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Kiosk 46

Spring

2012

Kiosk 46

Spring

2012

Untitled 1 Kiosk

Shannon Kloiberdigital photosUntitled 35

Kiosk 46 is a semi-annual,

award-winning magazine

featuring undergraduate

student art and literature

from the

University of Kansas.

Kiosk

Making & Breaking

Kiosk 46

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Kiosk

Savannah Windham

Katie Longofono

Sydney Rayl

Ellen Goodrich

Robin Smith

Nick Heldman

Jessica Marak

Danielle Aldrich

Maggie Hirschi

Erin Zingre

Caitlin Workman

Design Lit

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Staff

41

49

29

27

15

12

21

47

43

25

17

11 25

Channing

Taylor

Tyler

Roste

Liz

Adcock

Max

Mikulecky

Sally

CarMichael

Daniel

Schmeidler

Wes

Landis

Jill

Kilgore

Sarah

Terranova

Justin

Bell

Sarah

Sims

Erin

Dvorak

Claire

Dooley

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Art

v

45

17

21

29

41

37

35

31

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Cartography

of Being

Sara Pyle

Therianthropy

Keegan Cole

Ball Python

Will Jenkins

A.S.L.

Brett Salsbury

Plants

Joel Bonner

The Dogs Would Have

It For Desert

Joey Shopmaker

Bonetree

Ian Cook

Shaggy Dog

Young Han Lester

Ghosts of North

Lawrence

Sara Pyle

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Lit

Demo Building

digital photo

Max Mikuleckly

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Pole

digital photo

Max Mikuleckly

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Facial

Reconstruction

digital photo

Liz Adcock

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Rothko Sighting No. 1

Hill City, KS

digital photo

Wes Landis

Rothko Sighting No. 2

Hill City, KS

digital photo

Wes Landis

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Rothko Sighting No. 5

Auburn, NE

digital photo

Wes Landis

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Seeking Direction photo collage Sarah Sims Kiosk

1/3 of all the world’s languages

rely on cardinal directions

that means

they don’t have words for “left” and “right”

they say things like

“there is a caterpillar on my southwest leg”

they know at all times

which way is north, south, east, west

their position in this world

is inherent to their existence

i wish i was so sure

of where exactly i am

and where i am going.

Sarah

PyleCartography of Being

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Kiosk

Begin

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Sad Pumpkin #1 (top)

Sad Pumpkin #3 (right)

digital photos

Erin Dvorak

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Brett

Salsbury

My pop tart package is coffee-stained and

there are broomsticks outside my window.

My book on logical thinking has been

feathered and tarred and goose-pimples

line my esophagus tract.

My heart is restless and there’s an imaginary coke

trail leading to a gingerbread house in the woods.

I’m not a redhead.

S.

L.

A.

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Kiosk

Rainbow Erin Dovrakdigital photo25

Garden of the Gods Justin Belldigital photo Kiosk

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drawing & quote

Anthony Schmiedeler

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Special Ops

Brandenburg Gate

digital photos Tyler Roste

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I’ll wrap you in things that distinguish you most.

I’ll wrap you in fools-gold,

and fools-cold of cubic zirconia

and stylized lines you wear on your sleeves of

tattoos staining your figure,

like crushed berries on chins. Fox muzzles

like blood on chains. Gun muzzles

like blood on white sheets.

Like cloud shapes shifting on sheets

of blue oceans reversed.

Transformation of fish.

Grow feathers clogging gills and drown when they fly,

and melt in Icarus at the oxygen and fall.

Condensation sinking like salt.

Dissolved into rain for hollow husks in a scarecrow-corpse

cornfield that needs drowning.

Inari brings the rain in.

Kitsune Nine-Tails hunts the vermin and

exoskeletal skeletons from their hollow hollows

hollowed from pumpkin skulls.

Bent grass, parched husks, and cement earth hunts.

Haystack stacks that were mine.

“They were…”

Mine the stones worth stone.

Hunt the berries that stain flesh balloons,

popping like aneurysms

shrapnel splashing into birthmarks and wine stains.

The rivers flow wine and the man shoots a gun

into heaven telling Jesus he doesn’t drink anymore.

Keegan

ColeTheranthropy

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Joey

I slept most of the cab ride to Jersey. So long to the

big city, for now. I left a note on the refrigerator for

Evie. It was actually more of a letter. Somehow I can

still write about her. But I see the rest of this city,

racing by like time moving with no shutter, up and

down the streets it all goes, the rows upon rows of

buildings, and in the midst of it all, I lose sight of

my creative conscience, my ability to pluck from the

chasms a whimsical manifestation of my existential

anxiety. Some things are just too suffocating. Any-

ways, I explained to Evie, though I hesitated with the

romanticism, as I tend to do with her, that the motions

were becoming a strain, the nights alone, she drawing

blood and I buried in my own arms, above the keys of

my typewriter. We had grown apart, and I was not sure

how long I’d be in Kansas. So naturally, I set her free.

This was a decision I have been pondering for some

time now. But I slept instead of crying. Sam was not

far, and my dreams would get me to Hoboken. In a

Shopmaker

The Dogs

Would Have It For Desert

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specific dream which I now remember, I saw myself a

character in Willard’s play, and as the play went on, I

seemed to become aware of it, of my dream, and in

my lucidity I drew a sword from my scabbard and cut

through the background, which split with the flimsi-

ness of cardboard. And on the other side, beyond the

set, I found myself wandering through a thick fog, one

so dense I could almost part it with my hands, and

eventually I came upon a dimly lit chamber, torches

aflame in the corners of the room, shadows plastered

upon the dingy stone walls, a loud whisper buzz-

ing in my ear, and there in the center was my father,

laying at his deathbed, my family grieving beside it,

my mother writhing with uncontrollable terror while

my brother wrapped his arms around her, burying his

head in her neck. And as I approached my father, I

realized it was not, in fact, him… It was me.

The cab driver woke me from my sleep, informing me

that we had arrived. Our flight was not until tomor-

row so I checked into the rooms above the bar Sam

had told me about. And here I am, sitting alone in this

one-bed room, awaiting the return of my fatherless

friend. The atmosphere of the room reminds me of

something out of a Sartre play, Second Empire furni-

ture, the walls covered in that tacky paper with stripes

and stripes of purple, orange, red, and white. Even

the desk is drab; nothing special about this room at

all, except for the grand mirror above the desk at

which I sit. I can see my reflection clearly, though the

mirror is about as tarnished and frayed as its aging sil-

ver frame. Nonetheless, I can see my unshaven cheek,

my listless eyes. Sometimes when I am alone, I think,

is this where I am supposed to be? And in this case, I

think it’s not. For a moment I think I see Evelyn sitting,

cross-legged on the bed, beckoning me, revealing the

hem of her stockings peaking out from under her baby

blue skirt, I can almost feel the friction of her touch

against my back, the alcohol swimming in our veins,

the sheets tangling with the edges of the bed. I can

feel the chill pulsating between the goosebumps on

her inner thigh, her muffled cries of passion snuffed

in the crease of my neck, the shiver and buckle of her

knees as I explore her garden, but when I awaken from

this momentary trance, from the wonderful illusion my

lack of sleep has provided, I’ll recognize that I’m re-

ally just tired. And let’s face it, there’s nothing there,

but a cold pillow, and a phone that still hasn’t brought

me the whereabouts of my friend. For a moment, I

imagine myself in Sam’s shoes, and I imagine it is my

dad, and briefly, my eyes well, and my heart contracts.

This is something I do all too often. I still remember

nights, sitting alone above the covers of my child-

hood bed, everyone else asleep, but not me, no, I was

too busy imagining the world after I die. And I would

start to cry, practically every time. The funny thing is,

it really wasn’t that uncommon of me to do. Perhaps

I’ve been pondering the tales of melancholy and the

infinite sadness since I was a boy.

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Zombie #3 Max Mikuleckydigital photo Kiosk

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Waiting for Walle (left)

Frozen Fish (right)

digital photos

Max Mikuleckly

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Plants don’t move like people do.

They are plants.

I don’t know if they have a soul,

or conscience,

or feelings,

but I’d rather not take the chance at

upsetting one.

Sarah

PylePlants

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Shaggy Dogg gnaws on a mouthful of rawhide

and wonders where all of this is going. The air

is stinky with exhaust fumes. It offers a piquant

bouquet, like sizzling Serrano peppers or a

rabbit that’s been split open top-to-bottom by

some blunt force trauma.

Shaggy Dogg likes

chasing cars because

it is dangerous and

futile.

Shaggy Dogg knows

he is what he eats.

Shaggy Dogg knows

that he is mostly

table scraps and the

wet leavings of cold

tin cans.

Shaggy Dogg is both

Man and Dog. Like a

werewolf, like a Jesus.

Like a wereJesus.

Shaggy Dogg is not

a werewolf. Shaggy

Dogg is not a Jesus.

Shaggy Dogg is not

a wereJesus.

Shaggy Dogg is

both Man and Dog.

Shaggy Dogg chews

on the grass until he

pukes everything and

then he tries to relax.

Somebody with a newspaper comes by and

swats Shaggy Dogg on the nose and Shaggy

Dogg tries to open a dialogue but they don’t

listen so he sinks his teeth into their arm and

they lock him up in a tiny parody of a house,

really almost an igloo. Shaggy Dogg knows he

should worry about the cultural appropriation

of Inuit winter housing and he tries to remind

himself he’s just a Dog but he can’t escape the

notion that that’s even more directly racist.

Shaggy Dogg

Young

Han Lester

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Shaggy Dogg huddles in a pile of rags and

listens to the WereJesuses as they howl at the

moon. “Your other cheek looks like a bunny

rabbit!” “That is pretty neat!” The WereJesuses

can sure get riled up.

Hoppin’ on

the furniture.

Thinkin’ they’re

people.

Shaggy Dogg tries to howl along and the

wereJesuses get really awkward for a moment

before saying “Yeah, that’s really nice, Shuggy

Digg. You should be an Olympic moon-howler!”

Shaggy Dogg dreams and wonders. He wonders

about the wereJesuses and their big smiles and

tired eyes. Something bigger than him passes

above his dream-senses.

Shaggy Dogg yelps and opens his paws. To

the floor flutters a flurry of the hairs of the son

of man that bit him. Stigmata blossom on his

arms. “Oh god!” he howls. “Oh god oh god

what have I become?”

The other wereJesuses come with big

stupid faces and ask if he wants to play

fetch. Shaggy Dogg yelps as the choke-

chain tightens.

Tivoli Lazio Sally Carmichaeldigital photo39

Allow events to

change you. You have

to be willing to grow.

Go deep.

Begin anywhere.

Slow down.

Desynchronize.

Forget about good.

Good is a known

quantity. Good is

Capture accidents.

Everyone is a leader.

Don’t be cool.

Cool is conservative

fear dressed in black.

Stay up late.

Process is more im-

portant than outcome.

Study.

A studio is a

place of study.

Harvest ideas.

Ask stupid questions.

Work the metaphor.

Love your experiments

(as you would an ugly

child).

Drift.

Allow yourself to

wander aimlessly.

Keep moving.

Collaborate.

Be careful to take risks.

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Break it, stretch it,

bend it, crush it,

crack it, fold it.

Laugh.

Don’t clean your desk.

Think with your mind.

Take field trips.

Explore the

other edge.

Remember.

Don’t enter awards

competitions.

Organization =

Liberty.

Make mistakes faster.

Coffee breaks, cab

rides, green rooms.

Power to the people.

Read only left-hand

pages.

Don’t borrow money.

Imitate.

Avoid fields.

Jump fences.

Avoid software.

Make new words.

Listen carefully.

Scat.

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Arthur Dodge digital photo Claire Dooley Kiosk

standing on the ends of branches and

falling feet first from the bonetree

bringing down the clouds

after plucking the moon’s thin grin

pulling the corners of the night sky

to fashion a new hide

lucid and everywhere

until I become that grand vista

forever stretching my arms out

moving all further apart

defining an edge of existence for the dead to walk upon

in the hopes that they’ll leave me alone

and maybe then I’ll enjoy the quiet

Gathering sticks behind grandmother’s house

to kindle my pyre

Ian

CookBonetree

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Kiosk

Meditation Chair

plywood & aluminum plating

Sarah Terranova

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on bicycles, red hooded elliots in alienating

darkness, we ride

there, the distant haze of smokestacks puff

puff puffing out all their cancerous secrets

until dawn,

there, the cantina forever flickering OPEN,

pouring out its José Cuervo mambos into

deserted lamplit streets,

there, the mosquitos stirring and

conferencing in lazy circles around the

riverbed and back around again,

Kiosk

Sarah

PyleGhosts of North Lawrence

there, the porchsitters of each crooked house,

talking, cigaretting, jazzing, tomorrowing: Ms.

Louanna made gingersnaps and the neighbor kids

made a trashcan fire to burn up their cares and Old

Widower Johnson made a makeshift wife because

he had forgotten how to sleep alone,

there, the coyotes in the fields howling for loss,

for forever chasing and never catching,

there, the junk piles, the great once-treasured

tragedies, chairsandtablesandbooksandlamps

stretching up and up forever into skyscrapers of

forgotten memories,

and here and there, and always, ten times an

hour every hour, the Lyon trains roaring past,

each crooked house becoming a rocking chair

of boxcar vibrations,

and here, now, forever, we feel the train’s hot

engine breath on our sleeves, so close,

and still so distant,

because it is going

somewhere we are not.

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J.R.C.

oil & acrylic

on canvas

Jill Kilgore

Kiosk

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Will

Jenkins

Under the light of a heat lamp her scales

gleam. She slides slithering

but a tap of the glass and she quickly coils

as if the eye of the Lord were upon her. Then moving

again ever so slightly, her long body tight

in one place, lurching in another is always so smooth.

Always contained in a smooth

glass terrarium, her scales

feel the artificial world tight,

contained, safe. Slithering

there, she is never filled with fear, just anxiously moving.

Restful at night under warm rays she coils.

Ball Python

When daylight peaks through the curtains the coils

of herself aren’t enough. She has to slide against the smooth

glass again. She sees him outside moving,

even leaving his terrarium he calls “Room”. He has no scales

on which to slide, slithering

from place to place, just sticks he calls “Legs”. At night he gets tight

in the Reptile Bark he calls “Bed”. His eyes get tight

like his knuckles as he coils.

Nightmares perhaps? Then she wonders what fears are slithering

beneath his skull. When dreaming the blankets are smooth,

less interesting for her with scales.

She would like to see him moving,

Kiosk

Lucanidae

bronze, brass &

square a crystal

Channing Taylor

always locked in panic, moving

the sheets like a struggling rat tight

in her grip. Without scales

he must be a rat, bred to be wrapped in coils.

He is a prisoner bound in arms and legs, not smooth

at all but hairy. He can’t own the earth, slithering

from place to place. Not like her kind, capable of slithering

to the sky through thick trees, moving

against the dust, or swimming in silky smooth

streams. But neither is she, tight

in her terrarium she coils,

simply counting her scales.

Those colorful scales go against the glass slithering,

then constricting into coils, never really moving.

Her body gets tight in one place, lurching in another but always so smooth.

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B R I N G I N G D O W N

T H E C L O U D S

a f T E R p L U C k I N G

T H E m O O N ’ S

T H I N G R I N

The Garden by Justin Belldigital photo Kiosk

B R I N G I N G D O W N

T H E C L O U D S

a f T E R p L U C k I N G

T H E m O O N ’ S

T H I N G R I N

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Thank You

Andrea

Herstowski

Student

Senate

Lauren

Schimming

Precision

Printing

Michael

Selby

Rachel

Gray

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