thought issue three june twenty seven 1996 (c)1996 mindflow productions subscriptions, submissions, or any comments to: email : thought@www.woodford.k12.ky.us www : http://sac.uky.edu/~jrruih0/thought -------------------- credit where credit is due... this is the .txt version of thought issue three. all complete issues including visual art (photography, etc) can be viewed at and downloaded from the web page. cover photo : sara compton creation : josh ruihley editing : rashmi murthy (melissa pike on vacation) executable versions : keith shapiro graphics : josh ruihley, sara compton html : josh ruihley submissions : josh ruihley, christa sturgeon content : Antti Winter War Army made me see. Christopher Stolle On Judgement Day One More Chance When the Boys returned from World War II Ron Shultz Memo To The Mortician SPEC 4 Pondexteur E. Williams Pawn of Politics panda dreams of the panda an excerpt Ben Ohmart titled Ray Heinrich bosnia the universe -------------------- Winter War Antti I found a letter , dusty and old . It had passed through years , fifty-three years in cold . It was a letter from my grandpa , for his father in home . This is what it said , as it slowly went on . Dear father it's cold , and middle of night . Those russians were facing , will for once be shown , that we finns aint going home . I hope you the best , and maybe someday i'll see ya rest , tell my love to the children , from frontlines of war . As i laid down the letter , i could see him in cold . Protecting our land , from what i dont know . For i have lived my life free , never able to see , whatkind of suffering this life , sometimes can be . (Dedicated to my grandpa in heaven .) -------------------- Army made me see . Antti That this world is not the one i dreamt of , not the one filled with people dreaming , or peacfully singing . No this world is like twohundred soldiers , each one watching their borders eyes gleaming . Armed to teeth in their fortress , barricaded with stone , bomb and ak49 , --------------------- On Judgement Day Christopher Stolle and on the seventh day, he rested among the vines to commit himself to peace; but the moment left the sun in despair with the moon and stars as to whom would defend the crease. maybe the halos were enough to keep everything in synch or possibly the end was near; and in every shallow eye there was a vision of sanity and then everyone lost their fear. every prophet got down on his knees to recall a time when all was sacred except for the virgin's apple; "feast on this bread and wine," said their leader on the eve of his demise, Rand please do not fill the chapel." so we crossed his name from the list and we took steps to preserve every word that was spoken; and if he returns to us someday we can justify all our sins as the ridiculous spell is broken. ---------------------- One More Chance Christopher Stolle it's not like it's supposed to be in this carbon copy world as two or three times a day I hear many ordinary voices being hurled at fools like irrational choices now is the moment for repent to free oneself from tragedy and words from the hoarded book seem to disturb me more and more but the remedy is in guidance that's driven through the floor put these thoughts in your head and all they will do is sit there we act like ants with no direction as the memories begin to fade away without a care in the world leaving another price to pay again in between the times of fortune are quickened paces of despair toss off your hat, set free your mind because idleness is torture to the senses and nothing's fair that seems easy so tear down all the fences crimps in the speech hurt everyone and everything's to be kept in paper sacks since lock and key are only material and the tracks slowly melted away as did the hero's serial number we have to find a way to survive without always looking to someone now the fire of hell takes it toll as the natives hold their last dance while the sun creeps behind the clouds and we are given one last chance ---------------------------------------------------------------- When the Boys Returned from World War II Christopher Stolle remember the ditches remember the flashlight remember the walls we tore down with all our might remember the soup cans remember the morning sun remember those letters from home when the day was done remember the home-cooked meals remember the suicides remember the skin graft faces after the attack with genocide remember the pressure remember the holidays remember the new-born baby and the priest hopes and prays remember the old-time music remember the corner soda shop remember that dream you had of wanting to be a coffee cop remember the ocean waves remember the flowers that bloomed remember the distance bombs when we thought we were doomed remember the ride home remember the ticket-tape parade remember the reunion we had when the memories had yet to fade remember the memorial built for us remember the paychecks we had to save remember all those awful times when we thought of our buddies in the grave remember what war can do remember what war has done remember what war is doing right now and believe that no one has won ------------------------------- Memo To The Mortician Ron Shultz Dear Sir: I have sent You twenty more young bodies. Your loyal friend, WAR. September 3, 1970 ------------------------------ SPEC 4 Pondexteur E. Williams Ron Shultz Fought, died, over where To bury you, they fight 'cause Of your colored hide. September 3, 1970 ------------------------------ Pawn of Politics Another boy killed, His blood spilled for what; that which We call freedom? Ha! September 3, 1970 ------------------------------ dreams of the panda an excerpt panda I. Images of Brothers born Brothers died Witnesses of Time's secrets Viewers of Horrors Untold Sorrows never witnessed But Always known Can one wish to dream Of death; sweet silence. II. Footstep by footstep Echoing off the buildings Silence of millions Echo in the stillness Black and white shape Moving through the remnants Remains of a civilization Collapsed upon itself Wandering through it all A prisoner set free Whose sorrowful eyes Reflect the black remains As it treads eternally A Panda in Bamboo of Man --------------------------- (titled) ben ohmart "Ssshh..!" He could control his people, but the jungle still struggled with the wind. Flakes of pollen and the scent off drug plants told their direction but did little else to help. The sound of water running, hitting into something. 44 feet ago they couldn't hear it at all, now, passing just a single colossal tree, it was ear ready. Major Bel didn't have to do anything. But he pointed. They scattered , each taking up a pre-arranged post. The guns were security. No bullets anymore since after the last skirmish, but it made them feel good. Something to grip. Hide behind, even if they were sub-things. No one crouched. They knew it was going to be too long for that. Then on the fifth day, a little boy chanced into the spring. Looking back after every 3rd or so footstep, he was no fool. But only going on 10, the black-haired child was already starting to bald badly. The tar his mother had stolen from a wandering (always hiding, moving, or else, be shut down) schoolroom's back wall did little to conceal his embarrassment from the many dead bodies of the village. And on hot days - nearly every day - his head steamed. Hands to brook, he cleansed choice bits of himself. The silent radios crackled loudly into plugged ear holes. Checkpoints checked in. Jokes left one soldier and joined others. The signal..! All jumping up at once, the guns blazed without a call to unity. The boy was quick, but not quick enough not to be not killed. Running all the way home to the sound of the mad men clicking their machines, he didn't stop for a single loose goat. Which could've meant money to his family. Squat. The men could see each other's shinning faces in the brush. Green and black on their cheeks, black on their teeth, they still knew where each brother was hiding. Somehow they could Feel it. It was worth the time. Their mission. Cans of beefy beans and crinkly packages of shit they called Astronaut's Ice Cream, the feast was generally completed by 1800. Incremental watches of three hours, alternating by shifts of 4 man teams, a different group combination every day, helped to pass the 24 hours until the next day, which officially started at 0600. Each man's night or day was wasted on an army blanket 3 inches thick and 2 feet wide. Army Off was good for attracting mosquitoes, however, each man found that by going just a little hungry every night, the paste of beans scraped from their cans provided good camou flage against the diminutive buggers. It went on for 6 months, and the cards they used to pass the off hours soon had the numbers and clubs and diamonds wearing off. Fit. Tough. Sacred. They scared off a lot of children, and were grateful for the fact that there was no enemy army stationed nearby. ----------------------- bosnia Raymond L. Heinrich The procession comes down this single street in the town you always thought it was your own but in dreams at night it is the same so it can't be real you tell the person lying by your side who you thought you'd been married to for 10 or was it 25 years this slides like your other visions it's possible that there has been no one all these years that they were all dreams even if their names were pat and philip and susan and michael and ginger and ginger just had to be real in this world that possesses no more than 16 colors and tomorrow it will be time to stop all this time to make the only decision allowed and it will come as fast as the end as slow as your words wanting to reach that ginger to tell her or was it him or a vegetable used in the soup that comprised your life as sacred as the cow in that mcdonnell's hamburger or that ant you stepped on in 1989 while taking out the garbage which had as much an idea of where as you do now sitting trying to decide which is the greater sin while sitting on the railing of the highest bridge in your home town not high enough like new york or tokyo or london or moscow not high enough as she and he comes to take your hand and you call out mother you call out father knowing all of you are dead and the aliens coming across the border have taken your house and jobs and just like bosnia you remember the slow pleasure of holding your hands around your neighbor's neck or was it the stereo and the cd's you wanted never enough to have them gone forever but maybe just a little while just until you listened to the last chords of orchestra of the slow sun dissolving into the next day where you promise yourself knowing it's a lie but hoping to fool this love you made up this god you made up this smooth even transition into the level plain of museums of ideas never mentioned of the shortest day of the year which has the longest night. --------------------- the universe Raymond L. Heinrich upstairs the rice cooks and i must be mindful of the time the rice is not forgiving done at a certain time ready or gone i feel like rice feel like the long ago empty plain filled with rice or wheat or if necessary high stalks of corn lighted by a full moons light lighted so they direct our to the flash of weapons firing the mental the physical pieces of metal fast enough to spin through you tearing whatever cells happen to be in the way out off gone holes you or i won't mention the blood the red the original red not read as you're doing now but red as the light likes the inside of us rejoices when the skin must split must give way to the pure color of red becomes a fountain celebrating the constant suffering which makes us pure even as the portraits of nixon and stalin and reagan and some germans i won't name grin over us yes they don't understand in their illness in their constant need for attention but we have only to look in their direction to help them to kiss their useful lips we a part of the constant pain of weapons of words of the separation of germ plasma of DNA we are completely similar arguing for the fun of it killing our neighbors just like the crabgrass ignoring the continuity of us and snails tragic? no the continuity of time requires all of this we are along for the ride and we kill and we burn whoever we want random molecules compel there is no blame and from a place way too high to lean into the wind to fall over and over pointing if possible pointing up so you don't see the ground approaching see the ground which in seconds will crush your skull your body will end all this talking and words will end all this questioning will end this complete vacuum which we call the universe the self