Spring 2006

Spring 2006

Cover Art: Amplify/Rebecca Levine
The Siren STAFF
Editorial Board

Table of Contents
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POETRY
Orangutans/Greg Capriotti
Restraint/Andrew Erkkila
The Art of Lip Reading/Jess Gill
Angel, I’m Tired/Andrew Croft
Porcelain Eyes/Jennica Kwak
Cynic Sutra/Matthew Morone
Your Deep Voice is Attractive To Me/Sarah Maloney
continuation/Kristin Braun
Free/Estephany Reyes
Clocked/Rachel Kreller
Stolen/Renee Romano
Disembodied Voices or
Tell a phone not tell a vision/Martin Perrotta
Forbidden Fruit/Susan Pedersen
Two Continents/Amanda Harris
title(required):
lastnightonthewayfromtheplaytothecastparty/Scott Steele
II/Greg Capriotti
Roses and Thorns/Logan Liskovec
Janeite/Emily Griesbach
“...for of such Is the kingdom of heaven.”/Andrew Croft
Phases of Betelgeuse/Andrew Erkkila
Absence/Rachel Kreller
The Otros/Kaitlin Severini
Wishing Like a Child Who Just Learned the Word/Sarah Maloney
Reluctantly Imperfect/Jess Gill
Helen to Paris/Emily Griesbach
The Siren/4
49 To Duncan/Amanda Harris
55 The New World/Kaylie Nelson
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20
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51
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11
13
16
18
23
25
29
31
37
39
41
45
47
48
50
54
PROSE
Scenes from the Malibu Dream House, Take 1/Nicole Grieco
An Exile/Linus Urgo
Scenes from a Malibu Beach House, Take 2/Nicole Grieco
What Follows is a Self-Referential Story/Michelle McGuinness
ART
Amplify, photograph & photoshop/Rebecca Levine
Brautigan, pencil & white chalk/Austin Harrison
Untitled, photograph/Alyssa Metzger
Abstract Begonias, photograph/Alex Seise
Aspirations, pencil/Jenna Garrison
Mellow, charcoal/Jennifer Braverman
Sartre, charcoal & white chalk/Austin Harrison
Morning World, photograph/Logan Liskovec
Losing Innocence, charcoal/Rebecca Levine
On A Sunny Day, photograph/Sarah Paluzzi
Honeysuckle Breeze, photograph/Alex Seise
Corner, photograph/Sarah Paluzzi
MAN, photoshop brush drawing/Rebecca Levine
Solitary Clover, photograph/Alex Seise
Love In The Mirror, photograph/Logan Liskovec
Lay, charcoal/Jennifer Braverman
Portrait of an Artist, photograph/Sarah Paluzzi
Girl Sitting, photograph/Nick Vasta
5/Spring 2006

ORANGUTANS
Were I an orangutan
At home amongst the trees,
I would eat most anything
Two gnarled hands could seize.
Bits, brats, birds, bats,
Before the break of noon,
Rancors, handker-
Chiefs and serving spoons.
Were I an orangutan
At home amongst the trees.
Were I an orangutan
At home amongst a man.
I'd look and see, patiently,
How much he could stand.
Passing cars, lively bars,
Shoes and socks and shirt.
Processed meat, shoe covered feet,
Reruns of Ernie and Bert.
Were I an orangutan
At home amongst a man.
I'll take the orangutan!
Thank you very much!
Though humans are much cleverer,
The apes know how to lunch.

Scenes from the Malibu Dream House, Take 1
Barbie was still on the eight-hour shift the day she found out Ken was cheating
on her. He said, "Nothing personal," he just found a woman with bendable
knees. Barbie spent three days sobbing into a quart of plastic cookie-dough
ice cream, about the size of a sewing thimble, and then she cut her hair.
Barbie didn't understand why she was never good enough. She was amazingly
confident, beautiful, and dedicated to good works, and even had a friend in a
wheelchair. Nightly she changed into her light-blue cotton matching pajama
set, crawled onto her balcony, and shouted to the heavens, How much could
one person do, anyway?
The answer to Barbie's crisis call came in the form of Midge, a thin, nondescript
redhead who stereotypically played tennis on Fridays. "It's the damned
media," Midge liked to say, while she was lounging shirtless on the Dream
Bed playing with her pink princess remote control. "You wonder why 24% of
girly dolls can't reach orgasm with their partners."
Barbie said nothing and silently felt the margarita buzz work its way into
her thighs.
"One percent–one percent–are schizophrenic. Twenty-something...a low
twenty-something, twenty-two"–Midge coughed–"Twenty-two, it's like, twentytwo
percent know someone who has autism. That's a big number. But there
are more women in this country who just can't get off. Is there any justice
in that?"
Barbie began to say something about her vacation to the Bahamas, how she'd
had her hair braided by a hotel clerk with a thick accent, but halfway through
the story, she knew her voice had become hollow and uninteresting.
"I just don't see the point to it sometimes," said Midge, who wasn't terribly
concerned about the Bahamas at the moment. "Why on earth anyone would
want to be a straight woman." Barbie averted her eyes and nodded and knew
there was nothing to be done about that, but if only...
Soon after, Barbie and Midge moved into a beach house and made flyers with
crude anti-George W. Bush sayings on them. Sneakers with rumpled plaid skirts
will become Barbie's brand new fashion image, and helped her considerably.
The Siren/10
But for years when Barbie was kissing Midge, she couldn't shake feelings of
biological betrayal, or memories of those pretty white wedding dresses she'd
worn. When Barbie was rubbing against Midge's body, she was continually
thinking of big-eyed babies in plastic cribs, cooking and cleaning and
babysitting for little Skipper and Stacy. Barbie used to dream of having one of
her own, or adopting. Actually, she imagined this cute, multi-cultural Benetton
Ad kind of adoption, where all the children would come from different
countries, and for some reason grow up with exotic accents. Barbie wanted
little foreign children to lead the way for her enlightenment. All of this made
perfect sense inside her brain.
And it didn't involve Midge much at all–which was strange because Midge
was the one currently biting her neck and struggling to do something with the
non-anatomical bulge inside her teal hot pants–and it didn't involve anything
about capitalism, or white guilt, or hetero-normative upbringing, and didn't
involve percentages or her shiny-clean travels to third-world countries or her
boredom and it sure as hell didn't involve that cheating bastard Ken. It was
far simpler than all that. Barbie knew only two things that night–first: that she
didn't quite prefer men or women, and second: that in the big wide scheme of
the world, she felt like she was nothing if not kissing one.
11/Spring 2006

The ART of LIP Reading
I need your language.
I need the slow undulating way your vowels
s l i n k
from your mouth.
I need the missing letters of your words
to r e a n
a r r g e themselves into order.
I need your mouth to dictate the context so
a dime is not your time.
Tell me your fury, your surprise, your pleasure.
Make your lips curve
in a glossed smile when
you remember.
Make your teeth bare
to show me your
displeasure.
Make your tongue lick
the air when you don't
know how to respond
(What's that again? I can't hear you)
I promise, I'll devour it all with my eyes.
Got disgust? ugh, your throat is in your tongue.
Got desire? oh, with your carefully parted mouth.
Got fear? ooh, your lips just barely shudder.
There's really so much more to be seen
than heard.

Angel, I’m Tired
Has Dawn opened up her eyes this
morning?
Today,
did she see it, this day?
This day she has alone.
Through red-webbed eyes,
the angel,
who drew the merlot curtain
of hair across her forehead.
She laid still as he wiped the cobwebs
from the corners of her face.
Feeling a breeze, she shot up
and put on the bath, dismissing the
cherubim
lying in her bed. Dawn slipped
into the steaming tub to wash
the smell of salt and bile from her skin
and clean the dirt from beneath her nails.
Dawn sits naked in the turbid water,
the alcohol still coursing through her
veins
from the night before her last.
She washes her elbows,
the bruises and cuts
from fighting with her boyfriend
Gabriel.
She loathes returning to his place,
but she must gather the rest of her things
tonight.
The seraphim leans on the edge of the
tub,
whispering in her ear to stay.
Dawn sprints out of the grey bathwater
sloshing about,
hastily wraps a towel around herself,
and starts scurrying around her
apartment,
The Siren/14
15/Spring 2006
turning over magazines and
prescriptions,
looking for a drink to relieve the pinning
headache.
Dawn runs into the arms of the angel
who holds her close
and begs her not to see Gabriel tonight.
She burrows her head into his embrace
and sobs into his plush wings.
The cherub calms her and offers a glass
of wine.
She drinks a little
and rants about painting her room blue,
so when the walls melt
she can swim around
and tussle in the wine-dark sea,
until she sinks below
and the deep current sweeps her pain
away.
The angel listens patiently
as she drinks from the cup again,
and she says: “Angel, I'm tired,”
and asks “What did Jesus Christ
dream of, His flesh strewn
across a tree, the world laughing
in his face…
And what did he think
when he woke up
three days later
and heard the world sigh?”

Porcelain Eyes
Your deep, dark eyes
pull me deeper and deeper as
I stare down into the blackness
of the never-ending well.
Your shiny, glassy eyes
reflect the beauties of the world,
showing the utopia you have always wanted,
yet it shatters away into nothing.
Your father caressing your mother's hands,
lying side by side, rocking together as one,
on the satin hammock of your backyard.
Gently swinging, they would drift away
together, unconscious of anything around them.
Your eyes remain calm, retreating back
into empty space.
But there I see your crystal tears
trapped beneath your porcelain eyes.

AN EXILE
I had been living with the mountain goats for many months when I first saw
one of them leap–or, I should say, seemed to see one of them leap. The vision
is distinct in my mind, but I have never been certain that I really saw it.
Understand, I was asleep at the moment the goat sprang from the first rock,
and one of two things woke me: the breeze the goat made as he flew over my
head, or the clatter of his landing on the second rock. If it was the breeze, then
I might have opened my eyes as his hooves and stomach were passing above
me; but if it was the latter–the clatter–then I must have woken and turned my
head towards the noise, seen him gaining his balance on the nearby rock,
instantly reasoned that he had jumped over me, and, in the dreamy first
moments of wakefulness–it was early morning, and less than half-light–
imagined that I had witnessed his flight. I'd been hoping to see the full arc of
one of their leaps for a long time, which is what makes me especially suspicious
of the vision. I knew that they made incredible leaps from rock to rock. One
moment a goat was on one rock, and in the next he was on another, far above,
below, or to the right or left of him. Sometimes I would witness a landing, and
sometimes–but it was always just as I was turning away–I would even glimpse
one crouching to pounce. There were even moments that were like jump-cuts
in French New Wave films: I would be staring at a group of them, and then
suddenly they would all be on different rocks. But I never saw one in the air.
And they were leaping all the time. It was the most disconcerting thing about
living with them. You felt that lots of things were going on that you had no
idea about.
I don't understand how they jumped so precisely. They had thin, short legs
and heavy bodies. To give you an idea of their size and weight, if you killed
one of them out of hunger–the thought never once crossed my mind, but at
the moment I am considering things from your point of view–I think you could
live off its torso for two weeks. I'll add, for accuracy's sake, that I think I could
have picked one of them up if I'd ever really tried. But be clear that they didn't
have light, stream-lined bodies you could easily imagine flying through the
air, and their legs didn't look strong enough to get their bodies more than a
few inches off the ground.
But what really made their leaps seem so impossible were their hooves.
Now, I am not a biologist or physicist; but if I picture any hoofed animal
attempting to jump off a rock, I see it slipping at the outset. And, supposing it
could pounce at all, I imagine a catastrophic, probably fatal, landing–either its
legs breaking, or its hooves, unable to get a grip, certainly slipping now, and
its torso slamming against the rock.
Yet, as far as I could tell, these mountain goats jumped all the time.
(I should add here that I still don't know if they were what zoologists
would call “mountain goats.” They might have been sheep. No one's told me
definitively. They were hoofed quadrupeds larger than dogs but smaller than
horses, with short tails. They were covered, except on their faces, with long,
reddish-brown hair, and they lived in a generally rocky, mountainous region.
The Siren/20
The young males grew bony stubs on their heads; the middle-aged had horns
shaped like sickles; the horns of the elderly sometimes curled into cursive o's.
The females all had smooth heads. They ate grass, leaves, berries, and the
fruits that fell from the trees. They were tolerant of all the other well-behaved
animals of the region.)
Of course, learning about the fact of an incredible event and witnessing it
yourself impact your sense of reality very differently. Millions of people
believe that Moses parted the Red Sea from reading the Bible; but you would
have a rare conception of this world, completely unlike those of the other
millions, if you once saw a sea part yourself. I have been in both camps, so to
speak. You cannot imagine my ecstasy–yes, ecstasy–at waking to see the goat
fly over me. I knew that they leapt from rock to rock; I believed it; all empirical
evidence pointed it out to me. But it is a revelation to see chin, hooves, furry
underbelly, genitals, hooves, and tail soar over you.
I watched the goat step down from the rock on which he'd landed and,
after a few clops, find a place to lie. In a moment he was any other sleeping
middle-aged goat–I never did get to the point where I could tell them
apart–and after a while my eyes could no longer discern him in the darkness.
I pressed the light on my watch; it was 8:08 in the evening, New York time.
The sun was still far from rising here. Then I looked up into the starry sky.
To all appearances, it was the same sky I saw every night when I went to
sleep. And yet it wasn't the same sky to me now.
Well, it is the same sky, I remember thinking. It is, of course. Only I see it
differently. Not that it is different or looks different to me. But I see it in a new
context now; it means something else–though only to me. I remembered a
phrase from a book I'd read in college about the Roman Empire–“Let exceptions
suggest a more complicated reality.” Still, the jump isn't an exception, my
mind continued. They jump all the time, and I've known that. Nothing has
changed–not the world, not me, not anything.
But all those thoughts were like the panicky arabesques of trapeze artists
trying to deal with the fact that the net has suddenly been snatched away.
No matter how much I reasoned, I could not deny that my existence was now
of an entirely different quality. Simultaneously, I felt as if a boulder pressed on
me so that I couldn't breathe and that any other breeze could blow me off the
boulder on which I actually lay, as if the physical rules of my world had
changed, too. I sat up and took my notebook and pen out of my suitcase.
My hand shaking, I wrote:
17 October (?): At 8:08 pm NY time–early morning here–I saw a goat jump clean
over me. I don't think it really means anything, but it seems like a symbolic
coincidence that I was born at 8:08 in the morning NY time.
I didn't know what else to write. And I wasn't sure what I meant by
“symbolic coincidence.” Didn't the notion that this event could be symbolic suggest
that it really did “mean something,” though I'd just asserted that I didn't
21/Spring 2006

“really think” it did? That second sentence is just filling up empty space, I
decided. And the underlining suddenly seemed excessive rather than
poignant. But after a few minutes I just put the pen and notebook away.
It was the moment I snapped the suitcase shut that I first suspected I might
not really have seen the jump. The memory suddenly seemed tenuous. I told
myself that that was because it had happened so quickly, but when I tried to
envision the goat's underside again I found I could distinguish no details.
When I began to see details, I worried I was making them up right then.
I looked to my right and there was another rock several feet away from which
a goat could have pounced. But could a goat have pounced from that rock
over my boulder and onto another? I looked at the rock from which I'd seen
the goat step down. It was quite a distance - if in fact I was looking at the
same rock. I then for the first time wondered if I'd been woken by the breeze
or the clatter.
I took out the pen and notebook again, and, several lines beneath the entry,
wrote, in the center of the page, my first poem:
The breeze
or
the clatter?
If the latter,
what does it matter?
Well, something must have happened if it produced a poem, I thought. But
I was actually nauseous with uncertainty. I put the pen and notebook away
again, slipped into my suit jacket–it got cold so late at night, or so early in the
morning, or whatever it was–and lay down.
I began to worry that if I clung to my belief that I'd seen the goat leap over
me, or even if I continued to think about this incident, I would spiral into a
complete, helpless, obsessive, and weird solipsism.
So there wasn't anything sexual about it, as has been alleged–as everyone
seems to think–as I think you think. (You do think that, don't you? I know you
do.) You'll find–well, not you, but whichever professional they get to talk to
me–he'll find that it was purely philosophical interest that kept me there; the
worst he'll say is that it was a philosophical compulsion. I make no apologies
for that.
If you would loosen these, the stewardess is coming round again and I'd
like to order a gin and tonic. One thing I missed was a good gin and tonic; it
would calm me; it would put me in a reflective mood, and I'd even be a bit
more clear-headed after one. Just one.

continuation
between levels of comfort
like the sheets of a bed
lies a time in my life
that I call the now
it's this present
that stays ever-constant
the never-changing now
and what am I to do
with it I wonder
what you would expect
if you knew that I'm
no more confident about
this us-ness that isn't
spoken the way we
collide like the moon
and sun in eclipse
under the covers
of friendship and understanding
will we ever meet
between the sheets
of the comfort and
the adventure I want
my life to contain

FREE CLOCKED

STOLEN
There he was,
staring at me.
It reminded me of my mother's porcelain
dolls
following my movements with beady,
unblinking eyes.
I wanted to throw something at him,
something sharp.
All I had was my sandwich and a
notebook.
So I hung my head
And continued to my car,
But I could still feel his eyes
penetrating my confidence.
“I am better than this!”
I yelled.
Or maybe I only thought it.
Either way, he knew
what was in my mind,
He knew inside me all too well,
And I knew the vicious thoughts that
prowled behind his eyes.
He chuckled
to remind me of his power,
power so unjustly demanded.
I ran,
I wanted to, anyway.
The minutes were confused
The clanking of a passing car
catapulted me back on that couch
My chest became heavy
And I could feel his breath
scratching at my neck like sandpaper.
I scrambled for a place to hide
and conceal everything,
every thought.
It's what I would have done to those
damn dolls
if I had the chance,
The Siren/28
29/Spring 2006
bury them somewhere dark and
uncharted.
I cried
harder than the moment after birth,
pushed and pulled into veracity.
He reached in, and left me
a vacant vault.
And there he was,
staring at me.

Disembodied Voices or
Tell a phone not tell a vison
voices
that's all there are
voices.
i hold a plastic chunk in my hand
holding it to my head
i have become accustomed to treating these
as genuine experiential exchange
and therefore meaningful.
are not these actually truncated meanings?
just voices
to deal with
far off somewhere,
locations cannot be ascertained;
emotional coordinates can only be guessed at.
meanings only discernible by one of the senses alone:
sound
disembodied
entirely.

Forbidden Fruit
Into the cafeteria, a veritable Eden of food,
Adam will go straight for the mystery meat,
drenched in grease, with a side order of fries.
He isn't watching his figure like Eve is.
Eve sees her downfall: those oranges,
glistening in all their health-food glory
will look good in her refrigerator,
but even better in her growling stomach.
No one is looking as she slides each orange into
the safety of her conveniently large purse,
but on her way out, the pilfered goods betray her.
The dreaded Weekend Food Supervisor's
omnipotent gaze zeroes in on Eve's bag,
bursting at the seams with forbidden fruit.
It doesn't take long to torture a confession
out of the orange thief, whose knowledge of
good and evil should've taught her better,
because everyone knows that in Eden,
there's really no difference between
apples and oranges.

title(required):
lastnightonthewayfromtheplaytothecastparty
we stepped through patches of new mud to a scene of calling
from one person to another and of grief and helplessness.
ashley desmett faded in crying and babbling franticly and
faded back out. callers joined in a circle to pray. more people
arrived. someone I barely knew grabbed my hand and
squeezed and I squeezed back. and god was in control and
god had always been in control and we had been ridiculous
to ever question it. and people did stupid things because
when the rain and tears wash away everything else, people
are stupid and do only stupid things and never anything else.
and people did horribly wonderful things because when
the rain and tears wash away everything else, people are
wonderful and do only wonderful things and never anything
else. and mr. myers told us to stop being emotional and go
back to our cars which was the hardest thing we had ever
done because even though it was confused and psychotic and
terribly sad, it was life, and it was all we'd got, and we didn't
want to stop living it like the lady in the mangled jeep had.

JANEITE
I have sucked on your words like lemon-drops,
Rolling the sweet-sour sentences over my tongue
Until the taste filled me.
Your prose turns my lips into
a wry pucker-smile
(unconsciously)
As I catch myself laughing at the world with you,
My vision coated in jewel-bright yellow.
And the word-play melts,
And the sweet explodes in my mouth,
Revealing gradually the subversive sour underneath,
And the universe dissolves into sweet-sour liquid.
Long after it has been devoured
The dry taste lingers on my tongue
That hours later I find my prospect still tinged yellow
And my lips move.

Scenes from a Malibu Beach House, Take 2
Barbie remembers the day she was born, but has never spoken a word of it. I
can relate, because I was a vacation baby. Her conception was American, but
most of the putting-together happened overseas. I think it was Korea where
she was “manufactured,” so to speak, which makes sense because she has only
one Asian friend to this day, and she has a hard time remembering her name.
For all her picture-perfect looks and life, the fact is that Barbie was a victim
of human-trafficking, if you want to know the truth. Doll-trafficking, at any
rate–which everyone knows is an equally serious offense, or should be. I met
her when I was seven years old and already a nationally renowned therapist.
It wasn't long before I'd diagnosed her. She suffered from dementia,
from split personalities. It was a sort of fugue state. Understandable, given
the circumstances of her trauma. When I met Barbie, she was bound into a
box with sharp wire, that twisty-tie crap you have to work at and work at for
three minutes, and then you finally get her out, and she's still smiling. If I
were her, I'd crack. It's no wonder she didn't speak until 1992.
But that's why we love Barbie, isn't it? She perseveres. She's lived through
the beehive, the pageboy, the bob, the mod, the hippie chic, the me me me
power shoulder pads. She's danced on heels, done your taxes on rollerblades,
and let's face it–her husband's real sharp in a sweater vest, but he's pretty
much impotent.
Barbie's a professional now. She wants to go to work. Barbie wants to be an
astronaut and a Congress intern and a rock star and a homemaker. It's
Skipper that's the problem. Skipper is dying her hair blue, little wannabe
Valley girl streaks, but it's a bad start. Next thing you know she'll have a belly
tattoo, they'll call it “temporary” but it won't wash off. Another five years and
Skipper will be the first fashion doll to grow a nipple, just so she can pierce it.
Barbie's scared of Skipper, she confesses this to me almost every week. How
else can she feel? She's working and striving and power-walking five miles a
day, every day, to be a role model to her kid sister. But Skipper's never going
to get married, is she? She doesn't even have her own Ken, or some equally
whitebread accessory of undetermined sexual orientation. Skipper spends
every weekend at the beach until her hair is exactly seventeen shades lighter
than her skin. Barbie was going to the moon at her age, for god's sake;
Skipper has a McDonald's uniform.
The Siren/38
I've never brought them into family therapy together. I suppose Skipper
would have all kinds of explanations. She's acting out. She's just trying to
break out of her sister's shadow. And that would be no excuse, I'd want to yell,
remembering almost too late I'm supposed to be objective. I'd wait for Barbie
to scream at her. This consumer rebel, this “postfeminist” cell phone junkie
has no idea the hell that Barbie's been through. Twisty-ties are discontinued.
They use plastic now.
It'll be a beautiful breakdown when it happens, a plastic pink bridge over the
generation gap. When all this comes out, when the younger girl understands.
Barbie will cry, which is always the saddest thing to watch, but it's what she
needs. It's healthy. I've made Barbie cry so many times, little eyedropper
of water streaming artificial emotions down her cheeks, while she smiles
and smiles.
39/Spring 2006

“...for of such Is the kingdom of heaven.”
Shelly asked this question in Sunday school:
“What did Jesus look like?”
She's looking for someone to take her away
to England or maybe France,
so she can bring back something
for show and tell.
Shelly put her report card of straight B's
on her refrigerator door at home.
She used a black magnet in the shape
of a nightingale.
Shelly started to learn how to play the flute this week.
Her teacher told her that with lots of practice,
she could play “Baa Baa Black Sheep” in the winter concert.
Shelly brought a black and blue
lunch pail to school, with cartoon characters on it.
Most kids wanted to be veterinarians or fireman when they grow up.
She wanted to draw cartoons for television.
On Friday, she doodled
two ducks on her test about state capitals.
One's eyes are huge cannonballs.
The other is singing,
or maybe screaming.
There's a lot of quacking going on, for sure.
Right now it is Saturday night and Shelly is curled up
in her closet crying;
she's playing hide and seek, waiting
for Jesus to come find her.

Phases of Betelgeuse
Nothing grows but one tree
In the valley of ashes
Invading over my sandaled toes,
One tree, and one peach hanging
From its bough,
Split the flesh to find maggots,
Celebrating.
Madrid, do you like my red coat?
I'm borrowing it from Lorca,
It reminds me of younger days I carried
An infant in my arms I couldn't seem
To get rid of,
I let him frolic among the supermarket
Watermelon display–
Kinder than babysitting.
Which brings me here, old man
Along the beach where the shells
Are empty,
The oceans plays in some, the rest
Retired-contemplating utero.
When the seasons change
I'll be the black man
On the park bench,
Blowing pain through a harmonica.
Tap my shoulder, dust,
There's a song for you in the October sky.

The Otros
Today as usual I park and buy my ticket
electronically because again there is
no teller to greet me at the window,
and just for fun I pick Spanish
to impress the Latinos around me
who wait for the train to take them
two towns over. I wish then that I didn't
have a car as the same little boy waits,
impatient, dangling off his mother. He
pushes at my legs with his bony,
sticky hands; I wink at him.
Then we all turn to the sound of a man's
voice, a young white man, his gut
spilling over his belt, its holes worn and
stretched. He is the type of man that
sweats profusely, even in the winter, but still
thinks proudly of himself when he smells
putrid, yellow stains at his armpits.
Every morning he comes. Work, he says,
I need someone to work a few short
hours doing light moving of furniture.
I will give you cash, dinero. You know
you can't beat that. He is not talking to me,
I know that, and before the train comes,
some aliens move across the tracks, toward
the fat man beckoning with money. They
are exploited here. The 8 o'clock is
on time and our breath swirls about
in circles as we board. The little boy
gives me a shy wave as we start to board
different parts of the train, the
same snow beginning to fall on our heads.
At the last minute, he and his mother cross to
meet the fat man. The boy looks at me,
despondent, and I know we will see each
other again tomorrow.

Reluctantly Imperfect
I don't want to be the gray slush at the curb.
When the snow falls, I want to be a beautiful
snowflake that is clean and pure in the air.
He does not understand this. He laughs at me
when I make silly snow mermaids and angels.
He tells me I know how to enjoy the simple things.
I roll my eyes when he says this. “Don't fall in
love with me,” I warn him. He promises he won't.
His eyes betray him, shiny like paint on a new car.
He asks me one day why I don't want him to fall
in love with me. “Because you'll get bored with
me,” I say. “This way, it keeps things interesting.”
I can see he already has fallen. He treats me like
the first flower that blooms in spring. His kisses are
full of promises that he is not allowed to make.
He brings me a different flower every Saturday night.
“For the many ways you capture my interest.” I laugh
at him at first, but then become disappointed in ritual.
I stop putting the flowers in a crystal vase. Instead, they
make a complex collage of color with yesterday's papers
and leftovers. He soon stops bringing me flowers.
He can't hold it in any longer. “I love you,” he says. My
voice scratches at empty air. He gives up, the loser of our
own Russian roulette. There are no more shiny paint eyes.
I wake up to a blinding white scene a few weeks later. I sit
at the window, thinking snow angels are no fun to make
without him to laugh at me. I call him to tell him.
He laughs, but then becomes quiet. “Being a perfect
snowflake means no one can ever touch you,” he finally
informs me. “Then I want to be the gray slush,” I say.

Helen to Paris
Our love, until the stars turn cold, shall last.
My heart is yours until the end of time.
You are my rock to which my soul's tied fast.
I'd die for you and think my end sublime.
I shrink to think of what I left behind:
That ugly oaf that stumbled to my bed.
His visage could have made a Gorgon blind.
He reeked of wine and bore a balding head.
But now I have your love, bold rescuer,
My young and handsome blond-boy, like a god.
Our love has overcome our pursuers.
Our perfumed bed will never hear “Aubade”–
What noise? The Greeks are here? And armor-clad...
Perhaps Menelaus was not so bad.

sentence tells you that non-Biblical Noah's cheeks are flushed red because he
has just gotten out of the shower. There is water dripping off of non-Biblical
Noah's hair, which, as this sentence offers, may be any color you want it to be.
This is the first sentence of a paragraph. This is also the first sentence of a
paragraph. This sentence asserts that the one preceding it is a lie. This
sentence asserts that the one preceding it is a lie. This sentence cautions
you against believing too readily anything the author of this self-referential
story writes.
This is also the first sentence of a paragraph.
In this paragraph about non-Biblical Noah, the first sentence will be used
to assure my good reader that the author will make every effort to explain to
you why you should care about non-Biblical Noah who is lying on the floor.
(This sentence is a diversion and will be used in wondering if the author has
used the correct form of the verb “to lay,” which should perhaps be “to lie.”
Furthermore, the author will use this sentence to say that English is a silly
language and that spending time pondering “lay” and “lie” is surely a waste of
one's own life.)
The purpose of this sentence is to remind you that the author is female.
This sentence reassures you once again that non-Biblical is not dead,like
certain other Noahs. In answer to the looming question, this sentence offers
that Noah is lying on the floor near the crack in the bathroom door and that
his ear is pressed against this crack and that there are voices that he can
hear quite clearly through that crack in that door from his place on the
bathroom floor. (Rhyming–very clever). This sentence wonders if the sentence
addressing the looming question is longer than the longest sentence in a selfreferential
story.
This sentence changes non-Biblical Noah's name to Judas, which is
entirely too Biblical.
This is also the first sentence of a paragraph. This sentence is exactly
seven words long. There are precisely three sentences, this one included, in
this paragraph.
The Siren/52
This sentence warns, before we go any further, that if you happen to be
squeamish, you should be wary of looking or thinking about Judas, who is not
something for the squeamish to behold. Sentence fragment.
Judas, as this sentence explains, is no longer lying (or laying) on the floor.
This sentence tells you that Judas is standing and that he is naked because he
just got out of the shower and that his cheeks are red, red, red. Repetition. The
purpose of this sentence is to show that Judas is looking at the mirror even
though he is quite ugly (no one can accuse me of not warning you) and that
his hair is, in fact, brown–a dull, indecisive brown.
This sentence promises you that this paragraph attempts to approach the
question of why Judas is looking at the mirror, but warns that this is not a
simple answer and that you should be careful because glass is very delicate.
This is also the first sentence of a paragraph.
This sentence warns you that at least one hundred percent of the sentences
in this self-referential story are lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Repetition. This sentence
explains that there are many things that a mirror is useful for besides just
looking into.
The purpose of this sentence is to remind you that the author is female.
The purpose of this sentence is to lament the name Judas, for it reeks of Bible.
The purpose of this sentence is to remind you that mirrors have many uses.
The purpose of this sentence is to beg you not to listen to the voices outside
of the bathroom door because they are bad, bad, bad.
The purpose of this sentence is to remind you that the author is female.
Repetition.
The purpose of this sentence is to remind you that the author is female.
This is the first sentence of a self-referential story. This is the last. This sentence
warns you that at least one million percent of the sentences in this selfreferential
story are lies. God damn lies.
Repetition.
The purpose of this sentence is to remind you that the author is female.
53/Spring 2006

Contributing Writers & Artists
Kristin Braun is a senior English major with minors in both women's and
gender studies and U.S. studies. After graduation, she plans to return to
Louisiana and single-handedly save the state by bringing East-coast thought
to the bayous.
Jennifer Braverman is an art education major with a concentration
in Women In Learning and Leadership. She is Executive Chair of the WILL
program and a proud member of Vox and Bod Squad. Jen was also one of the
directors for the Vagina Monologues. Jen teaches art during summer. She also
teaches self-defense and taekwondo at TCNJ and in her hometown of Dresher,
PA. Jen is currently training for her second degree black belt and is pursuing
a career in art. If interested in Jen's style, check out her website at
http://www.jenniferbraverman.com.
Greg Capriotti is a sophomore English major, Biology minor. He is secretary
of TCNJ's Rugby and Table Tennis clubs. Greg's hobbies include beta fish, the
banjo, and Super Smash Brothers. He has a fixation with great apes, and is the
proud adoptive father of Charles, a silverback mountain gorilla in Rwanda.
Andrew Erkkila is a Junior English major. Some of his interests include the
Tour de France, inciting riots, singing in barber-shop quartets, and being a
nuisance. He turns 21 on May 16th, which may or may not be the day that
Lincoln was assassinated.
Jess Gill will be leaving the building shortly, but not until she says her goodbyes
to the English Department, Creative Writing department, STD, ink, the
Siren, and Synergy. She'd like to thank the College for always giving her
phone numbers she could never pronounce and for having organizations that
are utterly sublime (and also tricky to pronounce).
Nicole Grieco is a graduating senior with a major in English, minors in
Creative Writing and Women's and Gender Studies, and a small but burning
flame of hope (because "delusional" is such a strong word) that she'll have a
career someday. She is definitely going to miss The Siren, Ink, and STD with
all her heart.
Austin Harrison
Sophmore Psychology/Philosophy Major
"Drawing is deception" -M.C. Escher
The Siren/56
Jennica Kwak is a freshman at TCNJ majoring in English. In her spare time,
she likes to read and write poetry, write in her diary, draw, spend time with
her family, and go to church. She also likes teddy bears, stars, clouds, and
vanilla ice cream. She is involved with the Intervarsity Christian Fellowship,
the English Honor Society, and Circle K.
Rachel Kreller is a freshman, Open Options major in the School of Culture
and Society, with intentions of being a Creative Writing Minor. She attended
Northern Highlands Regional High School of Allendale, NJ, where she took
two years of creative writing. She had multiple poems published in Northern
Highland's literary magazine, Loch & Quay, from sophomore to senior year of
high school. She was also the 2005 first place winner of the William Carlos
Williams poetry contest of New Jersey.
Rebecca Levine is a junior Graphic Design major who has spent countless
hours burning her eyes by staring at a computer screen. She loves the
challenge of design and layout, depite the pain it causes her (some of the time
anyway). In addition to being the keeper of Art Direction for The Siren,
Rebecca is the current Secretary of OpTheatre, a member of ACT, and has
designed 13 programs for college theatre thus far. Other interests include web
design, reading, writing, dance, guitar, sports, and wearing men’s deodorant
(she highly recommends Speed Stick).
Logan Liskovec is a graduating senior English major and Photography minor
who intends on going to seminary for a Counseling degree. He's found that
his creativity doesn't care what he's doing and when–and that if he is in the
middle of a 5 hour drive or a 12 page paper, when inspiration comes, it waits
for nothing or it disappears. Logan also thanks the inspiration for this poem,
for without it, this poem would never have been conceived.
Michelle McGuinness would rather have a goddamn horse.
Matthew Morone is an FBI narcotics agent under the guise of a Junior
Secondary Education English major. He enjoys reading, writing, and causing
scenes. His mother is very proud of him.
Sarah Paluzzi is a senior art education major at TCNJ. A lifelong resident of
Ewing, she has a deep passion for music and photography.
57/Spring 2006

Susan Pedersen is a Freshman English Liberal Arts Major with a hopeful
minor in Creative Writing. She currently resides at TCNJ, but she hails from
the lovely suburb of East Rutherford. This is her first published poem and she
is glad that she could sublimate an unfortunate experience into an amusing
piece of art.
Mr. Martin Perrotta is 55 years old (enough said). He was born in New York
City and immigrated across the Hudson in 1969. He attended Mercer County
College, New York University and The University of Akron Law School, in that
order. He has a wife, three children, two adorable grandchildren, and is
several wonderful years from retiring from New Jersey State government. He
is currently in the graduate English program at the College of New Jersey and
loves art and language.
Estephany Reyes is a freshman English major with a minor in Spanish. She
enjoys reading very much, loves drawing, and is a Harry Potter fanatic. She is
the secretary of Union Latina.
Alex Seise is a freshman Journalism and Professional Writing major. He
enjoys reading, writing, and, of course, taking photographs. Alex is also
studying French and hopes to study Photography here at the College. His
photographs attempt to show the world from a different perspective, most
notably with abstracted close-up shots. His favorite photographic subjects are
flowers and plants, though he never passes up the chance to photograph
animals, man-made objects, or anything else that comes his way.
Kaitlin Severini is a senior English major and Spanish minor who will
graduate this May. She hopes to become an editor for a publishing company
or newspaper and wishes to continue writing creatively on the side.
Linus Urgo is a writer, and Michael Shelichach.