Issue 11

Quad Cities Edition

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contents & credits

ContentsContentsContentsContents Welcome Aboard the Karawane ________________________________________________ p. 3

If Clod Bee Washed Away By Sea, Any Mans Death Diminishes Me, Cody Sanderson ______ p. 4

To all the IANS in the world, Margie Mejia Caraballo ______________________________ p. 5

Altitude Sickness, Sal Marici ___________________________________________________ p. 5

Ecriture Feminine and the Petit Mort of Writing, Laura Winton _______________________ p. 6

The Failed Alchemist, MN Hanson ______________________________________________ p. 7

What Do Women Want, Laura Winton ___________________________________________ p. 8

Onion Palace Postcards, Cody Sanderson ________________________________________ p. 8

Climate (as spiced lamb meatball and kale stew), Farah Marklevits ____________________ p. 9

Exquisite Corpses __________________________________________________________ p. 10

Bzzzz, Thomas R. McKay _____________________________________________________ p. 11

Apollo Comes - Morpheus Leaves, Sal Marici ____________________________________ p. 11

Fable of the Cloud, X. H. Collins _______________________________________________ p, 12

100,000 Poets for Change ____________________________________________________ p. 14

The Abyss, Kenneth Darland __________________________________________________ p. 15

Easy to Stand, Megan Lee ____________________________________________________ p. 16

Foliage, Thomas R. McKay ___________________________________________________ p. 17

Black Like Me, Too, Aubrey Barnes ____________________________________________ p. 18

Care of the Soul, Misty Urban _________________________________________________ p. 20

El Desdichado, Michael Thomas Kelly __________________________________________ p. 22

Photo and Art Credits

Birds, Laura Winton ____________________________________________________ front cover

What is writing?, Laura Winton ___________________________________________ back cover

Photo credits: Laura Winton

Editorial credits:

Editor and Publisher: Laura Winton

This edition of Karawane was made possible by Quad City Arts through their Arts Dollars Grants.

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welcome aboard the Karawane

Hello Quad Citians (and other friends!) I just want to take a minute to explain what Karwane Karwane Karwane Karwane is and what our mission is and to welcome you to the journal. Karawane Karawane Karawane Karawane start-ed 20 years ago in Minneapolis, Minnesota, as a journal of the open mics. At first it was open only to people who performed at the Minnesota open mics, and then we expanded to include performance poets from around the country. As my interested in avant-garde and experimental texts grew, Karawane Karawane Karawane Karawane became a journal for experimental writ-ers who performed their own work — performance artists, poets and spoken word art-ists, playwrights, experimental musicians, etc. Around 2006-2007, the need to support myself became (and remains) more prominent than my ability to publish the journal, raise funds, etc. When I moved back to the Quad Cities, having lived here in the 1980s, I applied for and received a grant from Quad City Quad City Quad City Quad City Arts Arts Arts Arts to start up the journal again, featuring exclu-sively Quad City poets and performers. I am hoping to use some of this energy to pub-lish an additional journal next year that will feature national artists again. And for 2018, I may apply for another grant with Quad City Arts So with that little historical trek, I want to welcome you (back) to Karawane, to thank all of the writers and performers as well as advertisers herein. I do still love Karawane and I am still committed. Finally, visit us on the web at our main website, http://www.karawane.homestead.com, where you can see samples from this or previous issues, link to our Café Press shop, and subscribe or donate. Please leave us a note in the guestbook and tell us what you think. You can also visit our Facebook page. Our blog is also a featured writers section and is a great place to preview what’s coming up the journal. Feel free to write us, friend, us, etc. A little feedback helps me keep the mission of the magazine in sight, just as much as it does when artists get feedback on their work. And please, read, subscribe, submit. And if you have a little money lying around, do-nate to use by contacting paypal.me/fluffysingler and indicating that it is for Karawane Magazine. Thanks to Quad City Arts, the Artery, the Neighborhood Laundromat, Western Illinois University, Theo’s Java House, and the Midwest Writing Center for their support of events and of the magazine over the past year. Laura Winton, Editor and PublisherLaura Winton, Editor and PublisherLaura Winton, Editor and PublisherLaura Winton, Editor and Publisher

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If Clod Bee Washed Away By Sea, Any Mans Death Diminishes Me

from the John Donne poem, "For Who the Bell Tolls."

The order with which the elbow preserved its motion disembodied and other bits of the boy came to call with the shock of the sound made it harder to hear the next gunshot or bomb made it harder to hear the next gunshot or bomb made it harder to hear. nothing you’ve ever seen makes it harder to hear the crying mother another mother crying her guts out cracking her throat, but she should have raised a better boy. Who to blame but the mother of the problem, the problem, himself. You’re just a problem, everyone’s problem, why don’t you fix the problem? You’re just a problem. made it harder to hear the next boom. made it harder. made martyrs harder. harder to hear the martyrs. the martyrs have lost all their power. Gunshot and boom. stretch wide the gates with their throngs, we can’t feel them, the sensation’s gone. Have a martyr for good measure. Cody SandersonCody SandersonCody SandersonCody Sanderson Rock IslandRock IslandRock IslandRock Island

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Al�tude Sickness Sal Marici Port Byron

The Andes squeeze Cuzco’s air.

Coca leaves fatten my red blood cells and wobble. Before I fall, I catch a cab

tell the driver speed away from the stars’ dripping light take me where trees mop the brightness.

He stops at the station.

A broken school bus descends. Bald tires ride ruts

on misery road, bounce me to sleep.

In the slumber a waiter serves

red Chilean wine named Lost Dreams

and opens a birdcage.

A speckle-faced parrot nags, chews prickly pears

and spits seeds in my mouth. They sprout and grow

in my stomach. No one sees the purple fruit on tangled green pads

in upright angles, and their guardian spines.

I wake hungry on the shore

of an Amazon tributary and watch fluorescent orange ants

carry the last piece of my underwear.

To all the IANS

in the world BOSNIANS, SOMALIANS, SYRIANS, MEXICANS, As you cross the winding coastline, the peninsulas and the mountains Near the Mediteranian Sea, The barren dry dessert of the Aden gulf, Or the furious and wild Rio Grande, Escaping Bombs, Airstrikes, Drought and famine, May you not be dismayed by the violence in our country, The mass shootings, drive by shootings, Where gun violence kills significantly more people then terrorisim Where 1 in 8 Americans face hunger And global warming is causing draughts, Bien venido-Welcome to America. Margie Mejia Caraballo Poet/community activist Rock Island

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Excerpt from

Ecriture Feminine and the Petit Mort of WritingEcriture Feminine and the Petit Mort of WritingEcriture Feminine and the Petit Mort of WritingEcriture Feminine and the Petit Mort of Writing

Laura WintonLaura WintonLaura WintonLaura Winton Rock IslandRock IslandRock IslandRock Island

Where one of my interlocutors was talking about dying little deaths, small deaths

along the way of writing, this made me think of the petit mort, which is French for

orgasm. And as I read French Feminist and Surrealist Writer Helene Cixous and think

about her ecstasy in writing, talking about the flesh at work in a labor of love, I think

more and more about the petit mort as a form of women's writing . This is all over

Cixous. Her writing is full of ecstatic phrases about what it is to write. She does not

fear the death of the author (as proposed by Roland Barthes), either actual or meta-

phorical. Nor does writing, for Cixous, promise immortality. It is an in the moment ac-

tivity. In “The Author in Truth,” Cixous writes about “striking out for the unknown,

to make our way in the dark. To see the world with the fingers: isn't this the act of

writing par excellence? ” In her manifesto “Coming to Writing,” there are extended

passages that are about losing yourself in mad love (amour fou, as Andre Breton

wrote of), to writing, to a feminine writing. This is not a nihilistic death, as might be

seen in Foucault or Barthes, but a joyous celebration of what it is to write. “The

text, already the lover who savors the wait and the promise,” she explains in “The Au-

thor in Truth .” “Text: not a detour, but the flesh at work in a labor of love.” .

As if she were taking the death of the author literally, then, she says “in the begin-

ning, there can be only dying, the abyss, the first laugh. ” In Cixous' definition of the

text, I do not feel the need to repudiate stupid Derrida. I can accept that there is

nothing outside of this text, this ecriture feminine in which all things live as long as

they live. It is not a hedge against death . . . . . . . . . . . . . . nor

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a headlong dive into death.

. . . . . . . . . .It is not about immortality and “what survives.”

. . . . . . . . Writing is its own joy, . . . . . . . its own reward . . . . .its own pleasure.

. . . . . . . It is a petit mort that is meant to be shared.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . It is a revolution in language that is meant to liberate.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . It is a private moment, expressivist and confessional.

. . . . . . . It . . . . . . . . . is . . . . . . . . everything.

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The Failed AbsurdistThe Failed AbsurdistThe Failed AbsurdistThe Failed Absurdist By MN Hanson

Davenport

I wish I could step away so it’s as though I never existed. I’d have to destroy everything I ever made – drawings, diaries, jewelry, cloth-

ing – much of it no longer in my possession. I’d have to write to the Federal Government, “Dear Imperialist Swine: Please

immediately destroy all records related to me as I plan to jump into a volcano.” The IRS probably won’t buy it. I’m sure someone’s already attempted something similar.

On a related note, leaping into a volcano is among the few ways to ensure one’s remains are essentially vaporized. Logistics are an issue. It may be difficult to find an active volcano that is not only open to the public, but has an accessible crater. Again, someone’s surely attempted something similar.

I’d have to drain my accounts. Then give the money to the poor, I guess. Or to the bank manager. What’s the difference to me? I never even existed.

And having never existed, I have no sense of injustice. I never experienced cruelty. I have not felt heartache, rage, or despair.

In order to never have existed, finally, I must myself from the minds of every-one I ever met. This includes not only current acquaintances, but elementary school teachers, the boys from my little league team, the guy who flashed me on the subway that one time, every girl scout who’s ever sold me cookies, friends’ parents, the mailman, my college boyfriend, etc.

This is the final issue, and the one that matters most. Until I can accomplish this, I can never truly sneak away from the world. As small and meaningless as my self may be, it’s possible that nothing short of the sun’s destruction can erase me.

Washamay nomanay. Nomaliftin awaraday.

Lunskun. That means: nothing is okay. Or maybe it means that everything is okay. Ahnafade. Eskaliken. Ish fallen arket.

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Ecriture Feminine: The Poem

Onion P[l[]_ Post][r^s

Coded messages in envelopes are objects between lovers. Fido browses The object good printed in the gift shop. Capital ‘I’ it Is uncontestably good, but does not stand for anything larger than its Very self, unless you count all-the-people Of-the-world-who-go-unseen through a cipher of the night stars which, Themselves, go on immutably useless and utterly unmalleable. Each shall find the sky from the privacy of their own birthday box. No greater wall Has been built – what vaulted secret commands us out? Which hero balked At an adamantium sky? A sense of humor, what appears to be water Beyond the wall in the undulating sand.

Cody Sanderson Rock Island, IL

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CLIMATE (AS SPICED LAMB CLIMATE (AS SPICED LAMB CLIMATE (AS SPICED LAMB CLIMATE (AS SPICED LAMB MEATBALL AND KALE STEW)MEATBALL AND KALE STEW)MEATBALL AND KALE STEW)MEATBALL AND KALE STEW) Farah Marklevits Farah Marklevits Farah Marklevits Farah Marklevits Rock Island, ILRock Island, ILRock Island, ILRock Island, IL Augustana CollegeAugustana CollegeAugustana CollegeAugustana College

Not this what that pounds ground,

crushes and chops stems, slices leaves

into another something tossed into sluicing.

Not that what that is freshly combined:

maple limbs with cars in landscaping,

patio umbrella hung as if gently by the strange

tree down the block, blue tarp caught hot

in a hasty Hosta tangle. Not these hands that mix,

not those winds or that thunder. Not the origin

of this sirening SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY

or the next shrilling. Not the next mouth

or the one after. It’s generations

of kale crops cut and lambs slaughtered,

stewed. It’s the invisible broth and its hint of bone-

musk, its simmer.

Photos from the CoinPhotos from the CoinPhotos from the CoinPhotos from the Coin----Op Op Op Op Poetry ReadingPoetry ReadingPoetry ReadingPoetry Reading

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Exquisite CorpsesExquisite CorpsesExquisite CorpsesExquisite Corpses

The exquisite corpse was a Surrealist game that originated in the 1920s and has been a popular activity among teachers and a parlor game ever since. The name reportedly comes from the first ever exquisite corpse, in which someone wrote the line “The ex-quisite corpse shall drink the new wine.” To produce an exquisite corpse, one person writes a line, then another person. Then you fold over the preceding line so that each subsequent person is responding only to the line above theirs. No one gets to see the entire poem/corpse until it is all done. Many of them turn out to be amazingly unified and centered on a theme, The idea behind it is, as Comte L’autremont once famously said, “Poetry should be made by all.” As Helene Lewis said, the surrealists believed that “talent was irrele-vant” and that everyone should participate in art, literature, and creativity. I am a firm believer in this, and so I try to encourage everyone to come and read at open mics and to participate in things like exquisite corpses. Every time I teach a work-shop, and often at the open mics I lead or have just participated, I do exquisite corpses. So with that long-winded introduction, here is an exquisite corpse that was created at the Coin-Op reading. You can find more exquisite corpses on our blog: http://karawanemagazine.blogspot.com.

Exquistie Corpse #1Exquistie Corpse #1Exquistie Corpse #1Exquistie Corpse #1————LaundromatLaundromatLaundromatLaundromat

I was frightened by the truth as it hit me in the face

like a mackerel fresh from the marketplace. The detective knew the case would go bad soon.

Bad, bad, like sour milk, like milk gone solid. Bad, bad, like night with no lights.

The glimmer and sputter are good to see because things are never what they seem.

They refract like a mirror or a prism, not anything to see in the shadows

following each of us to the final light and on that street was what we were looking for.

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Bzzzzz

Flash Fiction Thomas McKay

Hampton, IL

“They make you look like a bug.” Scott didn’t think he looked like a bug. Anyway, they were just glasses. It’s not like he was wearing Halloween antennae or something. Breanna could be so rude. “Did you hear what I said?” Of course he heard. She was standing a foot away. Hearing and responding were two different things. Where did she get off calling him a bug? “Honestly, I give up.” He was about to give up, too. Dating Bree was about as much fun as dating a bug. Maybe a gnat or mosquito. There had to be some Deet in the house someplace.

Apollo Comes Apollo Comes Apollo Comes Apollo Comes ---- Morpheus LeavesMorpheus LeavesMorpheus LeavesMorpheus Leaves

when the sun’s rays pry cracks

where dreams leak.

Sal MariciSal MariciSal MariciSal Marici

Port Byron, ILPort Byron, ILPort Byron, ILPort Byron, IL

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Fable of the CloudFable of the CloudFable of the CloudFable of the Cloud

X. H. Collins

Bettendorf, IA

In the Beginning I decided to take the shape of a human in the summer when I turned eighteen.

My mother, who was not afraid of drifting to where the Cloud Gate, our home, could no longer be seen, dissolved into tears. My father, always the more cautious one, went into fits of thunder. If you happened to be on the island that summer, you probably remembered the sudden torrential rains and storms that baffled everyone─meteorologists did not see them coming in any of their radars. That was the disturbance of my family─mother cried, father yelled, and I stubbornly kept my silence and my mind. You see, if you were a cloud like us, you did not take the shape of a human. You drift-ed around, descending if you like, taking shapes of rocks, mountains, trees, and for the truly brave, birds and animals. You could feel how it was like being lively, yet always safe to find your way home. But humans? Absolutely not! Too much temptation, corruption, and sadness! Before you knew it, you would be irredeemably lost, never to find your way back to the sky. “And they have to pay taxes!” as my uncle Tuba would grumble. I was happily trailing behind my parents when I spotted him, the boy for whom I would take the shape of a girl. Oh how was I transfixed! By the slightly frowny eyebrows and almost not-there smile when he was absorbed in his book, and by the body that smoothly waiving in and out of the water, more agile than the most skillful fish.

I imagined him turning around, finding me, and saying, “Hello, you are here.” I made up my mind. My mother’s tears and my father’s yelling could not make me change it.

“So what if he never even looks at you? What if you miss each other?” My mother sobbed. “I’ll take my chance.” I started to descend. “I love you both.” And then I was gone.

When I opened my eyes again, there he was, hovering above me, eyes full of worries. “Hello, Here you are!” Before I could say anything, more people swamped in. A woman, I think she’s the mother of the girl whose shape I took─my mother now─grabbed me and held me so tight I couldn’t breathe. “My angel! We thought you were buried in this out-of-nowhere storm! Thank God this boy saved you!”

But where was he? Life Happens They arrived at the hospital finally, beating the heavy after-work traffic. It was no false alarm this time. After spending about half an hour in triage, she was wheeled to the birthing room. The room was simple and tidy, with a large west-facing window. The blinds were drawn, but the strong afternoon sunlight found a way to permeate through, and the room was

(Continued on page 13)

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bright. They walked around the room, making their way to the bathroom, holding hands. “There,” she said, “I’ll soak in the tub for a while. You go on have something to eat. The nurse said it could be a while”. “But I would rather be here. I’ll order hospital food.” He said, gently rubbing her back. From behind, it’s hard to tell that she was pregnant, about to give birth. To him, she did not seem to change at all, other than the round, protruding belly. He was nervous, al-most surprised, to actually be in the birthing room. “Go on,” she smiled at him, cup-ping his unshaved face with both her hands. “We’ll order hospital food after the baby is here! I’ll be all right. I can ring the nurse whenever I need her.” When he came back, she was ly-ing on the bed, her face white as the sheet that covered her. She squeezed a smile when she saw him, and his heart felt the strange sensation of pain, as if the child would actually come out of his chest. Tubes were inserted into her veins and nose. Drugs were pumped in-to her blood and injected into her back. As night retreated into day, she seemed to him very far, as cloud float-ing way above, a place he couldn’t reach. “Stay with me,” he whispered, silently, gripping her hands. When the Sun draped the hospi-tal building with a gentle shade of or-ange, the crying of a baby came out of her window. He and she stared down in awe, of this raw, slippery little crea-ture, their son. Reflection

Sometimes when I wake up in the night, when the moonlight spreads its silver threads like traces of clouds, over our bed, I look at the tranquil

face of my sleeping wife. I tremble, still, at the sight of her beauty, of our luck finding each other. We are getting old, old as the time. But I can still recall the day when I saw her on the beach, as if it was only yesterday.

That summer, I wanted to re-visit the island our family visited for my high school graduation. I saved a girl from drowning during that previous visit. I happened to be near the beach, taking turns to read and swim, when a short but furious storm hit the island. The girl must be swimming by herself. I saw her head popping in and out of the waves and I jumped in, without much thinking.

But I did not get her name or saw her again. For a long time.

Occasionally, when I came across the same book I was reading that day, or pictures in my parents’ album, I thought about the girl, wondering what happened to her. Where is she now? Does she remember the storm? Is she hap-py? I imagine, and I hope, that she is.

Then I saw her, on my morning walk on the beach.

‘Hello,” I said, “What’s your name? I think I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“Maybe,” She smiled, “I’m Sarah, but I like to call myself Cloud.”

“Cloud? You like to float?” I thought she was funny.

The day when I finally visited her in the city, there was a storm-related power shortage. She lit up some candles, and then went to get something for us to drink. I closed my eyes briefly, imaging what her world was like.

Our world would be like. And I gave her a secret name, known

only to me. Nephele, thank you for choosing to hang

around me, instead of floating, high above. The End

The summer when my grandmother was on her deathbed, I stayed with her.

In the morning, when the birds started to sing, I wheeled her chair out to her garden,

(Continued on page 15)

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100,000 100,000 100,000 100,000 Poets for Change Poets for Change Poets for Change Poets for Change

100,000 Poets for Change is an international

day of poetry and events designed to make an impact globally and locally. Founded in 2008 by poet Michael Rotherberg, there are there are hundreds of events all over the world every

year. The date is always the last Saturday of September. Here in the Quad Cities, we have sponsored events in 2014 and 2016 and as of now are planning an event for 2017. If you want to be involved, contact Karawane@earthlink.netKarawane@earthlink.netKarawane@earthlink.netKarawane@earthlink.net. For more in-formation on the global event, visit http://100tpc.orghttp://100tpc.orghttp://100tpc.orghttp://100tpc.org. For information on the event in the Quad Cities, visit our website at http://karawane.homestead.com http://karawane.homestead.com http://karawane.homestead.com http://karawane.homestead.com or like our Facebook page at

https://www.facebook.com/karawanemagazine.https://www.facebook.com/karawanemagazine.https://www.facebook.com/karawanemagazine.https://www.facebook.com/karawanemagazine.

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Email us:

Karawane@earthlink.net

so she could bathe in the gentle sunlight, among her beloved roses. We, or rather, I, would have coffee, for she was barely eating or drinking anything at that time. But she liked to have a cup sitting next to her on the stone table, “just like when Papa was here”, she would say.

My grandfather passed away the previous winter, in her arms. After that, she was still my dear Nana, and my father’s loving Mama, but we could sense she was slowly drifting away from us.

“Tell me, Nana, the story how Papa saved you that summer from drowning, and how you lost and found each other again”, I would ask her, while brushing her white hair, or massaging her small, shrinking hands. We had all heard about the story numerous times before, from both of them, but we were never tired of it.

She blushed when she told the story, as if she were a new bride, not someone whose light of life was flickering away.

“It’s amazing both you and Papa remember the details so well, like things happened yesterday.” I tucked the light blanket on her lap a little tighter.

“Oh, dear, things like that, you just don’t for-get. Now matter how long ago, or how far away.”

The day when she died, I went to sit in the

garden where she and Papa used to sit. I was sad

but feeling, strangely, relieved. I looked up at the

sky, saw its beautiful white clouds─my grandfather

had a secret name for my grandmother,

Nephele─and I knew they were both up there, at

peace.

(Continued from page 13) The AbyssThe AbyssThe AbyssThe Abyss

I read The words are empty

My visions gone No That Which Was

No That Which Is No That Which Will Be

The words

All they create Lie fallow, sterile, bereft

No visions splendid No sights mundane

No images fantastical

My soul Groping in darkness Finds there nothing

No Father No Son

No Holy Ghost

The mind Sweeping outward

Encounters the abyss No dreams

No wants No more

Kenneth Darland

Rock Island

100,000 Poets for Change 100,000 Poets for Change 100,000 Poets for Change 100,000 Poets for Change at WIUat WIUat WIUat WIU----QC 2016QC 2016QC 2016QC 2016

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Easy to StandEasy to StandEasy to StandEasy to Stand

Megan Lee Rock Island

They say that it is easy to cry, harder to stand.

Yet is it true? For me no. It is the opposite. We cry not just out of sadness but for other emotions as well. Weeping is not unexpected when you survive, when you pros-per, when you live with the warmth of a thousand sunflowers. All planted by the peo-ple around you that have held you up, even if there lays only one farmer baking in the summer heat or freezing tundra to reach you. You are always allowed to cry when all you wish for is to break the bones of monsters.

But they misinterpret this as 'easy' or 'emotional. Do you see these people crying every day, a man openly let tears gracefully slip out of his hold or a model allowing her makeup to be muddled up by the snot dripping on her perfect chin?

No.

It is an instinct that we have cultivated and evolved. To stand on two feet with backs like steel, shoulders drawn back to prepare for war. Appearing like warriors and stars and performers to meet the expectations of the crowd that watches us. We need not reveal our faces at the masquerade. The only recommendation is to not show weakness even if weakness draws out more views, more sympathy, more pity. I do not crave your pity!

Lining up for our next meal is all we worry about if we are an open wound. Bleeding not blood yet still bleeding. Never receding.

You tell that child that they are brave. Go ahead. Black cotton, grey satin. Tell them something they can't believe. How can their sign be a Leo when all they have is the mane, yet no roar? How can they accept your declaration without proof? Just be-cause she didn't fall, doesn't make standing tall an extraordinary victory. If salt water doesn't leak out and boogers aren't needed to be washed off sleeves doesn't mean it is a victory at all. It is only a victory when she sees it as such. Only when she can be able to bring up the sting when she needs to feel something. Anything.

"I dare you," as I steal the steel to make my mask whole again.

" I dare you to tell me that again."

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STOREFRONT OF STOREFRONT OF STOREFRONT OF STOREFRONT OF

GROOVINESSGROOVINESSGROOVINESSGROOVINESS

Check out groovy Karawane stuff on the web, in-cluding mousepads, buttons, t-shirts, and more.

Designs include original artwork and poetry by Karawane artists, our

own unique dada spam poetry t-shirts and our signature chalk outline merchandise.

HTTP://WWW.CAFEPRESS.COM/KARAWANE

You can also get basic Karawane t-shirts, including the cover of one of our back issues, featur-ing artwork by Tom Cassidy, directly by sending $15 to Karawane via paypal or by sending a check payable to Laura Winton, editor, Karawane,

615 44th St., Rock Island, IL 61201.

Allow 2 weeks for delivery. <<—Café Press

Basic Karawane Tees —>>

YÉÄ|tzx

Foliage covered the face of the stone. Stone best summed up the feeling in his soul. Soul food was the best memory he could bring back from the past. Past those thoughts of Sunday noon dinners, his heart felt only resentment. Resentment at the hardship, prejudice, and violence that scarred the life of his grandfather lying under the ground. Ground down until his life

force wilted into limp

foliage. Thomas R. McKay

Hampton, IL

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Black Like Me, Too Let me tell you a fact about myself That almost everyone I meet feels the need to remind me I am black I’m so black that I make Micheal Blackson not seem so Black, son I’m so black that in a game of laser tag I should be permitted to keep my Eyes open and and teeth showing Otherwise i’d be cheating I’m so black that you would swear that i’m a vampire Because when i’m in photos with no flash All you see floating clothes I’m so black that when i’m out for a run People look at me in jaw dropping awe Speechless that I’m moving so fast They mistaken me for the Flash But, he’s a white superhero So that’d never happen Instead they look at me in grandiose curiosity Asking “Sir, are you from Africa?” I’m so black that when I mention that I like to watch basketball People roll their eyes To a point that i’d swear their brain rolled right along with them But when I go to games in cities such as Geneseo You would swear that I walked into the Gymnasium in my underwear The way people silently over stare At The odd black man at a basketball game He must be here for a girl Or to cause some trouble Maybe we should make eye contact When he doesn’t make eye contact But if he makes eye contact When we make eye contact He’ll knock our eye contacts Out Let’s just not make any contact I am so black That my teammate in college was stricken with fear at my appearance But when he heard that my speech was “politically correct” And my posture stood erect

(Continued on page 19)

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He breathed out in great calm Because it was evident that I was

White So white that I make Carleton look like Tupac

So white that I mistaken Malcolm X’s name For Malcolm the Tenth

I am so white that my all white friend, from an all white college In an all white city told me

“You aren’t like the black people on TV” When I go to the gym to play basketball

People run to me for a challenge And leave victor

With an easy scored 21 To my hard toiled 16

Saying “you must not have inherited the genes” But when it comes to these sixteens

I'm sweet like i'm sixteen Addictive like nicotine

Spittin fire like kerosene And you know what friends say to me?

“Oh my gosh, you actually are black!” So I am black

But I am White Or maybe people are just color blind

Shutter blinds closed to any sunny possibility of a no label society Globular organs shrouded with stereotypical presumptions

Assumptions derived from contrived corruptions Making these ideas of “acting black” and “acting white” alright

But it’s not alright if you’re white acting black Or black acting white

Well it is okay Just know we’re going to give you a hard time

When you forgot your belt at home\ And your pants a little

We’re going to say you’re dressing black But when its around your waist and nicely fit We’re going to then say you’re dressing ‘white’

Kind of like how Pharisees Those religious leaders you hate

Judged good and evil by what they perceived with their eyes Instead of looking into the heart that lies

When Eloheim said there is no Jew nor Gentile Nor male or female

I believe if he stood in the midst of our color coded community He would say there is no black nor white

(Continued from page 18)

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Care of the SoulCare of the SoulCare of the SoulCare of the Soul

So you know how sometimes you get this announcement from the universe on who you are and what you’re supposed to be doing, and it’s so loud and clear and “this is what I mean” that you really can’t afford to ignore it? Okay, so maybe not everyone. But I was taking my walk around the pond today and I got one of these hello check-ins. I saw these two oth-er ladies I haven’t seen before, and they had these walking sticks, and I figured the tall one, with white hair, was maybe training for a long mountain trek, but the wide, short one was leaning on these flimsy little aluminum things like she was just out of rehab. I would have said they were both older than me, but you never can tell with the things that will wear on a woman.

They were headed clockwise and I was going widdershins, so I crossed them at the scarlet oak tree—it’s an arboretum, so all the special plants have little signs with their names on them. The wide one had an out-of-a-bottle dye job and I wanted to tell her look, honey, if you’re going to fight it, pay for a salon. Those might have been tears on her eyes or just the sun in her glasses, but she looked up at her friend with this wide-eyed, protesting, exas-perated expression and said, “Look, you know, sometimes you just need a little time for your-self!”

I nodded as I passed, feeling soft and big-hearted toward the both of them. On an-other day I’d have walked up to them, said hi, my name is Stella—it means Star, it belonged to a great-aunt but it belongs more to me, and I could have been one, I think, a star, or at least famous for something, if my mama had gotten me a talent agent when I was four, if I’d ever figured out what I’m good at. Time was I would have asked them about their kids, because they both probably had kids of some

sort. I wouldn’t have asked about their jobs because they were both either re-tired or never had one, not to speak of—I know the type. I could have asked them if they were in some occupational thera-py program, I know lots about therapy, or if they were fixing to go on a hiking trip, just the two of them, a friend’s getaway. I would have approved. But I didn’t ap-proach them, not today, because sister had it right, what she said. Sometimes you just need a little time for yourself.

I have lots of that these days, and I earned it. Which isn’t to say I don’t en-joy people. There are lots of people in my building, mostly transients who are com-ing and going, some who have been there a while and might be there a long time to come. I can tell you how it goes. Don’t buy anything from Ernie because it’s probably stolen. You go to him to replace a wallet or a phone that you think you lost, and there he is, trying to sell your own wallet back to you. Henry is all right when he’s on his meds—that’s true of many people, I guess—but don’t catch him when the doctor is tinkering with his dose, he gets meaner than a skunk eating bumblebees. Franz has got it rougher than anyone because he’s black, so while people round here might look at a guy like Ernie and think he’s just had a cou-ple of bad shakes, they look at a guy like Franz and think he’s a criminal, even though Franz is the sweetest, gentlest man you will ever meet. He’s the one who saves part of his lunch from the soup kitchen and then takes it outside to feed the mangy dogs snuffling around the dumpster.

There aren’t many women in the crowd; I guess I’m it for the full-timers. Most of the women coming through

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have a herd of kids and get put in the family shelter where they have their own laundry and bathrooms and a game room and they don’t have to mingle with those of us sans house. Though I’m not really a full-timer because I don’t have a room for the long-term, I prefer to pack up each day and carry my stuff in the backpack, never make plans for the night, be-cause you never know what will come up—a better job, a winning lottery ticket, an itching to see Sarasota. I ain’t one of those crazy ladies you see in the movies with all their sweat-ers piled on their back pushing a grocery cart of cans and toilet paper. I don’t think those people actually exist, not even in Los Angeles, because really, all those cans? They’re noisy and they’re easy to steal.

I wash my clothes every night in the sink in my room and damp cotton will dry pretty fast on the skin or in a room that’s decently heated. I can go to Elly’s on the square and get a coffee and toast for $2.00. Sometimes I admit I spend it on a Krispy Kreme when I’m crossing town to work and the light goes on. The library opens at ten. Before then you can go to the video store and pretend you’re looking at the latest release; after that you can go to the half-price bookstore, the owner there is usually good about letting people wander or even read, if you can stand him bitching about the city council and the government with his cronies. If you don’t have any cash that day the soup kitchen serves at six, and the rooms, if there is one available, open at eight. I’ve been getting room ten a lot lately. I like the round, solid shape of that number—10—but I’m not getting cozy. It’s not a home. I don’t need a home; that’s my point.

There’s a nice preacher lady who comes on Saturdays and sits in the common room and invites you to just sit and chat. She’s from the Episcopalian church or some such so there’s no hellfire or castigating you for your sins, she just wants to hear your story, and I suppose she can give you a blessing or absolution if you’re in need of either. She asks me to tell her about my husband, my kids, but I’d rather tell her stories about my time down south because I would just love to make her eyes pop. She’s been on missions I guess in Costa Ri-ca, Guatemala, Ecuador, the like, so she’s seen most of what I’m telling her already. It makes a better story with the guys.

I don’t talk about my husband because he’s not my husband anymore. He hung up that hat when he went stepping out with a mistress and I will tell you one thing, you get a free pass for a long time to do whatever you want when your husband cheats on you. You can gain all the weight or finally lose it, you can dye your hair or cut it, you can turn into a melted puddle of pity or you can whoop it up and drop everything and head south to Brazil, and all your friends will say good for her, he left her and the kids are grown and this is her time now, to figure out what she wants to do. Of course the kids weren’t really grown, they were still in high school, but they didn’t seem to need me and he said if he got custody, he’d pay off the credit card debt. I could start fresh. So I cut my hair, cut up the credit cards, shed forty pounds and the bad ankles, and went to Rio de Janeiro. All I’ll say about it is that I learned a lot about the world. Sometimes there is more cash and sometimes there is less cash, and you learn to be quick on your feet.

Misty Urban

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I’m exactly what I was destined to be An oddity and comedy Laughable because giggling only makes sense of something that doesn’t make sense A black acting white A white acting black An oxymoron prone to give minds Prone to labels panic attacks I mean when was the last time You went to an ice cream parlor Anticipating all flavors to be same? That’d be lame Just like a world full of agents Trapped in a Matrix The Neos bring change Something out the norm

(Continued from page 19) So i’ll forever say i’m

The paint splashes in a padded room That can’t be cleaned by swiffer, rag or a broom

I am what I am because I Am said I am So you see

It's not that I am whiter than you Or you're blacker than me

But we're the same Human beings bearing the same beautiful image

So in the end I’m white like you

And you’re black like me

Aubrey Barnes, Rock Island IL

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