inter\face 5
				summer 1993

(in random order)
Susan Bertot
Emily R. Novack
John Malboeuf
Ron MacLean
David Connolley
Nancy Dunlop
Michael Rae
Katie Yates
Benjamin H. Henry

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Benjamin H. Henry

Aram Aram

Aram Aram big-u-ity
wise -o- wizened
ample morph, sit you on
meta morph - for
silly frightened : tetra town
building blocks
a no mo in men si ty
am probable
about a ble
in tense


Spring '93 Collage

1. An invisible man peers in, 
offers his hand to shake, throttle, or excelerate to paced speeds,
raceway along city streets with postcard visions,
a woman with long hair smiling.

2. My motor failed exhaustive tests, 
emissions blurted out; the priest says, 
holding a subscription,
at the stairs of the empire state building, 
clutching a plastic model, 
an exact duplicate in structure

or taking elevators, their sliding doors
shutting, but the soft bumper and the button,
being pushed from some distant point...

3. I immediately failed to notice that
screeching sound, a horrible sensation,
a plenty of thirst, succumbing, ending.


July 18, 1993

And, today, if you must know,
I am tread:
Tracks behind wheels,
behind a cylinder rolling down
an inclined plane --
I am a simple geometric figure,
drawn to perceive three dimensions
on flat paper -- 
I am fixed in movement and time.


Susan Bertot

The Eucharist


I am saved!
I am God
We are one
the blood I have drank
the wine flows within my veins
Drowning me in a sea of fumes


Cannibalism's holy
Flesh tastes like bread
Toast would be nice
Red Blood toast
Where's the butter?
I want my country's cock
Blood is thick
I'd really like a cherry
Get me one human
God gets hungry too.


Emily R. Novack


now through recurrence
now through the long thin


one woman I knew
raped, found behind
a store unconscious,
the water from the rafter dripping
long lines into
her face

twenty three years old
coat covering up where
the skin shows
said she saw
the running water
swallowing  whole
of her image



you tell me
for years
I've longed for mountains

for the feeling
of rising

the flat land
and the smell
of dried flowers

your pale hands
reach for copper
loose on blankets

we've circled
these years-
  a drawing open
of living things
and wounds
			the smoke was clawing
from air
into air
and breaking
i said I've
lived like this
for so long now

the injury accumulating
a long
of beads


hands in snow.


Nancy Dunlop

from: From the Window

"The divinities are the beckoning messengers of the godhead." (Heidegger)

	hers on small head bobbing
	under big goddess-sky-dome
	she is sapling: a happy
	blockhead shaking her baby leaves
	warmth of spring and new starts
	ow! so much it hurts
	how can the pavement hold such radiance?
	has heaven become so encrusted with jewels
	that they are dropping
	at her feet?

		each step a little giggle.

"Earth is the serving bearer." (Heidegger)

	and arches up her feet
	the grasses its tentacles
	its roots the cords to her belly
	the tree of her uprooted
	shaking its remnants of dirt
	the tree of her striding
	down this bright sidewalk
	she's already shed her fruit
	it straggles behind her on the pavement
	a trail of seeds and cast-off reasons
	limbs straining from force of new buds
	she is so new her bark still gives to pressure

"Now woman is neither closed nor open . . . form is never complete in her." 

and she is running through the forest she has chosen as her situation. 
swathed in pre-raphelite fullness. hugged within her husk, within her moist 
shell. and she is falling but the ground left her. she is rolling down moss 
and spores. pulled toward this forest floor and veining as these leaves 
around her. she is photosynthesis and arches toward the light. the tops of 
the white pines. cathedral light in fractured colors. she is prismatic. 
unfolds origami-like. like the finest tissue. she is her own envelope. 
fool-hardy bride-of-air. bird fare. she could rise up. burst through upper 
branches. thrust herself into being. or loll in wet leaves. little lute. 
upon which strums celestial.


John Malboeuf

Seen Your Dad on the Corner

	The broken man was wearing new blue/purple jeans and a white T-shirt 
which had "i am in hell and i can live with it" written on the back in 
green magic marker. He made his living selling toothpicks which he carved 
as he walked through the streets during the day. When I first saw him this 
morning, he had part of a tree branch under his arm and he was whittling at 
it, leaving a trail of shavings behind on the sidewalk. Now, he was holding 
a coffee can, which I guess was full of toothpicks, and he was stopped at 
the corner and was looking at people walking by.
	I started playing some rhythm, hoping people would give me enough 
change to buy a bus ticket. I had made one buck fifty-two and had four 
strings left on my guitar.
	The broken man walked towards me slowly, nervous and listening to the 
music. His face was smeared. He was angry. He took the change out of my 
hat, replaced it with four thin six inch toothpicks. "I've seen sky," he 
said to me.
	"Then dance," I replied. "I would."
	The broken man scowled. "I've seen sky," he said again, touched my 
shoulder, paused to let me look into his smeared eyes, walked away. I was 
hoping he would get hit by a car.
	it was about time  I got a move on, so I smashed what was left of my 
guitar on the front stoop. Stones go through me. Catch, cut,, a tear. Right 
down the middle. Why do you expect so much from me? Stones and candy carry 
a punch.
	Standing, you said you'd visit. Causing a stir, it was just me. I 
noticed the blink of your eye, your sudden hesitation, your cut short stop 
breath before you returned my look. We don't need to do this, we could 
forget it or the reverse. Sunday, over at the stones, I met you on the 
corner. The pavement was all that I could, see it.
	So wait. Stones cut, through me, I let them. I can't stop them, it 
isn't human. A sudden stop, change of key. A zone.
	I tossed the toothpicks out into the street. It had rained the night 
before, so they floated in a puddle.


Ron MacLean

How to be Happy

	This year, she's decided to be happy.
	She may not know what she wants, or how to get there, but she's 
determined to accept the uncertainty that for years has depressed her. 
Besides, she knows what she does not want. She's certain of that. She does 
not want Ray.
	Here are some of the things she does when she decides to be happy.
	1. Walk by the river. Afternoons, after work, for at least an hour, 
she walks on a footpath that runs alongside the Charles River. She's lived 
her life near water, and cultivates this connection now that she's decided 
to be happy. Since water makes her happy, she walks by it, right next to 
it, every day. What does not make her happy is the pollution, but the city 
of Boston claims the river is being cleaned up, that the Charles Watershed 
Authority is having an impact. Liz maintains hope by taking a water sample, 
once a week, in a glass, and leaving it on a shelf in her kitchen, watching 
to see what will settle to the bottom of the glass, how it will compare to 
the previous week's sediment. The shelf is above the antique stove that 
Ray, her former lover, had bought for her, the stove that she is always 
threatening to get rid of. Because it reminds her of him. Because it leaks 
gas sometimes. But it's such a beautiful stove. Irreplaceable.
	2. Read tabloids. Weekly World News is her favorite. Best covers, she 
says. The photos are sometimes breathtaking, she says. A couple weeks ago 
she showed one to her daughter Katie, about a bat child found in a cave in 
South Dakota. A kid with fangs and pointy ears. She was right. The photo 
was amazing. Airbrushed into a soft focus, the eerie child's open mouth and 
sharp fangs dominating the page, eyes popped open. No hair anywhere on his 
head. He demanded your attention. These tabloids are placed on the floor of 
her second story bedroom, in a neat stack by the radiator, in the house 
that she shares, most of the time, with Katie. It's okay to leave the 
papers next to the radiator for now, because it's summer. The tabloids lay 
under an article that Liz had clipped from The Boston Globe two weeks 
before, headlined "4th slaying of lesbian reported in area," which 
describes a stabbing in the Back bay, and which quotes a Boston detective 
as saying that it's the fourth such murder in the past few months. There 
are enough similarities in method that they are beginning to investigate 
the possibility of a single killer, of a pattern. Liz has been unable to 
dispose of the article. Each time she buys a tabloid, she lifts the article 
off of the pile next to the radiator, places the new issue on top of the 
old issue and then the article on top of the pile.
	3. Make collages. Pictures cut from magazines, newspapers. Abstract 
geometric shapes cut from construction paper. Objects she finds in her 
travels, the refuse from the worlds around her. Ticket stubs. Gum wrappers. 
Lately, it has taken a new twist. Words. Phrases clipped from publications 
have started to appear, rubber cemented over images on the cardboard. These 
have begun to capture her interest. Reminding her of a game she and her 
brother, Otis, used to play as children, where they would chose a word and 
recite it, chant it, invoke it,  over and over until it lost meaning, and 
then keep going. Later that day, whenever one of them would use the word, 
the other would laugh, at the joke they shared, at the new meanings it 
hinted at that no one else suspected. Now, visually, Liz does this with 
words, placing them alongside other words in unexpected combinations, 
pasting them on magazine photos, over cutout cardboard shapes. She has 
started to send these to Otis. It is a way of keeping in touch.
	4. Bake. She loves to make cookies, in her antique stove, but she 
never eats them, so Katie ends up having to eat two dozen cookies, or 
convince Liz to give some to friends. The numbers are escalating lately. 
Even her friends are telling her they can't handle any more cookies. 
They're starting to gain weight. Tell me about it, Katie says. Katie is 
eleven, and mature for her age. The trouble is, Liz bakes really good 
cookies. The successful recipes she keeps in a folder on the bookshelf. 
There are many folders on the bookshelf. A folder of possible night courses 
she might take, like the one in the Indian Cooking and Nutrition she just 
signed up for. A folder of cover photos -- the really good ones -- from the 
tabloids. A folder containing notes on her romantic relationships, and why 
they ended. All part of an orderliness she's instituting into her life, 
part of the same impulse that has led her to conclude, in the wake of Ray's 
eviction, that what it really takes to be happy is to give up the 
possibility of a relationship.


David Connolley

Rampart reservoir pigs
play bluegrass
with dirty words
on a gray lake's
gravely shores.

It is hard,
this kind of life

water towers and skies,
the light of potatoes. Here we work.
We eat.
We starve.


Michael Rae

band names

virtue and gender
naked melody

the 4th husband

with a wicked tongue
bullet the suicidal dog

palemento bug
at the master's gate

a urine sample


Katie Yates

Book Two had not the quality of beauty, was alone

life in fragile water mockingbird and clam kneedeep with tounge burning 
nothing admitted change
tones of memory all at once held on to : couldn't touch
you were this source of amazement to me : beauty & anger propelling
terse transience explains the force of interruption
playbill volkswagon tentless numbness as free to carry us
penniless you wander to me finally at ease with method
we can't obtain assurance nor the insular logics of love -
?great morning.  sky down to field. there is nothing between us

resolved as epithet
linger to wear longer
		bright dales in lips
			Dive, she said & watch.

re(scind) ~ god-wanted you nearer than this tin midnight
hope ^ dire to be remembered pose at brisk lake - STOP
the sake of brittlest limnia scurvia metal wilder wilder
		beast past coming

compelled by falling or awakening from a sleep more truthful than you are
separated into frames: tauto in - in toto - {{ vascular
limb in reflection - yours - take by Take - affirming
Covenant . envelope ^^ stasis .  inside a mortal time
		come to the defense
		restricted by a memory
		full-fold  -  quadrophenia
		alert in most ways & dying


Book Four (3) wash is to wain
					    w   i   s  h

able to touch lavender, could call out my name as loudly
in what we stole from you
in what we stole from the lovers
(scant blossoms with tremendous scent)

found equaled mingling
	circuits,  frets - finger locks in our heads
		cling is to fervor
		    is to happen is too good

			a choice

			    do  circumstance

		all secret matter came back for you

				 em:  me.

		days before a Winter/close
		friend of belittling syntax stung

			a Most equall = squall
				halcayon the brightest