Image provided by: Clackamas Community College; Oregon City, OR
About The Clackamas print. (Oregon City, Oregon) 1989-2019 | View Entire Issue (Jan. 18, 1995)
........... > ■,......... '....... Grandmother Paused near the gate She squints upward at the gathering clouds Feeling that tired ache Of changing weather Measuring the dullness in the skies Her monochrome countenance Reflects the severity of decades passed Since this memory Of one Who splashed in the puddies Dancing through the rain 'TTkere is rso VMir\4ow> Pkers is rvo fTiirror Some peopje sa»y Ike mirror reflects - my feelings, my Ikougkls, my keart» my soul. T'ke mirror reflects only wkat kskow,;-ih>, It skows only ¿Jen kat 1 kave , tke outsiJe. It ill r^ever ke akle to fleet my inner self. Some people say my eyes are tke windows to «Vy soul. "T'key are wrong. fPy eyes skow to me wkat is outsiJe otkers. ’T'key 4o no I" skow wkat is ir>si4® me. "T'ke only Iking tkeyseein The Mad Matters my eyes is tkeir owa reflection. Jarred from lustful thought, the beeper rings round and round the daisy patch. Motor gears of birth; hackle, clack inside. Joey is thin-framed, from eyes to toes, flowing along the sheepskin shores of the couch, he is thick with the accent from the city, , thick with smog and dirt, many motorists have evaded his dirty rotten path, Jewish Protestants sing oh the phone, the dial tone clearing them out. Come Christians, come home, none of this matters, only the mad matters. Throwing boxes and Shelves into the blazing, black fire, destroying the pfione, punching, biting—holmSfeyou down, holding your tongu^F spitting on your nose. v|k Wait right there, while I kiss you goodbye for the last time. No fancy rhymes, or rhythms to keep you dancing. No tomorrow plans. The cigarette grenades, the misted morning arena, fresh aii in hock for post-apocalyptic pneumonia. Cauglt and bought, then sold. Cold, damn river of q|ment, rock bottom of toxic lefuge. Fuck the city and its rug hcB. Bring me down, and stop that torrid spinning. Jg Stop that grinding noise. I’ve written every word I know, and nothing is complete. I can hear the hinges in yo^rle^, and die cracking oi^our smile, roll over and die, so I don’t have to marry you. Please sister/n^mecolr patron . - - '’ please suck solace in another bed another job another task, where the carpet is clean and the bed isnTblood splotched. Retire from this madness. Only the mad matters, don’t you see? You can come knocking any time, but who’ll decide who’s home? Spoonfuls of dreadful flour-based cooking crumple my taste, smashing the table over your head, sleeping over you, to rush to the bathroom, climbing, climaxing to catch AIDS, hastily exiting through the window, many floors up and many floors down. Christopher Haberman I know wkat otkers kave yet to discover - tkere is no mirror — my soul, tkere is only my soul right wing march walk with your eyes closed even crossing the street ilk with your eyes closed and you’ll never be beat talk with your mouth closed if the talk’s too person^ talk with your mouth closed don’t risk telling all walk with your eyes closed and with a clenched tist alk with your eyes closed so they won’t get pissed think with your mind closed 11 never make waves Matt Russel
