sprinkle
some
holy
water.
Again,
as
her
kindness
seemed
to
demand,
she
served
me
rabbit
stew,
which
was
very
delicious.
I
should
mention
that
even
two
months
later
the
house
contained
a
horrible
smell,
which
I
assume
was
from
the
devil.
I
advised
her
to
burn
down
the
entire
house.
That
the
devil
had
entered.
Kyoto,
Japan,
1598
Padre
Espinoza
report
from
Kyoto
Japan
in
our
year
of
the
Lord
1598,
responding
to
the
passionate
declarations
of
Christians
in
region
of
Tohoku
concerning
a
possible
evil
possession.
The
Christians
from
a
village
in
Tohuku
entreated
Bishop
Gabriel
to
investigate
a
demonic
possession
and
on
the
eighteenth
of
April
this
year
1598,
the
Bishop
sent
me
to
report
back
and
intercede
as
necessary.
Our
good
Christians
were
right
to
request
a
clerical
presence,
and
I
am
thankful
for
their
childlike
need
for
parental
guidance
and
the
Bishop’s
wisdom
to
offer
it.
I
only
hope
I
lived
up
to
the
faith
put
in
me
by
the
Bishop.
37
From
the
letter
the
Christians
sent,
I
was
apprised
of
the
situation:
Two
samurai,
a
barbaric
Japanese
warrior
class,
met
in
battle
over
a
slight
of
honor.
A
Mr.
Atsako
gave
statement
that
Samurai
Takagoya
accused
Samurai
Eishen
of
ignoring
their
Master’s
orders
during
a
recent
trip
to
Akita.
Samurai
Eishen
took
deep
offense
to
this
accusation
and
brandished
his
sword,
as
is
the
custom
of
Samurai.
Samurai
Takagoya
obliged.
They
apparently
dueled
in
Japanese
fighting
style.
The
incident
of
concern
followed.
As
requested,
I
gathered
three
local
witnesses—Ayuma,
Haru
and
one
Christian,
Hibiki—to
review
the
case.
With
the
help
of
a
transcriber,
Novice
Daisuke,
I
provide
the
following
account.
My
investigation
was
not
well
received
by
the
Japanese
in
the
village.
Translated
from
the
Japanese
by
Novice
Daisuke
Hibiki:
As
I
said,
Samurai
fight
quickly.
It
was
decided
within
nine
breaths.
Padre
Espinoza:
Remarkable.
And
was
there
a
victor?
Hibiki:
As
I
said,
Takatoya.
Padre
Espinoza:
Pardon
me,
of
course,
this
is
for
the
official
record.
I
will
try
to
not
make
you
repeat
yourself
much
more.
Was
there
anything
remarkable
before
the
cut
in
question?
Ayumo:
A
samurai
fight
is
always
grand.
I
am
eighty
years
old
and
this
only
the
twenty
first
I’ve
seen.
Haru:
Takatoyo
was
the
master.
It
was
Eishen’s
hot
head
that.
Haru:
I
apologize.
Ayumo:
What
you
said
was
true.
Hibiki:
We
should
not
speak
about
the
head.
Ayumo:
On
the
last
pass,
Takagoya
took
off
Eishen’s
head.
Padre
Espinoza:
I
see.
What
a
remarkable
thing.
I
am
sorry
you
gentlemen
had
to
witness
such
a
horrible
act.
Is
this
remarkable?
Ayumo:
You
do
like
that
word.
Hibiki:
The
priest
is
my
guest
and
has
come
at
our
request.
38
Ayumo:
Yes.
I
know
all
that.
Ayumo:
All
right
then,
I
apologize.
Haru:
When
is
such
a
thing
not
remarkable?
Hibiki:
You
two
should
not
be
disrespectful
to
our
guest
priest.
Padre
Espinoza:
I’m
sorry
if
I
have
offended
you
gentlemen.
I
have
only
been
to
Japan
for
two
years.
My
vocabulary
is
limited.
The
Samarai
ways
are
shocking
to
me.
But
I
do
wish
you
would
extent
me
some
courtesy.
I
have
also
been
the
guest
of
Lord
Kenshiu
about
a
matter
of
utmost
inquiry,
and
he
was
very
kind
to
us
priests.
I
hope
I
can
count
on
you
to
follow
his
remarkable
example.
Ayumo:
Hibiki
is
correct.
I
will
show
more
courtesy.
Padre
Espinoza:
I
am
just
as
sorry.
I
obviously
mistepped.
Haru:
I
apologize
if
I
offended
you.
Padre
Espinoza:
No
please.
Haru:
I
am
sorry.
Haru:
To
answer
your
question,
to
deny
a
man
his
head
is
bold.
First,
the
cut
opens
up
your
body,
so
you
are
saying
you
do
not
fear
your
opponent.
Two,
you
humiliate
the
man,
the
clan,
the
family
and
the
corpse.
Padre
Espinoza:
Is
it
dishonorable
to
do
such
a
thing?
Hibiki:
No,
I
do
not
believe
so.
Haru:
It
is
not.
In
battle,
two
warriors
gamble
their
lives.
To
take
a
man’s
life
and
to
live
is
still
a
sacrifice.
In
battle,
samurai
speak
their
own
language.
Padre
Espinoza:
I
see.
Remarkable.
Ayumo:
But
Eishen
did
not
fall.
That
is
why
you
are
here.
39
Padre
Espinoza:
Yes.
Please
explain
so
the
transcriber
has
a
record.
Hibiki:
After
the
pass,
Eishen
took
five
steps
and
stopped.
Padre
Espinoza:
Without
his
head?
Ayumo:
And
turned
back
to
Takagoya.
Haru:
I’ve
never
seen
anything
like.
A
body,
a
sword.
The
head
in
the
tall
grass.
Padre
Espinoza:
I
am
sorry,
but
I
am
obliged
to
ask
if
Eishen
was
known
to
worship
the
devil
or
participate
in
any
of
the
religions
of
Japan.
Hibiki:
His
convictions
on
that
subject
are
unknown,
but
he
was
likely
Buddhist,
like
most.
Padre
Espinoza:
Please
excuse
my
question,
but
do
Buddhists
worship
evil
spirits?
Padre
Espinoza:
That
is
spirits
who
do
not
extoll
virtues
of
goodness?
Padre
Espinoza:
Like
Satan.
Do
you
know
what
I
mean
when
I
say
Satan?
Padre
Espinoza:
I
feel
I
am
misstepped
again.
Ayumo:
Remarkable.
Hibiki:
I
do
of
course
know
of
Satan.
I
think
everyone
will
tell
you
no.
And
I
agree.
Buddhists
know
of
evil
spirits,
as
you
say,
but
they
are
not
as
you
think.
And
they
do
not
worship.
More
like
respect.
Padre
Espinoza:
You
respect
evil?
Hibiki:
Like
a
sword.
We
respect
the
cut
it
can
make.
Padre
Espinoza:
I
see.
We
are
in
deep
water.
Maybe
we
can
finish
this
conversation
later.
I
am
interested
in
your
comparison
to
a
sword,
which
is
dangerous
but
not
evil,
to
evil
spirits.
Hibiki:
Japanese
think
differently,
as
you
know.
Padre
Espinoza.
Thank
you.
I
see.
I
am
so
sorry
to
be
rude,
if
I
have
been.
I
am
also
obliged
to
ask
if
you
know
of
any
peculiar
behavior
from
Samurai
Eishen
in
the
days
before
this
incident.
40
Hibiki:
I
heard
nothing
of
the
kind.
Padre
Espinoza:
I
see.
What
happened
then?
Ayumo:
After
Eishen
turned,
he
raised
his
sword
and
charged.
Haru:
What
a
thing
to
see.
A
true
Samurai.
Padre
Espinoza:
I
don’t
understand.
Do
you
approve
of
this
man
charging
without
a
head?
Does
it
not
alarm
you?
Again,
I
am
sorry
if
I
am
being
rude.
Haru:
I
had
no
choice
in
the
matter.
It
was
simply
remarkable.
Padre
Espinoza:
I
see.
My
childhood
priest
often
said,
“laughter
saves.”
Hibiki:
Father,
Eishen’s
body
turned.
It
raised
its
sword.
And
charged.
Takagoya
‘s
sword
was
still
at
his
side.
He
did
not
move,
but
Eishen
did
not
swing.
His
sword
was
raised
as
if
he
would,
but
he
just
ran
and
kept
going.
Padre
Espinoza:
For
how
long?
Hibiki:
We
all
chased
him.
To
the
pond.
Ayumo:
I
measured
it.
Half
a
li.
Padre
Espinoza:
That
far?
Hibiki:
Once
he
hit
the
water
that
was
all.
Ayumo:
His
body
floated
and
sunk.
We
were
afraid
to
touch
it.
Padre
Espinoza:
What
did
Samurai
Takagoya
say?
Haru:
That
Eishen
was
a
better
samurai
than
he
guessed.
Padre
Espinoza:
I
don’t
understand.
Hibiki:
Samurai
superstition,
Padre.
41
Padre
Espinoza:
And
the
body
now?
Hibiki:
Hojo
Ujinao
claimed
it.
Burned
two
days
ago.
Padre
Espinoza:
Was
he
not
informed
of
my
investigation?
Hibiki:
I
told
him.
Ayumo:
I
told
him
you
were
coming
to.
It
is
well
documented
that
the
Japanese
ruling
class
resent
clerical
intrusion.
As
a
precaution,
I
prayed
and
dispersed
Holy
Water
at
the
place
of
battle
and
the
place
where
Eishen
entered
the
water.
I
also
kneeled
and
prayed
for
Eishen
and
for
the
God,
the
Virgin
Mother,
and
the
Holy
Spirit
to
rid
the
place
of
demons.
I
was
prevented
from
approaching
the
bier
where
he
was
cremated
by
Hojo
Ujinao’s
men.
I
held
Mass
with
handful
of
Japanese
Christians
that
night.
I
received
a
letter
some
weeks
later
that
a
plot
of
flowers
grew
where
I
kneeled
and
prayed.
I
feel
the
Christians
are
most
likely
exaggerating.
They
seemed
very
flattered
Bishop
Gabriel
sent
someone
to
investigate.
Also,
it
should
be
noted
that
some
days
later,
while
on
the
way
back
to
Aomori,
I
met
with
Samurai
Takagoya.
While
cheerful
and
obsequious
enough
at
first,
he
blanched
when
I
asked
about
Samurai
Eishen,
particularly
when
I
asked
about
his
religious
habits.
I
worry
I
misstepped,
using
the
word
Satan
again,
and
Takagoya
reached
for
his
sword
and
had
to
be
restrained.
End
of
Transcript.
“I
fear
all
Samurai
nurse
at
the
Devils’
teet.”
(This
was
written
at
the
bottom
of
the
report
in
what
is
believed
to
be
Bishop
Gabriel’s
hand.
SJ)
42
43
44
Poetry
45
Larry D. Thomas
The
Transfer
of
Light
The
high
desert
light,
intensified
by
altitude
and
clarity
of
air,
draws
artists
like
moths
to
a
ubiquitous
flame.
One
who
listens
hard
enough
can
hear
the
screams
of
colors
writhing
on
their
canvasses,
jolting
the
galleries
with
cries
of
the
criminally
insane.
The
lenses
of
stout
sunglasses
are
either
mirrors
or
dark
as
leather
patches
fashioned
to
cover
the
sockets
of
gouged
eyes.
This
winter
morning,
through
the
steam
rising
off
my
coffee,
I
watched
sunlight
crest
an
eastern
flank
of
Hancock
Hill;
skulk
through
yucca,
dead
grass,
and
prickly
pear;
ease
down
our
driveway
sans
a
sound;
bleed
onto
the
ceramic
tile
of
our
patio;
and
crash
through
the
glass
of
our
door
like
a
flaming
puma
leaving
in
shambles
the
silly
steel
mesh
of
its
cage.
46
An
Imperceptible
Blip
I
have
been
musing
your
“silence
of
the
past”
the
last
few
mornings
as
I
sip
my
daily
coffee
on
my
balcony.
The
mountains
to
the
north,
clearly
in
view
for
over
forty
miles,
are
thirty‐five
million
years
old,
making
even
our
millennium
an
imperceptible
blip
on
the
black,
immeasurable
radar
screen
of
time.
I
ponder
our
fast‐forwarded
lives
charted
for
a
while
by
the
brilliantly
hued
risings
and
settings
of
the
sun,
ephemeral
as
the
damaged
legs
of
a
desert
millipede,
much
too
evanescent
for
the
silliness
of
war
or
the
feckless
trinity
of
dogma,
hate,
revenge.
47
Seth Copeland
Josef
Mengele
in
Exile
Caieiras,
Brazil,
1969
In
the
coffee‐acrid
heat
of
the
day,
he
sits
under
a
pepper
tree,
chewing
tasteless
roots
and
reading
an
Argentine
medical
journal,
relishing
the
Latinate
loops
in
a
mind
weaned
on
German’s
guttural
phlegm.
Farm
life
bores
him,
the
old
criminal
abandoned
by
his
era,
redundant
with
age
as
countercultures
and
upheavals
dominate
the
headlines.
Americans
are
standing
on
the
moon,
ashy
and
gray.
None
of
them
know
the
color
a
heart
takes
after
chloroform
runs
through
the
ventricles,
how
Romani
flesh
darkens
to
purple
when
jarred
in
formaldehyde.
Evenings,
he
drinks
yerba
mate
and
ignores
a
stubborn
ear
infection
while
his
brain
lightly
composes
memoirs,
stories
only
he
finds
dutiful,
correct,
and
justified.
At
night,
he
dreams
of
twins
he
knew
with
heterochromia,
how
he
switched
their
brown
eyes
out
with
the
blues
of
another
child,
and
had
them
gassed
to
silence
when
they
insisted
the
boy’s
dead
mother
kept
smiling
at
them
inside
their
invasive
new
lenses.
48
First
Atlas
Five
churches,
one
school,
a
house
with
a
yard
full
of
coppery
chickens,
Indian
tacos
for
all
fundraisers,
good
ol’
boys
in
dungsmeared
jeans
burning
Black
&
Milds
in
front
of
the
only
gas
station,
a
boy
of
five
biking
down
the
middle
of
the
road,
followed
by
two
dogs,
that
guy
on
the
motorcycle
with
the
white
denim
cutoffs,
bandanas
tied
all
down
his
legs—
we
joke,
but
he
always
has
someone’s
arms
around
his
waist—
up
the
road,
the
bridge
where
my
grandfather
died,
his
palimpsest
every
time
I
cross
it,
miles
of
crumbling
barbed
wire
strung
through
bone
dry
spurs
of
ancient
post
oak,
finials
of
wild
hog
heads,
and
the
best
damn
sausage
&
gravy
around
if
you
know
where
to
look.
49
Channel
To understand industry and civilization
you must go to where it has been
and has left:
concrete runs across
like the keel of a miscarried ship.
wet patches of grass and trash cling to the sides
as if huddled against the cold.
in the middle of the path
entrails stray from a dead dog
runes of its end.
whoever walks down here
walks with the purpose of a lizard
aimless with interstice trances of quiet stillness
always alert to what’s above
people in cars sheering
to destinations that only mean
to suck away their youth and money
an empty plastic bottle
of some forgotten limited time soda.
red label faded pink by the sun.
what the bottle doesn’t tell:
the teenage boy who dropped it there
enjoyed that drink
more than anything else in the world.
50
Matt Sven Calvert
Space
&
Push
A
place
a
man
can
walk
Sloshing
with
humanity
Those
nondescript
places
we
all
crave
Where
the
landscapes
flow
together
Slows
until
it
becomes
cinematic
We
do
what
we
can
for
paychecks
Because
no
one
else
will
follow
This
evaporating
solitude
A
shadow
life
of
play
As
a
drunk
birthday
clown
In
deadlines
and
checkbooks
Four
decades
without
rituals
A
puffy
finger
traces
Streams
to
elsewhere
Flesh
becomes
stale
And
an
emptiness
opens
(Credit:
This
is
a
Cento
poem
composed
by
matching
lines
taken
from
the
book
ASTEROID
by
Dr.
Hugh
Tribbey.)
51
Low
Blood
Cross
Secret
concrete
lore
surviving
spirit
winter
viper
Tongue
temple
Word
Hell
glory
hands
urgent
antlers
Crime
cloud
June
round
public
always
shaky
rolling
Sold
control
searching
terror
omit
arctic
metaphor
Glass
rebellion
greedy
tabloid
tuxedo
March
Christian
catches
white
windows
Stood
deep
within
ocean
world
unknown
Tooth
called
obsessed
red
body
vulgar
Oncoming
saga
stained
sun
Parching
dark
heart
blurs
Changing
step
flaps
focus
Floating
park
saw
leaving
Forgotten
look
sun‐baked
tells
Riveted
breeze
helped
dig
girl
Expensive
breathe
dating
waned
Extra
old
braised
penis
bridge
Underground
desert
multiply
mockingbird
Inflates
Baghdad
ice‐cold
jugulary
road
Multiply
writing
silently
pushing
vine
Become
dressed
bomb
masticated
scrawls
Neighbor
rattling
unseen
thin
painting
52
53
54
Translation
55
Alda Merini (1931-2009)
Chi
ha
detto,
amico
e
fratello
Chi
ha
detto,
amico
e
fratello,
che
devi
morire
fra
mille
tormenti?
Sai
che
il
tormento
è
una
voce?
Sai
che
il
dolore
canta?
Io
mi
sono
chinato
sopra
di
te,
ho
lavato
le
tue
piaghe
e
ho
scoperto
la
musica,
la
musica
del
dolore.
E
te
l’ho
anche
detto,
e
tu
mi
hai
guardato
come
si
guarda
un
pazzo.
Non
hai
creduto
che
tu,
nascosto
nell’immondizia,
potessi
darmi
fremiti
d’amore.
56
Friend
and
brother,
who
has
said
Friend
and
brother,
who
has
said
you
must
die
in
a
thousand
torments?
Don’t
you
know
torment
is
a
voice?
Don’t
you
know
pain
sings?
I
have
bent
over
you,
I
have
washed
your
wounds
and
have
uncovered
the
music,
the
music
of
pain.
And
I
have
even
told
you,
and
you
have
looked
at
me
as
if
looking
at
a
madman.
You
did
not
believe
that
you,
hiding
in
the
rubbish,
could
make
me
tremble
with
love.
(Translated
from
the
Italian
by
Chiara
Frenquellucci
and
Gwendolyn
Jensen)
57
Gli
alberti
tutti,
gioia
della
terra
Gli
alberti
tutti,
gioia
della
terra,
hanno
ferme
radici
nella
tristezza
d’ogni
poverello;
io
li
ho
colpiti
ai
margini
con
grazia,
togliendo
forza
ad
ogni
fantasia.
Spazio
non
ho
più
dentro
le
pupille
ma
sicurezza
d’ogni
cosa
pura,
ma
minuzia
d’oggetti
che
apprezzo,
sollevandoli
nel
fuoco
della
mia
carità
senza
confine.
L’uomo
non
soffre
attorno
a
sé
una
fine,
ma
io
ho
un
chiaro
disegno
di
povertà
come
una
veste
ardita
che
mi
chiude
entro
sfere
di
parole,
di
parole
d’amore,
che
indirizzo
agli
uccelli,
all’acqua,
al
sole
e
che
mi
rendo
tutte
assai
precise,
premeditate
morte
di
dolcezza.
58
All
the
trees,
the
joy
of
earth
All
the
trees,
the
joy
of
earth,
have
roots
that
are
grounded
in
the
sorrow
of
every
poor
man;
I
have
struck
the
edges
of
the
trees
with
grace,
stripping
force
from
every
fantasy.
I
no
longer
have
space
in
my
pupils
but
for
the
certainty
of
every
pure
thing,
but
for
the
minutiae
of
objects
that
I
prize,
raising
them
to
the
fire
of
my
endless
charity.
Man
does
not
suffer
an
end
around
him,
but
I
have
a
clear
idea
of
poverty
as
a
daring
cloak
that
encloses
me
within
spheres
of
words,
words
of
love
that
I
send
to
the
birds,
to
the
water,
to
the
sun,
and
that
I
make
very
clear
to
myself,
a
premeditated
death
of
confection.
(Translated
from
the
Italian
by
Chiara
Frenquellucci
and
Gwendolyn
Jensen)
59
Quando
sentirete
cantare
Quando
sentirete
cantare
un’allodola
pensate
che
state
parlando
con
Francesco,
che
Francesco
vi
parla
nel
cuore,
perché
non
avevo
altro
modo
di
volare
fino
a
Dio
se
non
attraverso
gli
uccelli,
una
manna
di
piume,
questi
uccelli
vigorosi
e
inutili
che
vengono
a
beccarmi
il
volto:
è
la
musica
di
Francesco.
Forse
per
i
poveri
e
per
me
non
ho
da
mangiare,
ma
ho
le
mani
gonfie
di
grano:
ho
saziato
tutti
gli
uccelli
del
cielo.
E
nell'uccello,
a
volte
misero
e
nudo,
ho
visto
una
piuma
di
quell'angelo
che
volò
dritto
verso
Maria.
60
When
you
hear
a
skylark
singing
When
you
hear
a
skylark
singing
think
that
you
are
speaking
with
Francis,
that
Francis
speaks
to
you
in
your
heart,
because
I
did
not
have
another
way
to
fly
to
God
if
not
through
the
birds,
manna
of
feathers,
these
robust
and
useless
birds
that
come
to
peck
at
my
face:
it
is
the
music
of
Francis.
For
the
poor
and
for
myself
I
may
not
have
anything
to
eat
but
my
hands
are
full
of
grain:
I
have
satisfied
all
the
birds
of
the
sky.
And
in
a
bird,
at
times
naked
and
wretched,
I
have
seen
a
feather
of
that
angel
who
flew
straight
toward
Mary.
(Translated
from
the
Italian
by
Chiara
Frenquellucci
and
Gwendolyn
Jensen)
61
62
Nonfiction
63
Rob Roensch
the
title
is
the
photographs
I
promise
to
ask
no
questions
here.
I
am
going
to
say
what
I
think
as
clearly
as
I
can.
I
have
always
loved
photographs,
not
images
on
a
screen
or
artist
work
on
a
gallery
wall
(wonderful
as
those
may
be),
but
4x6
or
5x7
drugstore‐developed
photographs.
It
is
a
vanishing
format,
but
I
don’t
intend
to
offer
any
more
of
an
elegy
for
photo‐album
photographs
than
I
will
for
any
other
part
of
the
world.
Everything
will
peel
and
fade
and
crumble
or
degrade
and
disappear
and
that
is
the
way
it
is.
The
point
is
to
see
what
is
here.
64
My
favorite
metaphor
to
describe
a
photograph’s
relationship
to
time
and
the
visual
world
is
“snapshot.”
In
the
word
there’s
a
sense
of
the
action
of
a
moment’s
attention,
the
desire
to
seize
and
hold.
I
love
photographs,
but
I
don’t
take
them
myself
with
any
dedication.
The
excuse
is
that
my
spatial
and
mechanical
and
technological
intelligences
are
limited.
(I
once
took
a
filmmaking
course
and
so
misapplied
the
concept
of
the
f‐stop
the
images
of
people
and
places
were
shadows
within
shadows.)
But
of
course
I
could
have
applied
myself
if
I
really
wanted
to
make
photographs;
the
whole
truth
is
I
didn’t
want
to.
I
don’t
need
to.
It’s
enough
that
there
are
other
people
taking
photographs.
I
don’t
feel
the
same
way
about
language.
I
always
want
to
add
my
own
words,
if
only
as
an
echo.
But
I
can
look
at
photographs
and
want
to
give
away
all
control
of
my
eyes.
I
feel
this
way
looking
through
other
people’s
photo
albums;
I
feel
this
way
looking
at
photographs
in
museums;
I
feel
this
way
reading
photo
books;
I
feel
this
way
looking
through
stacks
of
old
family
snapshots
from
my
childhood;
I
feel
this
way
sorting
through
the
results
of
my
own
few
attempts
at
capturing
something.
65
66
It
wasn’t
until
after
I
had
already
picked
up
and
saved
two
discarded
photographs—one
of
what
seems
to
be
a
post‐blood‐donation
recovery
table
of
orange
juice
and
cookies
that
I
found
in
Lowell,
Massachusetts;
one
of
looking
up
through
a
blurred
blossoming
tree
that
I
found
in
Ithaca,
New
York‐‐that
I
consciously
became
a
collector
of
found
photographs.
I
am
a
walker
of
cities.
Since
the
year
2002,
I
have
kept
an
alertness
for
white
rectangles
of
photograph
size
in
sidewalk
rubbish
(nearly
all
the
photographs
I’ve
found
have
been
face‐down;
face‐up
they
are
less
easy
to
ignore).
Mostly
I
turn
over
nothings
like
postcard
advertisements
for
nightclubs,
flimsy
inserts
for
packages
of
Twinkies.
But,
every
now
and
then,
a
face.
67
The
attention
to
finding
and
preserving
lost
photographs
led
naturally
to
my
seeking
out,
in
every
junk
shop
in
Baltimore,
the
basket
of
fading
brown‐gray
photographs
from
lifetimes
past,
each
one
marked
on
the
back
maybe
with
some
word
of
identification—a
name,
a
place,
a
date—and,
in
the
inhumanly
thin
scratch
of
a
mechanical
pencil
lead,
a
price
(3,
1,
.50).
Nearly
all
found
photographs
are
striking;
because
they
appeared
from
nowhere,
they
are
the
opposite
of
blankness.
The
discovery
of
a
necessary
photograph
from
a
pile
of
old
photographs
in
a
dark
corner
of
a
junk‐shop
near
the
cartoon‐character
cookie
jars
is
different.
Something
inside
the
old
photograph
itself—a
facial
expression,
a
musical
arrangement
of
landscape
and
body,
a
mystery—must
strike
a
bell
in
you
that
you
did
not
know
was
there.
68
69
I’ve
always
wanted
to
do
something
with
the
found
and
old
and
amateur
photographs,
put
them
into
some
sort
of
order
for
myself
in
a
way
that
would
both
help
me
see
what
I
saw
in
the
photographs,
what
they
meant
to
me,
and
also
help
me
share
that
vision
and
feeling
and
order
with
someone
else.
I
imagined
a
room
of
unframed
photographs
tacked
to
a
bare
wall
with
silver
pins.
But
that
idea
wasn’t
enough;
I
needed
words.
I
constructed
a
little
book
of
some
of
the
found
photographs
paired
with
brief
surrealist
descriptions
of
the
dream‐life
of
Baltimore,
where
so
many
of
the
photographs
were
found.
The
book
didn’t
work.
I
didn’t
know
why
then:
photographs
have
nothing
to
do
with
dreams.
They
can
seem
strange,
but
they
are
the
ordinary
waking
world.
They
need
to
be
written
about
directly,
first.
70
When
I
was
a
senior
in
high
school
I
was
a
passenger
in
a
car
that
lost
grip
on
a
curve
and
slid
off
the
road
into
a
tree.
I
drove
that
road
more
or
less
every
day,
both
before
and
after
the
crash.
The
tree
itself
still
bears
a
scar
from
the
crash.
Before
I
and
my
family
moved
away
from
that
town,
I
took
a
photograph
of
the
tree
because
I
needed
to
have
a
photograph
of
the
tree
with
me.
Every
time
I
drive
by
a
car
wreck
or
even
just
a
dented
car
in
a
parking
lot,
I
find
myself
examining
the
broken
and
bent
places;
there
is
something
important
to
see
there.
A
wrecked
car
is
so
much
more
specific
than
what
a
car
is
in
a
commercial,
in
a
daydream.
The
wound
is
what
is
real.
71
Shopping
malls
are
meant
to
be
attractive,
not
beautiful.
The
economic
activities
that
proceed
there
come
to
seem
a
representation
of
a
culture—the
endless
availability
of
only
semi‐useful
materialism,
the
replacement
of
a
shared
public
square
with
a
policed,
alarmed,
artificially
clean
marketplace.
And
yet
I
love
shopping
malls.
I
love
the
chintzy,
metallic
shining
of
the
decorations
at
Christmas
time;
I
love
the
crowds,
how
people
carry
winter
coats
draped
over
their
arms.
I
love
the
faces
of
strangers
who
are
absorbed
in
thinking
about
and
looking
at
something
that
has
nothing
to
do
with
me.
72
73
Another
reason
I
am
not
a
photographer
of
people
is
I
find
interacting
with
strangers
nerve‐
wracking.
I
find
the
prospect
of
asking
a
stranger
“Can
I
take
a
picture?”
or
answering
the
question
“Why
are
you
taking
a
picture
of
me?”
impossible.
This
is
moral
and
aesthetic
cowardice.
Thumbing
through
photographs,
collecting
found
photographs,
is
a
way
to
look
without
being
looked
at
in
return.
A
photograph
of
someone
who
is
now
dead
is
also
the
idea
that
there
is
no
such
thing
as
loss.
From
a
certain
perspective,
God’s,
all
of
time
is
one
object,
endless
but
whole,
like
the
surface
of
a
globe.
From
this
perspective,
a
moment
is
both
ephemeral
and
eternal.
74
One
of
my
favorite
words
in
English
is
“daughter.”
It’s
a
weird,
heavy
word.
All
the
other
essential
relationship
words
are
simpler:
“son”;
“husband”;
“mother.”
Only
“daughter”
has
such
a
dense
internal
collision
of
letters.
The
Oxford
dictionary
tells
me
“daughter”
rhymes
with
“aorta”
and
“water.”
75
Giving
attention
to
photographs
changes
what
looking
at
the
world
is.
The
eye
becomes
more
camera‐like;
the
empty
air
is
a
series
of
potential
frames;
the
layers
of
the
world
insist
on
themselves—there
is
always
a
foreground
and
a
background,
a
decision
of
focus.
But
nothing
tangible
comes
from
looking
at
the
world
this
way—no
actual
photographs
and,
unless
your
memory
is
like
a
camera,
only
a
very
few
memories.
Mostly
the
world
disappears
when
you
look
away.
But
when
you
look
away
from
the
world
you
are
also
looking
into
the
world
from
a
different
angle.
How
much
there
is
to
see
and
not
be
able
to
remember.
76
77
There
is
no
way
to
see
the
world
as
it
appears
through
someone
else’s
eyes;
there
is
no
argument
that
proves
other
people
are
real.
Truly
looking
into
a
photograph
requires
faith.
78
There
is
so
much
possibility
in
America,
so
much
time
and
space.
There
are
so
many
individual
imaginations
in
America,
each
seeking
to
populate
the
time
and
space
with
words
and
images
and
meaning,
each
seeking
to
imagine
and
then
see,
or
see
and
then
imagine,
a
whole.
Beauty
in
a
photograph
is
not
evidence
of
another
world
shining
through,
and
neither
is
it
mere
shimmering
appearance.
79
The
experience
of
being
struck
by
the
beautiful
in
a
photograph
is
the
epiphanic
recognition
of
what
the
world
is:
the
contained
and
the
uncontainable,
structure
and
freedom,
growth
and
stillness
and
decay,
light
and
darkness,
life
and
death,
truth.
80
81
82
Images
83
“Somewhere
Near
Happy,
Texas”
Jeff
F.
Wheeler
Oil
and
Charcoal
on
Paper
72”
x
115”
84
“Just
Outside
Lamesa”
Jeff
F.
Wheeler
Oil
and
Charcoal
on
Board
36”x
24”
85
86
“Somewhere
Near
Happy,
Texas
(no.
52)”
Jeff
F.
Wheeler
Oil
and
Charcoal
on
Board
36”x
36”
“Just
This
Side
of
Cheyenne”
Jeff
F.
Wheeler
Oil,
Charcoal
and
Collage
on
Vintage
Paper
20”x
16”
87
88
Reviews
&
Interviews
89
‘Say
the
Unsayable
So
That
It’s
No
Longer
Unsayable’:
An
Interview
with
Aimee
Parkison
By
Clinton
Blackwell
Jr.,
Jarrod
Brown,
and
George
McCormick
In
anticipation
of
Aimee
Parkison’s
visit
to
Cameron
University
in
April,
I
caught
up
with
the
writer
via
email
where,
over
several
days,
we
had
the
following
conversation.
Parkison
is
the
author
of
two
story
collections,
Woman
With
Dark
Horses
(Starcherone,
2004)
and
The
Innocent
Party
(BOA
Editions,
Ltd.,
2012),
as
well
as
a
novel
The
Petals
of
Your
Eyes
(Starcherone,
2014).
Parkison’s
work
is
often
experimental
and
ambitious,
and
her
recent
book
breaks
every
convention—at
least
in
my
estimation—of
the
confessional
novel
that
needs
breaking.
[Oklahoma
Review]:
I
spent
last
weekend
reading
two
things:
your
essay,
“The
Wreckage
of
Reason:
Women
Writers
of
Contemporary
Experimental
Prose,”
and
Clarice
Lispector’s
inimitable
novel
The
Passion
According
to
G.H.
I
kept
thinking
about
how
Lispector
was
writing
for
an
audience
that
did
not
yet
exist;
or,
an
audience
that
didn’t
know
it
had
an
appetite
for
such
experimentation.
I
don’t
know
if
you’ve
read
Lispector,
but
I
was
wondering
about
your
own
experiments—do
you
think
of
audience
when
you
go
into
a
writing
project?
Do
you
trust
that
readers
will
eventually
find
you?
[Parkison]:
I
think
you’re
right
about
Lispector
and
her
audience.
Writers
of
experimental
or
innovative
prose
invent
the
audience
they
want
to
write
for
as
they
write.
The
process
of
producing
powerful
work
calls
the
audience.
Ultimately,
good
work
finds
its
own
audience
with
its
own
voice,
whether
that
audience
is
already
here
or
waiting
to
be
born.
With
my
writing
and
my
approach
to
teaching
writing,
I
envision
different
audiences,
usually
audiences
within
audiences,
but
ultimately,
as
an
artist,
it
all
comes
down
to
trust,
faith
that
a
work
will
find
its
place
within
the
world
of
readers,
if
it
has
lived
up
to
the
promises
made
to
the
readers.
[OKR]:
I
remember
reading
an
interview
with
W.G.
Sebald
where
he
said,
in
effect,
that
if
a
piece
of
fiction
is
going
to
be
experimental
it
needs
to
let
the
reader
in
on
the
experiment.
I
like
that,
and
it
seems
to
jive
with
your
idea
here
of
living
up
to
promises
made
to
the
reader.
Thinking
back
to
Lispector,
what
sort
of
promises
do
you
think
she
makes
to
her
readers?
[Parksion]:
The
complexity
of
Lispector’s
sentences
demand
that
the
reader
slow
down.
Because
of
her
style
we
have
to
pay
attention
in
a
particular
way,
and
this
changes
the
reading
experience.
Her
use
of
language
and
syntax,
its
demanding
nature,
draws
us
into
a
deep
web
of
interiority.
We
can
get
lost
in
Lispector’s
sentences
in
the
same
way
her
characters
get
lost
in
thought.
Much
of
her
fiction
invites
the
reader
to
participate
in
the
interior
life
of
women.
The
tension
becomes
subversive
when
her
sentences
reveal
the
conflict
between
language
and
meaning.
90
[OKR]:
In
Woman
With
Dark
Horses
many
of
the
stories
center
on,
among
other
things,
oblique
human
relationships.
Here
I’m
thinking
about
“The
Upstairs
Album,”
and
“Van
Windows.”
Can
you
speak
a
little
bit
about
this?
[Parkison]:
The
oblique
human
relationships
in
my
work
are
a
reaction
against
a
transparency
and
an
absolute
truth
of
self
that
I
don’t
believe
exists.
It’s
unwelcome
as
the
experience
of
pretending
absolute
clarity
or
transparency
in
life.
No
one
ever
really
knows
anyone,
so
all
relationships
are
about
the
process
of
getting
close
to
knowing
but
never
really
knowing.
We
can
never
really
know
ourselves
because
we’re
constantly
changing.
How
could
we
ever
really
claim
to
know
another
person?
The
best
we
can
attempt
is
empathy.
For
me,
this
means
that
the
unspoken
and
the
tension
of
ambiguity
are
just
as
important
as
narrative
and
language.
There
has
to
be
ambiguity
and
obliqueness
in
order
for
the
literary
audience
to
exist
because
the
literary
audience
reads
between
the
lines
and
wants
to
be
surprised
by
the
experience
of
reading.
[OKR]:
Right,
I
agree
that
a
writer
of
literary
fiction
needs
to
court
ambiguity
and
surprise
the
reader
with
that
ambiguity.
Can
you
think
anything
that
you’ve
read
recently
that
surprised
you
in
this
way?
[Parkison]:
I
really
enjoyed
Herman
Koch’s
The
Dinner
and
Summer
House
with
Swimming
Pool.
Also,
Elena
Ferrante’s
Days
of
Abandonment.
[OKR]:
Your
novel,
The
Petals
of
Your
Eyes,
is
about
the
ritualization
of
a
particular
kind
of
violence.
I
know
you
had
a
chance
to
study
under
Brian
Evenson,
who
is
known
for
writing
about
violence,
and
I
was
wondering
if
there
was
anything
particular—in
approach,
in
craft—
that
you
learned
from
him?
[Parkison]:
Sensitivity
to
language,
tone,
and
syntax.
Meticulousness.
Building
a
narrative
one
beautiful
sentence
at
a
time.
The
idea
of
using
violence
to
communicate
something
deeper
about
the
human
experience.
[OKR]:
One
of
my
students
pointed
out
that
like
the
photography
of
Dianne
Arbus
your
stories
normalize
what
many
might
consider
taboo.
As
norms
in
society
change,
how
do
you
see
experimental
fiction
changing
along
with
it?
[Parkison]:
The
work
of
art
is
to
say
the
unsayable
so
that
it’s
no
longer
unsayable.
Norms
keep
changing.
What
was
once
shocking
is
now
banal.
What
was
once
the
truth
is
now
a
lie.
There
is
no
constant.
The
experience
of
being
alive
means
that
we’re
constantly
dying.
All
fiction
should
be
experimental
in
some
way.
Mainstream
formula
fiction
that
has
become
popular
and
trendy
enough
to
be
predictably
safe,
fulfilling
clichés
of
traditional
genres,
is
evidence
that
at
some
91
point
an
experiment
became
so
successful
with
an
audience
that
it
was
no
longer
an
experiment
but
a
formula,
a
recipe
like
McDonalds’
special
sauce.
[OKR]:
How
do
you
get
your
students
to
write
beyond
the
cliché?
Beyond
the
‘special
sauce’?
Or
perhaps
they
already
are?
[Parksion]:
Most
of
my
students
are
already
trying
to
write
beyond
the
cliché.
They
want
to
create
something
real,
authentic,
and
new.
To
help
them
figure
out
how
to
do
this,
I
require
and
encourage
them
to
keep
journals,
where
they
perform
creative‐writing
experiments
to
test
various
ideas
and
techniques
in
low‐stakes
writing
that
may
or
may
not
evolve
into
finished
pieces.
92
Phil
Estes.
High
Life.
Horse
Less
Press.
2016.
Reviewed by George McCormick
The
first
time
I
ever
experienced
a
Phil
Estes
poem—this
was
still
before
I
would
read
them
in
the
magazine
Diagram,
or
in
his
wonderful
chapbook
Children
of
Reagan
(Rabbit
Catastrophe,
2012)—was
the
first
time
I
ever
heard
a
Phil
Estes
poem:
through
a
large
and
loud
speaker
in
a
small
conference
room.
Somehow
this
was
perfect.
It
was
the
first
wave,
it
turns
out,
of
disorientation.
Because
disoriented
is
kind
of
where
you
need
to
get
to
if
you’re
to
get
Estes’
work.
And
by
disorientation
I
don’t
mean
like
when
you
drink
too
much
and
get
the
bed‐spins—
no,
bed‐spins
are
bad—but
the
kind
of
disorientation
you
create
when
you’re
a
kid
and
you
decide
to
spin
around
a
couple
of
dozen
times
with
your
eyes
closed
because
when
you
open
them
again
the
world
seems
weird
and
fun
and
it
makes
you
laugh.
In
part
the
disorienting
effect
of
Estes’
poems
in
his
new
book
High
Life
make
the
world
seem
weird
and
fun
again:
My
mouth
clapping
like
a
hand
Eating,
and
talking.
But
not
like
a
father
to
his
son,
But
the
son
mimicking,
noming.
The
man‐dog
fights
for
the
stray
Baseball
in
the
dead
dog’s
mouth.
See!
I
can
only
describe
what
I
saw,
not
the
élan
But
that’s
the
hands
of
élan,
right?
Yet
this
disorientation
is
not
a
ruse
so
much
as
a
veneer.
If
we
are
disoriented
from
one
world,
what
world
are
we,
if
any,
then
oriented
toward?
For
one,
it
seems
to
be
a
world
with
very
porous
borders.
Just
as
it
is
difficult
to
judge
exactly
where
a
suburban
space
begins
and
ends,
so
too,
it
is
difficult
to
know,
exactly
where
we
are
in
place
(Oklahoma?
Ohio?
The
cave
where
the
old
man
lives?)
and
in
time
(Boyhood?
Manhood?)
in
High
Life.
But
this
level
of
disorientation—
of
existing
in
collapsing
spaces;
in
the
ruble
of
such
collapse—is
exactly
where
High
Life
derives
its
energy.
Each
poem
asks
us
to
play
pretend.
Yet
under
all
of
this,
beyond
the
poems’
veneer,
there
is
a
quiet
and
compelling
voice,
a
confessional
voice
even,
that
tells
us
about
our
own
suffering:
I
want
to
love
everything
and
raise
them
up,
seriously,
Or
take
them
all
by
my
mouth
93
Like
I
am
a
wolf
or
a
nice
dog.
But
I
drink
instead
and
hold
my
cock
at
night;
Or
I
pack
this
big
body
into
a
booth
And
act
like
I
don’t
give
a
shit
about
you,
Like
I
am
Mifune
as
Yojimbo.
I
have
a
big
heart,
But
it
is
always
weaponized;
It
is
always
sheathed.
And
here
is
where
High
Life
feels
more
substantial
than
Children
of
Reagan.
It’s
not
that
it’s
just
a
book‐length
collection
versus
a
chapbook,
but
it’s
the
breadth
of
emotion
and
vulnerability
that
make
these
poems
feel
different,
more
timely.
If
we
are
indeed
living
in
confusing
and
disorienting
times,
then
lets
let
these
poems
be
some
of
the
songs
we
slow
jam
to.
94
A.W.
Marshall.
Simple
Pleasures.
ELJ
Publications.
2015.
Reviewed by Casey Brown
Tulsa
writer
A.W.
Marshall
collects
the
stories
of
disparate
of
characters
in
his
story
collection
Simple
Pleasures:
a
grandfather,
a
15‐year‐old
Romanian
princess,
a
very
lonely
and
very
suicidal
man,
quintuplet
corpses
even.
The
most
interesting
story,
“Kissing
Guinevere,’
a
beautiful
magical
realist
tale,
follows
a
grieving
man
who
buys
a
wish‐granting
flower
that
brings
his
mother
back
from
the
dead.
It
is
a
story
about
the
mundanity
of
lives
lived
in
close
proximity
to
one
another.
After
the
mother
“comes
home,”
the
reunited
carry
out
the
smallest
operations:
“Over
the
next
few
days,
they
both
lived
in
a
dream.
He
went
to
work.
She
cleaned
his
apartment.
And
then
a
few
days
later
she
said
she
was
getting
a
job
to
help
support
them.
She
ended
up
as
a
cashier
at
Doller
General.”
Nothing
spectacular,
but
they
were
in
a
dream
nonetheless.
On
its
surface,
“Kissing
Guinevere”
is
a
story
about
grief,
about
what
it
feels
like
to
lose
an
immediate
family
member,
which
happens
to
more
than
one
character.
The
flower
might
be
an
objective
correlative
for
coping
with
grief
inside
a
story
told
with
precise,
graceful
language:
“Adam
slumped
into
his
chair,
lost
between
each
second
passing
–
feeling
so
many
unsafe
things
to
say.
He
absentmindedly
played
with
coins
in
his
front
pocket.”
The
flower
and
the
language
structure
the
story
and
pull
the
reader
from
sentence
to
sentence,
page
to
page.
However,
as
I
read
“Kissing
Guinevere”
and
watch
a
son
and
his
resurrected
mother
become
reacquainted
with
each
other,
I
cannot
help
but
wonder
if
the
theme
is
a
play
on
the
idiom
“Mother
Knows
Best.”
The
mother
gets
reacquainted
with
living.
She
works
for
the
first
time
in
her…life.
She
stuffs
cash
earned
at
the
Dollar
General
into
a
white
envelope.
Mother
knows
where
her
son
got
the
flower
that
brought
her
back
from
the
grave
without
anyone
telling
her.
Mother
knows
that
if
she
asks
the
right
questions,
the
florist
will
order
another
such
flower.
Mother
knows
her
son’s
truest
wish,
a
wish
he
cannot
even
utter
to
himself.
She
knows
best
in
life,
death,
and
second
chances.
Grief
is
not
about
the
successes
and
failures
of
an
existence;
it
is
about
the
removal
of
the
small
moments
that
beat
out
the
rhythm
of
daily
life.
95
Larry
D.
Thomas.
Art
Museums.
Blue
Horse
Press.
2014.
The
Circus.
Blue
Horse
Press.
2016.
Reviewed by Nick Brush
Charles
Bukowski
once
said,
“An
intellectual
says
a
simple
thing
in
a
hard
way.
An
artist
says
a
hard
thing
in
a
simple
way.”
Larry
D.
Thomas
is
an
artist.
A
wordsmith
in
every
possible
connotation,
his
poetry
recalls
Barnett
Newman;
Thomas’s
deceivingly
plain
language
invites
readers
into
a
deeper
conversation
the
same
way
that
Newman’s
zips
pull
us
into
his
canvases.
Thomas’s
work
suggests
a
new
kind
of
abstract
expressionism,
a
new
form
that
exists
not
on
the
page
nor
in
the
minds
of
his
readers,
but
rather
in
the
space
between.
His
poetry
rips
you
out
of
the
physical,
sometimes
violently,
but
then
pulls
you
gently
through
the
ephemeral
with
the
care
of
an
old
friend.
Art
Museums,
published
by
Blue
Horse
Press
in
2014,
features
thirteen
different
ways
of
looking
at
art
and
everything
associated
with
it.
Thomas
invites
readers
to
follow
along
as
he
tours
museums
like
the
Art
Institute
of
Chicago,
the
Museum
of
Modern
Art,
and
the
Kimbell.
Some
poems
describe
an
artwork
as
though
we
were
standing
right
in
front
of
it.
In
“Amon
Carter
Museum,”
Thomas
details
a
painting
by
Frederic
Remington:
“a
stagecoach
lunges
/
as
if
spewed
from
the
night
itself,
/
ejected
from
the
canvas/into
the
trembling,
outstretched
arms
/
of
the
viewer.”
The
viscerality
of
Thomas’s
words
combined
with
his
imagery
make
the
painting’s
viewer
a
piece
of
the
work
itself.
His
poetry
does
the
same
thing
to
its
readers;
we
are
pulled
into
and
invited
to
be
a
part
of
Thomas’s
work.
Thomas
not
only
acquaints
readers
with
artworks,
but
he
also
introduces
readers
to
the
museums
and
their
inhabitants.
He
discusses
architecture
in
poems
like
“The
Steps”
and
“Kimbell
Art
Museum,”
giving
readers
a
chance
to
experience
all
the
splendor
of
these
magnificent
buildings
through
simple,
yet
powerfully
expressive,
poetic
musings.
Restorers,
moving
men,
and
even
security
guards
get
the
Thomas
treatment
as
he
paints
them
as
not
mere
employees,
but
as
the
forces
that
keep
these
institutions
running;
they
are
as
much
the
art
as
what
hangs
on
the
walls.
Moving
from
concrete
walls
covered
in
canvas
to
walls
made
of
canvas
itself,
Thomas’s
newest
offering,
The
Circus,
takes
us
into
the
mind
of
a
childlike
version
of
the
poet.
Published
by
Blue
Horse
Press
in
2016,
The
Circus’
poems
are
based
on
Thomas’s
childhood
memories
of
attending
these
vibrant
and
lively
events.
What
makes
these
poems
so
unique
is
Thomas’s
method
of
conveying
the
unsophisticated
wonder
of
a
young
boy
through
the
wise
and
practiced
language
of
a
grown
poet.
Years
of
experience
are
evident
in
these
poems,
but
Thomas’s
skill
blends
the
two
together
as
if
we
were
reading
the
thoughts
of
a
too‐smart‐for‐his‐own‐good
little
boy.
96
Like
Art
Museums,
The
Circus
is
about
more
than
just
the
art,
and
as
Thomas
describes
it,
the
theatricality
of
the
circus
is
definitely
art,
it
is
also
about
the
people;
it
is
about
the
circus
as
an
institution
and
an
idea
instead
of
just
a
big
tent
in
a
field.
“The
Ringmaster,”
arguably
the
strongest
poem
in
the
collection,
summarizes
the
entirety
of
circus
culture
in
four
short
stanzas.
The
man
himself,
a
“commandant
of
freakdom”
and
“consummate
public
relations
director
/
of
death”
pokes
and
prods
both
his
performers
and
the
audience,
taking
charge
of
the
three‐ring
wonder.
However,
as
Thomas
goes
on,
we
find
out
that
the
circus’s
magic
lies
only
on
the
surface;
there
is
a
dark,
gritty,
and
dirty
underbelly
that
only
an
experienced
patron
would
dare
to
discuss.
Both
Art
Museums
and
The
Circus
are
essential
writings
of
Larry
D.
Thomas
and
also
serve
as
a
good
introduction
to
the
poet.
His
linguistic
skill
is
rivaled
by
few
alive
today;
his
techniques
are
reminiscent
of
a
Renaissance
master
combined
with
the
creativity
and
bold,
comfort‐be‐
damned
attitude
of
a
Postmodernist.
Everything
Thomas
touches
turns
to
poetic
gold,
and
readers
would
be
remiss
to
not
give
his
work
their
undivided
attention.
97
Jeanetta
Calhous
Mish.
Oklahomeland.
Lamar
University
Press.
2015.
Reviewed by Jarrod Brown
In
Jeanetta
Calhoun
Mish's
collection
of
essays,
Oklahomeland,
she
captures
the
essence
of
life
on
the
Oklahoma
plains
and
uncovers
the
raw
emotions
associated
with
the
only
place
she
truly
calls
home.
She
begins
Oklahomeland
by
drawing
us
into
a
landscape
that
is
"desolate
and
dangerous,
beautiful
and
pristine."
In
the
essay
titled
"Western
Civilization,"
she
recognizes
that
the
beauty
of
Oklahoma
lies
in
its
diverse
population
of
settlers,
who
endured
hardships
just
as
the
land
endured
natural
calamity.
Perseverance
is
the
common
theme
within
each
essay
as
Mish
takes
us
back
to
her
time
growing
up
in
Oklahoma.
In
her
essays,
"The
Oklahoma
We
Call
Home"
and
"Remembering
Number
Nine,"
she
re‐visits
the
life
lessons
from
her
grandpa
and
the
road
trips
across
the
Great
Plains
with
her
family
on
Highway
Nine.
In
“The
Oklahoma
We
Call
Home,”
Mish
remembers
her
grandpa,
a
self‐sufficient
man
who
endured
harsh
Oklahoma
farm
life
and
passed
on
his
wisdom
of
hard
work
and
respecting
nature.
Keeping
with
the
theme
of
preservation,
Mish
explains
the
importance
of
passing
on
valuable
traditions
to
future
generations.
With
“Remembering
Number
Nine,”
Mish
takes
us
along
for
a
drive
across
Oklahoma:
"I
think
it
was
alliteration
that
made
Number
Nine
my
favorite
highway,
the
way
it
sounded
like
a
chant,
a
charm.
I
was
a
poet
even
as
a
child...losing
myself
in
the
rocking
road
that
sang
its
name."
It
is
not
easy
to
associate
the
open
road
with
home,
but
this
essay
uses
the
power
of
memory
to
give
charming
life
to
Oklahoma’s
often
mundane
stretch
of
highways.
In
“Broken
Branches,”
Mish’s
essays
take
a
darker
turn
into
Oklahoma’s
history.
She
not
only
reveals
her
family’s
mental
demons,
but
also
her
own.
This
essay
is
courageously
written
and
opens
with
a
narrative
of
her
great‐great‐grandfather’s
suicide
and
ends
with
the
re‐telling
of
her
own
suicide
attempt.
Mish
spends
much
of
the
essay
investigating
the
cause
of
her
relative’s
tragic
death,
but
ultimately
reveals
the
asphyxiation
of
small
town
life
that
affects
not
only
Oklahoma,
but
much
of
the
United
States.
“Like
a
Fire
in
Dry
Grass”
opens
with
the
lynching
of
John
Cudjo,
which
takes
place
in
Mish’s
hometown
of
Wewoka,
Oklahoma.
She
then
discusses
her
extensive
research
into
cases
of
lynching
across
the
state.
Each
incident
is
covered
in
grisly
detail,
but
Mish
also
weaves
her
own
memories
of
racism
while
growing
up
in
Wewoka.
While
not
as
graphically
violent,
her
memories
show
just
how
ingrained
racism
is
for
parts
of
Oklahoma
and
the
United
States
in
general.
She
often
refers
back
to
the
Cudjo
case
and
exposes
the
harsh
truth
behind
choosing
to
remain
silent
during
social
and
racial
injustice.
Oklahomeland
is
a
wonderful
declaration
of
Mish’s
love
for
Oklahoma,
but
also
serves
as
an
investigation
into
what
made
the
state
what
it
is
today.
Much
of
what
is
revealed
through
her
essays
is
the
perseverance
of
not
just
the
land,
but
of
its
people.
Whether
overcoming
drought
or
98
tornadoes,
racism
or
suicides,
Mish’s
Oklahomeland
illustrates
how
the
people
of
Oklahoma
have
endured
and
will
continue
to
endure
well
into
the
future.
99
Tracy
Letts.
Superior
Donuts.
Theater
Communications
Group.
Reviewed by Clinton Blackwell Jr.
Tracy
Letts
is
most
renowned
for
August:
Osage
County
(2007)
which
won
a
Pulitzer
Prize
(2008)
for
Drama.
Superior
Donuts
(2008)
takes
a
different
route.
This
play
encompasses
racial
tension,
nostalgic
events
dealing
with
family,
and
room
for
improvement
when
it
comes
to
making
new
families.
Superior
Donuts
tells
the
story
of
the
historic
Uptown
neighborhood
of
Chicago,
Arthur
Przybyszewski
(Arthur
P
for
short)
owns
a
donut
shop
that
has
been
in
his
family
for
sixty
years.
A
young
black
man
by
the
name
of
Franco
Wicks
(Arthur’s
employee)
wants
to
modernize
the
show
completely.
Set
in
the
heart
of
one
of
Chicago’s
most
diverse
communities,
this
comedy
explores
the
hardships
of
embracing
the
past
and
the
redemptive
power
of
friendship.
Arthur
P.
is
a
somewhat
stoic
and
awkward
character
who
doesn’t
truly
know
how
to
live
in
the
world,
at
least
not
until
Franco
shows
up.
Franco
has
this
positive
vibe
throughout
most
of
the
play.
He
acts
as
the
perfect
foil
of
Arthur.
The
two
cops,
Randy
(Irish‐
American)
and
James
(African‐American),
are
there
mainly
for
comic
relief.
They
give
a
different
side
of
the
police
force,
except
for
the
cliché
of
cops
gravitating
towards
donut
shops.
Then
there
are
two
Russian
guys
(Max
and
Kiril)
and
one
Irish/Italian‐American
named
Luther
along
with
an
Irish‐American
named
Kevin.
Lady
Boyle
(Irish‐American)
serves
as
the
oddball
of
the
group.
She
basically
shows
up
on
random
occasions.
Take
this
excerpt
for
example:
Arthur:
That’s
awful.
Lady:
One
of
‘em
got
shot
by
the
coppers
in
a
gasoline
station
stickup.
One
of
‘em
had
a
grabber,
mowin’
the
yard.
And
one
of
‘em
died
in
the
crib
with
that
disease.
Where
the
spinal
cord
get
a
mind
of
its
own
and
decides
it
don’t
want
to
live
Trapped
inside
those
little
bones
no
more.
You
know
what
I’m
talkin’
about?
Arthur:
I
don’t
think
so.
Lady:
Your
spinal
cord
gets
it
in
its
head
to
go
free
and
slitherin’
out
into
the
world.
That’s
what
kill
my
little
Venus.
Her
spinal
cord
got
its
own
notions.
Arthur:
Wow.
Lady:
It
happens.
Happens
to
all
of
us,
just
not
so
extreme.
Arthur:
It
does?
Lady:
The
body
don’t
work
together.
You
know
how
they
say
the
heart
wants
one
thing
but
the
brain
wants
something
else?
Arthur:
Yeah,
sure.
Lady:
The
spine.
It
don’t
speak
up
for
itself
much.
But
when
it
does?
Look
out.
Trumps
the
heart
and
brain
every
time.
This
play
takes
a
different
approach
than
Bug.
Bug,
set
in
Oklahoma,
dealt
with
an
intimate
couple
caught
up
in
government
conspiracies.
Letts
completely
changed
the
location
which
was
100
actually
a
great
choice.
The
comedy
in
Bug
is
displayed
as
a
more
serious
matter
than
what
happens
in
Superior
Donuts.
He
does
a
very
good
job
of
stressing
the
race
issues
within
the
play.
There’s
also
this
aspect
of
dreaming
that
is
highlighted
as
well.
“America….will…be.”
This
statement
is
great
because
it’s
equivocal
and
open
to
interpretation;
it
comes
from
Franco’s
novel.
Letts
paints
Franco
as
an
idealist
and
an
optimist;
it
shows
that
hope
must
stay
alive
in
order
to
reach
dreams.
Letts
is
good
at
telling
the
story,
but
I’m
not
sure
if
I
imagine
this
completely
staged.
I
honestly
see
this
story
being
told
on
the
big
screen;
I
say
that
only
because
there
are
some
shots
of
scenes
that
might
be
angled
better
with
cameras.
Overall,
this
play
has
a
very
nice
touch
to
it
and
I
believe
it
can
be
the
most
relatable
when
it
comes
to
building
relationships
with
people
that
surround
you.
It’s
quite
the
read
because
Letts
brings
the
mellow
vibe
of
the
world
being
a
melting
pot
and
no
matter
what
circumstances
we
go
through,
we
always
have
to
remember
that
despite
our
different
shades
or
hues,
it’s
always
better
when
we
unite.
101
Contributors
Clinton
Blackwell
Jr.
is
a
senior
at
Cameron
University
who
will
be
graduating
with
a
degree
in
Theatre
Arts
(emphasis
in
performance).
Upon
finishing
graduation,
he
plans
to
develop
a
career
in
acting
by
joining
Magna
Talent
Agency
and
Oklahoma
Shakespeare
in
the
Park.
Stephen
Briggs
grew
up
in
Blackwell,
Oklahoma
and
currently
lives
in
Shawnee,
Oklahoma
during
the
school
year.
He
is
a
junior
majoring
in
Computer
Science
with
an
interdisciplinary
study
in
Creative
Writing.
During
this
last
year
he
has
had
the
opportunity
to
present
his
short
story,
“Ancient
Words,”
at
the
Sigma
Tau
Delta
National
Convention
in
Minneapolis.
Casey
Brown
(@shopgirlkc)
is
a
writer,
editor,
and
voracious
reader
who
holds
a
Bachelor's
degree
in
English
from
Cameron
University.
Her
fiction,
nonfiction,
and
reviews
have
appeared
or
are
forthcoming
in
the
Gold
Mine,
Cameron
Collegian,
Cuento
Magazine,
Dear
English
Major,
and
Pep
&
Prose.
She
recently
appeared
on
The
Artist
Inspired
podcast
and
presented
at
Howlers
and
Yawpers
Creativity
Symposium
in
Seminole,
Oklahoma.
Currently,
Casey
is
writing
a
novel
set
in
southwest
Oklahoma,
Red
Dirt,
and
is
developing
an
essay
on
the
literary
history
of
Lawton,
Oklahoma
for
This
Land.
Jarrod
Brown
is
currently
pursuing
a
Bachelor's
degree
in
English
at
Cameron
University.
He
hopes
to
graduate
in
the
Spring
of
2017
with
a
concentration
in
creative
writing.
Nick
Brush
is
originally
from
Arkansas,
but
he
grew
up
in
Oklahoma
at
the
age
of
thirty.
His
poetry
has
been
published
in
Dragon
Poet
Review,
Cuento
Magazine,
and
The
Gold
Mine,
with
work
forthcoming
in
November
Bees.
His
books
reviews
have
been
featured
in
The
Oklahoma
Review
and
Cybersoleil.
Matt
Sven
Calvert
is
the
two‐time
winner
of
East
Central
University’s
Paul
Hughes
Memorial
Writing
Award,
claiming
the
prize
in
2015
and
2016.
Matt
graduated
from
East
Central
University
in
December
2015
with
honors.
He
is
currently
revising
a
collection
of
poems
and
a
memoir
for
publication.
Seth
Copeland’s
work
has
most
recently
appeared
in
Otoliths,
Red
River
Review,
and
Crab
Fat.
Gwendolyn
Jensen
and
Chiara
Frenquellucci
are
partners
in
translating
Alda
Merini's
poems.
Gwendolyn
Jensen
started
writing
poems
when
she
retired
from
the
presidency
of
Wilson
College.
She
has
published
two
books
of
poems,
and
has
been
published
in
numerous
literary
journals.
Chiara
Frenquellucci
was
born
in
Rome
and
has
been
teaching
language
and
literature
102
for
over
twenty
years.
She
has
published
articles
on
Italian
theater,
fiction,
opera,
and
poetry;
a
critical
edition
of
seventeenth‐century
librettos;
as
well
as
textbooks
and
multimedia
e‐books.
George
McCormick
is
editor
at
large,
and
regularly
writes
reviews
for
the
Oklahoma
Review.
A.W.
Marshall
has
lived
in
Oklahoma
for
the
last
ten
years,
but
grew
up
on
the
beaches
of
Southern
California.
His
collection
of
short
stories,
Simple
Pleasures,
was
published
in
2015
by
ELJ
press.
His
work
is
published
or
forthcoming
in
The
Fiddlehead,
Appalachian
Heritage,
Red
Wheelbarrow,
Queen
Mob’s
Teahouse,
theNewerYork,
Fiction
Attic,
Austin
Review,
and
The
Vestal
Review.
His
story,
“The
Lover,”
published
in
the
Vestal
Review
was
nominated
for
a
Pushcart
Prize
in
2014.
For
the
last
five
years,
he
has
been
writing
a
novel,
Hendo,
about
a
half
man,
half
rabbit
hybrid
who
survives
in
1850’s
California
by
assimilating
with
Chinese
Immigrants.
Larry
D.
Thomas,
a
member
of
the
Texas
Institute
of
Letters
and
the
2008
Texas
Poet
Laureate,
has
published
several
collections
of
poetry.
His
As
If
Light
Actually
Matters:
New
&
Selected
Poems,
was
issued
by
Texas
Review
Press
in
June,
2015.
Jeff
F.
Wheeler
lives
and
works
in
beautiful
downtown
Lubbock,
Texas.
He
is
known
for
his
surreal
and
often
humorous
take
on
life
on
the
South
Plains
which
manifests
itself
in
hundreds
of
drawing,
paintings,
collages,
and
ceramics.
His
work
has
been
featured
in
exhibitions
all
around
the
world
including
Peru,
India,
Germany,
and
Greece
among
others.
He
is
co‐founder
(with
his
brother
Bryan)
and
producer
of
the
infamous
celebratory
Texas
Art
extravaganza
known
as
Ulterior
Motifs,
which
has
featured
the
work
of
some
of
Texas’
most
accomplished
contemporary
artists.
His
work
was
featured
in
the
2010
book,
TEXAS
ARTISTS
TODAY,
by
Catherine
Anspon.
103
104
105
106