KIOSK

K I OS K 4 5Art & Literature Magazine

K I OS K 4 5The Creative Process

Designed, edited, and published by students,

Kiosk is a semi-annual, award-winning magazine

featuring the finest art and literature the

University of Kansas has to offer.

From the Sketchbook of Darren Kennedy

8

Design Staff Tyler AdamsAnna Defaz io Jess ica Marak Lauren Sch immingMorgan Stephens

Editorial Staff Ryan Faz io

E l len Goodr ichAmanda Hemmingsen Kather ine Longofono Sydney Ray lRobin Smith Savannah Windham

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Carolyn Applebaum 87

Ami Ayars 42

Alexandr ia Browne 7 1

Sal ly Carmichael 18

Jenna Coon 70

Mars Denton 13

Seth Dugger 19

Graham Greene 18 , 19

Er in Hoffmann 42

Yewon J i 84

Darren Kennedy 4 , 19

Whitney Kinnamon 74, 75

Cameron Lamontagne 18 , 34, 35 , 55

Maddie Lyt le 30

Jess ica McGlothl in 27, 69

Max Mikulecky 56, 57

Adam Mi l ler 32

Robert Nelson 61 , 85

Kar ina Perez-Fajardo 51

Grace Peterson 22

Tessa Reuber 68

El in i Roussopoulos 44

Alexandra Sova 14 , 73 , 80, 92 , 93

Ryan Sowers 43

John Str inger 41 , 76

Kel ly Thompson 67

Heid i Wetzel 26 , 46, 64, 96, 97

Jess ica Wooldr idge 62, 63

Er in Z ingré 82 , 98 , 101 , 103

featuring the artwork of

BECKY MANDELBAUM

“Bonobo”

DANA WILBE

“Th i rd Avenue Br idge”

JOSH BARKER

“C lusterbomb”

JORDAN SERENE KRUSE

“What I t ’s L ike to be Afra id of the Dark”

STEPHEN WEBB

“Dark L ight ”

CHANCE CARMICHAEL

“ROMANTI-SCHISM”

ALEX SALEM

“Berdkhat”

JOSH BARKER

“Boomtown Museum Blues”

featuring the writing of

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52

54

20

24

28

12

MEGAN MINEAR

“Remember ”

MEAGHAN MOODY

“My Mother ”

CHERAÉ CLARK

“Rapunze l”

BRENDAN ALLEN

“A Rose Named Bi l l ”

KOLLIN BLACK

“Ti l l Fo i l Hat ”

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65

78

88

94

99

JULIE TRECHAK

“Seams”

13

I will admit that I’ve never been happy with

this bonobo on my shoulder. It was summer-

time when we met, or rather when he accosted

me in the middle of a house tucked away in

some ridiculous valley where it always rained

and the wood was warped.

“I’ll piss off eventually,” the bonobo told me,

after scratching my cheek with his tiny claws.

“It’s fine,” I mumbled, because at the time I

thought it was.

I was very sad about something that had to do

with my brother and he had distracted me from

a particularly bad bout of crying. The blood

pooling on my cheek made the internal sadness

seem much less real.

BECKY MANDELBAUM

14

Untitled

MonoprintMars Denton

15

Panther Party

Cast yellow bronzeAlexandra Sova

16

I began feeding it bananas almost

immediately.

“Do you have a banana?” he asked,

only an hour or so after he had made

himself comfortable on my shoulder.

We had been staring blankly into my

back yard and the day was actually

becoming more and more beautiful,

or bearable at least.

And I did have a banana and it was

ripe. I secretly had a bunch of them,

but I made the decision not to let on.

I had a feeling if I told him, he would

grab the lot and run.

As I hoped, we soon found ourselves

spending the evening together on

that porch, sharing tiny bites of the

browning banana until it was gone

and all that was left was the peel,

a pale, deflated octopus that the

bonobo kept squeezed tight in its

fist for nearly the entire night. I later

found the peel in the yard, a black

and shriveled corpse that looked too

much like a dead octopus.

“If you give me a quarter I’ll do a back

flip for you,” he said several days later.

I said sure and gave him the only

quarter in my pocket. I later received

a parking ticket because I didn’t have

change for the meter.

The back flip was good, though, and

I felt myself thoroughly entertained.

“Would you like to sit on my shoul-

der?” I asked him. “I’ve seen that type

of thing in movies. I think you’d like it

up there.”

“Why not,” he said. And that was that.

A year has passed and the bonobo

has only showered twice. His fur is

mangled and infested with fleas that

I find crawling across my bed sheets

in the night. I tell him to leave, but

once he lifts even a hind leg from my

shoulder I begin to miss him. “Wait,

don’t go,” I always end up saying,

regretting the satisfied, toothy grin

he returns.

There was one time when I went an

entire five days without looking at or

speaking to the bonobo. He didn’t

seem to care, just went right along

eating peanuts and winking at my

roommates.

I finally gave in and asked if he want-

ed to see a movie. He said no, that he

would rather just take a nap on my

shoulder. So he did, and I felt relieved

that he had even responded to my

voice. I was grateful for his weight on

my shoulder.

Last spring, the bonobo tried to

leave me. We were walking downtown

when he saw a very skinny girl in a

paisley dress sitting in a coffee shop.

He hopped off my shoulder and went

to meet her. For the next two days he

was gone, having made himself a new

home around this girl’s slender neck.

I often thought he left her because

there was simply not enough area for

him to rest on, what with her shoul-

ders being so small. But I later found

out it was because the girl had a

strong banana allergy.

I often wonder what life would

be like if I had never let the bonobo

climb onto my shoulder. I think of

all the shawls I could be wearing, of

the somersaults I’ve never done. The

weight on my shoulder is starting to

hurt. The skin underneath it feels hot,

and I suspect there is a rather serious

rash spreading. I feel unbalanced,

always like I am about to tip over.

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18

19

1 2

3

4

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From the Sketchbooks of Graham Greene 1,7 Sally Carmichael 2,3Cameron Lamontagne 4Seth Dugger 5Darren Kennedy 6

5 6

7

21

DANA WILBE

In the cold months, the

Ice on the pavement

Forms bas relief footprints,

Charts the paths of the

Braver dog walkers and

The bag ladies.

The Warehouse District

Shivers this time of day

Smoke softens sharp architecture

Turns the intersections into

Pillowy contours

“Gold Medal Flour”

Advertises itself in hazy red.

So many cracks in the sidewalk

Serve as a testament to the

Sharpest of air

Over the sharpest of water

Lung-cutting,

Skin-shriveling

Cold.

But the city keeps breathing

With its hundred bridges between

Buildings, in a state with

Ten thousand lakes

It is this one, a

Bridge over the river

That offers itself to so many

Spiders, the perpetual tree

Caught in the dam below,

Generations of mallards swimming

To Hennepin Avenue

Glowing green upstream

And me,

Returning to this concrete haunt,

A name for empty space,

Its beauty not prevailing for

What it is, but what it’s

Witnessed.

23

Dark Matter 11 Monoprint9" by 14"Grace Peterson

25

JOSH BARKER

26

Syllables

in dawn’s light foreplay--

Ache. Blur.

I pause, break for

American squeamishness

(Context by proxy

adult to party

money and shot--

That pause.)

I don’t know

how to make a bomb

but I know foreboding,

Swallowed fist music

of foreign names

cornered in newsprint.

Front page accolades

in honeycombed churches

honor

The word that

screams down newsprint,

explodes the mouth

repeating

Clusterbomb

Clusterbomb

Clusterbomb

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Into the Fog Lithography Print11" by 14"Heidi Wetzel

Coral Reef Screenprint on Cotton45" by 50"Jessica McGlothin

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JORDAN SERENE KRUSE

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Blame it on chemicals; neurons zapping around like jellyfish

while my body is highly starched tissue paper.

“This is quite silly. It’s in your head.”

“It stems from an inability to distinguish reality from fiction”

“She has an overactive imagination is all.”

But wait!

I’m not waving but drowning.

There should be a pill for this.

31

MorningDigital PhotographMaddie Lytle

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UntitledDigital PhotographAdam Miller

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from the sketchbook of Cameron Lamontagne

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37

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DARK LIGHT

If there really is gray,

Why can’t it reach out and touch your face?

How come it cannot kiss you like the darkness,

How come it cannot embrace you like the light.

How come it cannot consume you like tragedy,

How come it cannot become you like tranquility.

How come it cannot immerse you with misery,

How come it cannot incite you with pleasure.

How come it cannot make you a cynic with a mind pained by the concerns of a terrorist,

How come it cannot make your brain optimistic, always looking for a new day.

How come it cannot freeze your heart into a frigid object that will never thaw,

How come it can’t warm your chest, providing shelter from the world.

How come it can’t be found by hate,

Greed has looked for it all this time, is it too late?

How come purity cannot locate it,

How could it be so elusive for fondness to sit.

How could it be in front of your face this whole time,

But you could never see it,

How could you feel gray,

But only see light or darkness.

How could you ingest only one Life,

When you know that both are human.

STEPHEN WEBB

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40

41

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Memory 2 Oil on CanvasJohn Stringer

RemnantCast Iron & ConcreteAmi Ayars

UnititledErin Hoffmann

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Sir William Wallace, Guardian of ScotlandInk drawing with digital colorRyan Sowers

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The Escape Artist Digital PhotographEleni Roussopoulos

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Yellow Map Ink, Silk & Paper24" by 32"Heidi Wetzel

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B E R DK H A T

ALEX SALEM

50

You’re a bird.

Flying at night through cat eyed lens

You see the city

Waff the pollution

Feel the wind

Hear the train as you imagine

The taste of boxed peanuts.

The smell of night moves you

As hunger pushes you farther

Into the sky.

Consuming the stars, one by one

You reckon they’ll be there

Night after night.

Bitter winds

Draw the feeling of autumn in the spring

You cast a cloud over each direction

To push the journey

Closer to home.

When you find this place

You will see

That this nourishing city

Is no more

None other than buildings and lights

They shine, shine

Shine until the bulbs go out

Until the concrete tumbles

They shine on dimmed silhouettes,

Life seen through cat eyed lens.

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52

Aguacate 1

Colored Pencil

Karina Perez-Fajardo

53

JOSH BARKER

BOOMTOWN

MUSEUMBLUES

54

Coronado balked, called across

thigh high grains La tierra inferma.

Bereft but of cottonwood river ribbing.

A ground grown humble each spring,

watched iron dome Spaniards skulk south.

God called whiter ones west riding coal

trains steeped with stripped hide,

humps baking beneath sun all dust

in cupboards and clouds of dry dirt

thunder.

Find me here

by porchlight houses.

Where ranges are open

in name alone.

Flinthills of five-wire land quilted

in cattle chute sections winnowing

away to pump-gun death.

Found where orange-bill birds

whir and dip tethered forever to

oil strings, held crude in crosstate hands.

I stand in museums, run fingers

cross their hollow bones reciting names

of oil hands spun to stumps, fingers pulped

opal in pump-rods before screams could ring.

Here where two-lane flyers,

grated gravel drive-a-ways heave

bottles at low bridge placards.

Where Vitnam vet mayors saunter

bib-overalled and armed to from and behind bars.

A land of scant-eye anhydrous hounds—

Black teeth by twenty at thirty moldered

to grave root food.

Fence caught bags or blustered spirits refined

yet still flapping at the pumps.

For God so loved these plains he spun

the sky a mobile. Coronado’s compass.

Black and chaff unscarred by borealis.

Unbroken soother of coyote and bored

450 wail-aways.

My brighter black distinguisher of land

from saltrocked oil. Oil bird

belts winding wind that blows

ashen ancestor over hedgerow

and turd pond alike.

Where we’re all roots to be,

waiting rise from chaffed flame

to suck salt off bison bone long

after rust clogs the final pumpbird songs.

55

CHANCE CARMICHAEL

56

The blizzard’s ghostly moan

soothed me to sleep

and dug into me in the morning.

I thought,

“I bet if I could see their eyes,

I would feel their terror.”

Then I thought,

“No, I wouldn’t.”

Windwarped with wearywings,

they looked miserable,

and confused,

and anxious,

and irritatedasfuck,

and, most of all, terrified.

But I couldn’t

even see their faces.

The burning note of every complaint-song

spun into and out of me with every inhale and exhale

the night before.

When I saw those birds

I tried to purge every note I’d heard

and re-swallow every one I’d sung.

It was impossible.

There were birds outside my window.

Even though the chilled air was chirpless.

They were fly-hopping from tree to tree

and back again.

And it looked more difficult than

anything I’ve ever had to do.

From the Sketchbook of Cameron Lamontagne

57

Cunningham Park, JoplinDigital PhotographyMax Mikulecky

Guest RoomDigital PhotographyMax Mikulecky

JULIE TRECHAK

60

All that talk of jeans & haircuts,

the trim

off the back of the head, he said

I’d feel self-conscious for two months

one for now and one for later.

I had never felt the razor - bristles of

where neck meets skull before

& now I can run my hand

over shaved hair

& wonder about him.

61

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Egg HeadsPencilRobert Nelson

63

Untitled Digital PhotographJessica Wooldridge

Untitled Digital PhotographJessica Wooldridge

Three Red PeppersOil on PanelHeidi Wetzel

I modeled my dress in the mirror, it

was the proper thing to do if I wanted

to drop jaws. My heels would make

me the same height as him. I liked the

leverage. I wanted to look him in the

eye. I wanted him to recognize me.

The music played, and I would have

to yell to be heard. I walked up to the

bar and stood next to him. I acted

like I didn’t know him. He started to

walk away. He didn’t recognize me. I

turned, not following. He’d recognize

me when he came back to the bar.

I waited at the bar, killing every

cranberry and vodka that the horny

ones sent my way. It’s what I did

best; parade around in my skimpy red

cocktail dresses, waiting, and flashing

a little leg for others to reward me

with a shot. It passed the time faster,

and I could control myself. I knew

MEGAN MINEAR

how to make the world stop spinning

too fast. People’s faces never blurred.

I always remember a face; it makes it

easier to get them alone if I do, except

for with him. He is more difficult.

He caught my attention every time.

How could I forget him? He’s a regular.

He was the only one I wanted this

weekend. I pulled my dress down to

show a small strip of cleavage and

leaned against the bar. He walked by.

He just didn’t see me. The bastard

must not recognize me. I’ll make sure

that’s fixed. He’s such a pain in the

ass. They all are.

“Two beers.” I dropped a twenty

on the counter. I’d try to win it back

later. The foam built in the top; the

way he liked it. That’s what he told

me the last time, before the blond

from the black jack table stole his

attention. He liked blonds.

I put the beer in front of him and

stood a step behind him. “Remember

me?” I tried to sound seductive. He

wasn’t drunk enough.

“Should I?” He sniffed the beer.

Does he think I drugged the beer?

Why didn’t I think of that?

“You will this time.” I brushed my

chest against his back and tapped my

beer to his. “Cheers.” I was going to

need more to drink.

—

“Come on, Sam. You don’t

remember me? It was that night

inside the Eiffel Tower by the fake

gondola ride and Dip’N’Dots stands.”

“Your name is…” No recognition in

his eyes. Déjà vu.

Robyn. “Nicole.” He didn’t need the

truth, he’d forget again anyways.

67

“Not familiar.”

“Let’s dance.”

“Nah.” He doesn’t dance. He was

playing games. So was I. He was

betting against me. Not his smartest

move. I always win.

—

He was playing the slots, sitting

next to the old lady with blue hair that

never left the machine. His cologne

entranced me, fancy colognes always

did. I pulled my dress higher up on

my thigh, my legs looked longer. My

chest pressed into his back.

“Buy me a drink.” I bit my lip.got a

beer. Two beers. Three shots.

I rubbed against him, called it

dancing. He was drunk. His pupils

were dilated. “I’m in room 376. I’m

going there now, so are you.” I slid my

teeth on his earlobe, getting caught

on the diamond earring. He liked that.

He followed me.

In the elevator I loosened his tie.

“Don’t look so scared. I don’t bite.”

Hard. I kissed his cheek. He kissed

my lips. The elevator stopped, but

nobody got on. We got off.

I walked in front of him. He watched

my ass. The green light flashed on my

door, and I pushed it open. I turned a

lamp on, and Sam followed me in. His

salt and pepper hair framed his tan

face. His eyes were watching me. I

took a step back, and he pinned me

to the wall. Let him think he’s in

control, just for a minute. I gasped,

then forced a giggle when he nudged

my throat.

I pressed my lips to his and tried

not to gag. His hands shook down

my body like a virgin. I pulled him to

the bed. His shirt tore easily when

I pulled. I had practiced. My nails

raked even red rows in his raw chest.

He was turned on. So was I.

He liked when I pushed him back

on the bed. I liked when he told me

to hold his hands above his head. It

made him vulnerable. It was more

exhilarating when he was vulnerable.

His eyes were closed. I made his sock

a blindfold. He settled in, anxious for

the ride he thought he was expecting.

A thousand dollar tie draped the

headboard, the pricey suit from his

million dollar body looked better on

the floor with his wallet slipping out.

It made the passion overwhelming me

more powerful, desire dripping down

my leg and my mouth watering. I

licked his neck, feeling it flutter under

my tongue, imagining it constrict

beneath my fingers. He liked when a

girl choked him; I wouldn’t let go. I’d

use his tie, it would be classier. He’d

call it kinky. Small spits of blood

stained my nails, the skin of his chest

red, he groaned and twitched against

my leg. I scraped his shoulders and

tightened the tie. He gasped. I tasted

iron, running my tongue over his chest

before nipping his bottom lip. The

blood on my nails matched my dress,

and his tie, but the white of his face

made a pleasant contrast. It was my

climax; I couldn’t stop.

Sam was a millionaire. One! Two!

Three! Four! Five! million dollars

slipped into my grasp with passing

moments. He lay still. It made it

easier for me to finish. I kept my

dress on, but moved to look in his

pockets. I liked finding new toys;

he wouldn’t fight back. The folded

metal cooled my palm, warming the

adrenalin pulsing in my core. A

click locked, we both twitched. His

muscles locked, mine raged for more.

“You didn’t remember me.” I kissed

his cheek. He couldn’t breathe, and

he didn’t choke on the blood excuding

through his bared esophagus. “I tried

every night. I should’ve been blond

from the beginning.” I dropped the

blond wig on his chest. I looked at

my hands; they hurt. His wallet on

the floor tempted me. “Lust is a

deadly sin, but so is greed.” He wasn’t

listening to me. I didn’t expect him to.

His eyes were open under the sock,

stealing for a final view he didn’t see.

He wanted to remember me.

His wallet landed back on the

ground, lighter than before. My left

breast was slightly larger than my

right, the cup becoming a temporary

wallet. I liked the cash close to my

heart. I needed to clean up, admiring

the darkened splatters on my dress.

Next time I’d wear black. I thought

my hands looked better red, but

the water turned them white again.

The soap stung the scratches in my

fingers. I hated feeling pain. The

bubbles turned pink, but I always

assume it’ll turn red. I kissed his

cheek, putting on my stilettos.

I played the slot machine on the

way out, but I didn’t win anything.

I walked away with a million dollars on

my chest. I learned when gambling

in Vegas, many win, and everyone

loses. Some stories get shared, some

ignored, and some forgotten. I’d

remember.

68

Change Digital PhotographKelley Thompson

69

Be Bee

Cotton, Pigment, Aquarelle PencilTessa Reuber

70

Barbie Screen

Silkscreen Jessica McGlothlin

71

Passing Through a Flint Hills Afternoon Oil PaintingJenna Coon

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2

Trees

WatercolorAlexandria Browne

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In KnotsPatinated Copper & BrassAlexandra Sova

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Mom, Chestnut Orchard, Lawrence, Kansas 4"x5" Camera Negative, ScannedWhitney Kinnamon

Old Barn, Lawrence, Kansas 4"x5" Camera Negative, ScannedWhitney Kinnamon

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Portrait of Diana VreelandOil & Gesso on PaperJohn Stringer

79

M Y M OT H E R

MEAGHAN MOODY

80

Sometimes I call my mother

to unravel

and sink into her banter.

She lives alone

with my father,

and my sister’s there too.

I ask, “How are you?”

and turn the volume down

real low.

Thin strands of my own thoughts

reach out,

suspended

in her chilled waters.

My own voice sounds stagnant,

when I reply.

Last breath lost,

allowing her currents to

engulf me.

81

Reliq Brass, Copper & EnamelAlexandra Sova

Dia De Los Muertos Choker Ancient Bronze, Anodized AluminumAlexandra Sova

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Collage IErin Zingré

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Sketchbook spreads Yewon Ji

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From the Sketchbook of Robert Nelson

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Built for Two Micron PenCarolyn Applebaum

CHERAÉ CLARK

“Mommy, can I wear my hair down?”

Tiffany had been working up to that

question all morning, starting and

stopping.

Standing on a chair, Tiffany peeled

the scarf off of her head in the

bathroom mirror while her mother

ironed Tiffany’s uniform shirt in the

connected room. Every time her

mother had to iron Tiffany’s clothes in

the daytime, Tiffany knew she would

be late to school. She hated being late

to school. None of the other students

were. It also meant she didn’t get to

sit in the cafeteria with her friends

before marching to class in silent,

single file. Mommy wasn’t dressed yet

either, which meant they would be

even more late.

“Did you already make your lunch,

Tiff?” Mommy didn’t look up from the

plaid jumper.

Tiffany nodded. She loved how she

could watch her mother from the

mirror without having to turn around.

It was like having eyes in the back of

her head, like Grandma.

“I asked you if you made your

lunch, Tiffany?”

Tiffany slid off the chair and

grabbed her oxford blouse, still

warm from the iron, and put it on.

“Yes, ma’am.” She fumbled the

buttons closed, then tugged at the

little balls wrapped around the end

of her hair twists. Today’s hair balls

were glittery blue and silver. They

were her favourite.

“Stop that.” Her mother shook the

jumper once and helped Tiffany

slide it over her head.

“Mommy, can I take these out?

I want to wear my hair down like

Kelly.” Tiffany tugged a ball off and

the twisted ponytail sprang apart

into two thick, separate clumps.

“Tiff, please, stop that.” Mommy

tapped Tiffany’s hand away and

twisted the hair back together again,

making sure the balls were wrapped

around extra tight. When Mommy

frowned, she looked like a tree

because the lines around her mouth

were like bark, and her skin was

brown, too. “Who is Kelly?”

90

“You know Kelly. You took me to her

sleepover. She has the blonde hair. Her

mom always lets her wear it down, or

in one ponytail.”

Mommy disappeared into her

closet, but Tiffany could still hear her

heavy voice. She only sounded like

that because she was tired. She had

overheard Grandma saying Mommy

was tired because Daddy left, but

Tiffany didn’t think so. Mommy was

tired because she worked too

much. She always got home late.

“Not today, honey.”

“Why not?” It wouldn’t be that hard.

All she had to do was take out the balls

and the rubber bands, maybe. And then

splash some water on it so that it would

lay flat like Kelly’s.

No sound came out of the closet for

so long that Tiffany almost asked again.

Then her mother came back out.

“Wait until you’re older.”

At recess, passing a basketball back

and forth, Kelly asked Tiffany, again,

why she never wore her hair down.

It was the third time this week and

for the third time, Tiffany answered,

“I don’t know. My mom doesn’t let me.”

She shook her head, the hair balls

clacking against themselves like the

kickballs on pavement.

“Well, why not? All you have to do

is take out those things.” Kelly pointed

at Tiffany’s sparkly hair balls.

Tiffany shrugged. It made sense.

She didn’t know why her mother

thought she had to be older. It wasn’t

that hard to do; she could manage it

herself now, at seven years old.

“Okay, let’s do it,” she said.

And together, they undid the six

balls and unraveled the six twisted

ponytails and tugged off the six

rubber bands that held the tails in

place. Some of the rubber bands

broke, snapping their fingers, but

Tiffany told Kelly it was okay; her mom

had a whole tub with hundreds of

tiny black rubber bands. Tiffany didn’t

have any pockets, so the hair balls

spilled from their fists.

91

When they were done, Tiffany’s

scalp felt free. The constant tug of

the rubber bands on each strand of

hair was gone, and her head tingled

at the lack of pressure. But even

though the balls and rubber bands

were gone, her hair still stuck in its

sections, held together by pale hair

grease and the good dark gel that

didn’t flake and make other girls call

her “Dan Druff.” She didn’t know

who Dan Druff was, but she was glad

when Mommy stopped putting the

white gel on her head.

“We have to go put water on it,”

Tiffany said. “It’s the only way to make

it lay down like yours.”

At the next bathroom break, they

hurried to the sink and scooped

handfuls of water onto Tiffany’s head,

ignoring the way the water spilled on

their matching jumpers and blouses.

It dripped down Tiffany’s face and

into her eyes, but it didn’t burn like

shampoo. She hated when Grandma

washed her hair and foamy soap got

into her eyes; even holding a towel

over her face couldn’t stop all of

it. Also, the water in the bathroom

at school was cool, like swimming.

Tiffany loved swimming, but she had

never thought to take out the hair

balls before she went swimming. She

could try that this summer, though,

because it worked so well now.

Her hair dripped onto her shoulders, but the weight of the

water made her hair hang down just above her shoulders,

like Kelly’s but darker, and loosely wavy. Tiffany tossed

her head like a singer, or the girls in the hair commercials,

flinging water across the bathroom. Kelly did too and they

giggled and shook their heads until the teacher came to

get them out of the bathroom.

When the teacher saw them, she frowned. Tiffany grabbed

paper towels. She should have known the teacher would be

angry about getting their clothes wet.

By the end of the day, Tiffany’s hair no longer hung down

onto her damp shoulders. As it dried, it had risen, poofing

out like a strangely-shaped dark cloud around her head. At

the last bathroom break before they went home, she tried

to wet it again, but her teacher wouldn’t let her.

Tiffany was one of the last kids in the parking lot when

Grandma finally came. She always had to rush over from

her own school to pick Tiffany up. She hated being the last

one to leave school almost as much as being the last one

to get there.

“What in God’s name, little girl?” Grandma grabbed Tiffany

too tightly by the hand, walking so fast Tiffany had to skip to

keep up. Grandma muttered out of the corner of her mouth,

looking around at the last few parents there, with their

daughters who could wear their hair down. “I’m going to

switch you when we get home, just you wait. Embarrassing.”

Tiffany wanted to apologise for getting her clothes wet.

She still felt the clamminess across her shoulder blades.

Grandma slammed the door, too soon, though, and when

she got into the driver’s seat, she didn’t seem like she

wanted to talk. The last time Tiffany talked when Grandma

didn’t want her to talk, she got popped in the mouth. She

knew better than to talk now.

When they got home, Grandma sent Tiffany to the room

they shared room to think about what she had done,

embarrassing them like that. Tiffany cried into her pillow

in anticipation of a thin tree switch smacking across her

bottom. She hated it most when Grandma did it. She yelled

at the door, promising she would never make a mess on her

clothes again.

92

Her face tear-streaked and her head pounding from all of

her crying, Tiffany sat while Grandma combed through all

the now-dried curls. Sometimes, she tugged too hard and

when Tiffany whimpered, Grandma said, “Hush!” but also

said, “I’m sorry, baby.” This time, Grandma sealed the ends

of the twists with rubber bands from the giant bowl. The

hair balls were still at the bottom of Tiffany’s book bag.

Dinner came quietly at their small kitchen table, and

there was still no spanking. Maybe Mommy would do it,

then, Tiffany hoped. But when Mommy came, there was

still no spanking, just her quiet tree trunk frown. Mommy

and Grandma talked alone in Mommy’s room with the

door closed. Tiffany tried to listen through the crack at the

carpet, but it didn’t work.

When Grandma came out, Tiffany hid under the blankets

in their bed, curled into one of her grandmother’s giant

t-shirts, hoping that her grandmother wouldn’t wake her

up just to spank her. It had worked before, but it had also

failed once. But she had been really bad then, and she

hoped this time wasn’t as much trouble. This time, she had

even put her scarf on, to give Grandma no excuse to wake

her up.

Tiffany stopped squeezing her eyes tight when Grandma

simply said her prayers and climbed into bed. When

Grandma’s snores started, Tiffany finally felt assured

enough to fall asleep herself, cuddled against her

Grandma’s back.

Nothing happened the next day, either, but that weekend,

Tiffany would sit for five hours getting her hair braided,

every bit of her own hair woven with a little bit of silky

hair that didn’t feel like hers. She liked it because it felt

more like Kelly’s. Getting braids hurt

even more than when Grandma had

to comb through it, even more than

the hot straightening comb. It was

also boring, but the lady did Tiffany’s

hair in her living room so they could

watch TV. The lady burned the fake

hair at the tips so that Tiffany couldn’t

unravel them. When Mommy paid, her

smile was stretched too tight, the smile

she used when Tiffany got in trouble

in public. Tiffany would bite and pick

at the ends until they frayed, but she

still liked them. They hung down her

shoulders and she could tie them up in

a long, swinging ponytail or wear her

hair down whenever she wanted.

93

Reflections Digital PhotographAlexandra Sova

Subterra Digital PhotographAlexandra Sova

94

96

A rose named Bill

is like

a boy named Sue,

or a ladybug

with baritone

resonance.

Now I imagine

Johnny Cash’s

sandpaper blankets -

gritty smoke billows

from the mouths of

Disnified fluffballs.

A cartoon cottontail

ordering whiskey, straight,

buckteeth and booze slurring

an ill-advised

whats-up-doc.

The soot of a midnight train-hop

matting feathers of

stone-beaked parakeets.

Cigarette-stained chirps echo boxcars.

Bambi pickin’ banjo –

“Momma died so soon

with it, daddy’s love

the forest ain’t no place

for a boy on his own.”

I want to sow my beard

into bashful soil.

Grow me rugged and mean,

silent and strong.

97

Five Dollar Bag Study 11" by 14" Oil on PaperHeidi Wetzel

98

Five Dollar Bag 18" by 24" Oil on PanelHeidi Wetzel

99

L’Ambitieuse Ink & WatercolorsErin Zingré

100

TIN FOIL HAT

For a whole week the stench clung to our clothes and hair. Early in the morning

there was just enough breeze to sweep

some smell from the brick road, only to be

overcome by buttery food smells in the sun

of the afternoon. People hustled down

alleyways and large trucks flickered yellow

as men in grey jump suits unloaded card-

board boxes of liquor and kegs of beer.

Closer to the Mississippi river the sun

ripened as the cascading balconies and

gardens gave way to a wooden dock where

steamboat Natchez stood idle, the water

warbling along the red and white paint of

her hull. I unfolded a newspaper on the

brown grass along the river carefully read

each word. I read that the Middle East is

on fire and I imagined how bullets flew

into protestors and women and children

and I imagined the dusty bloody ground

penetrated by green fleshy sprouts as their

bodies curled in uncertainty.

KOLLIN BLACK

101

My eyes wallowed in a boat on the

musty crusty-smelling grass, they

paddled desperately for steady land.

In the morning hobo Scott Dunbar

played accordion to little children

skipping and fanny packs unzipping at

Café Du Monde and a mass blundered

in line for little fried doughnuts

sprinkled with powder sugar served on

a cream colored plate and conversation

faded to the dinging of metal forks and

the slurping of café au alit.

The steamboat Natchez blew on the

Mississippi, the toxic and murky water

crashed on the hull churning up a

foamy wake.

That evening they stumbled through

the street with hand grenades and

hurricanes and paid for tarot card

readings and listened to brassy jazz

bands and preachers on soap boxes

for hours in Jackson Square and

walked the neon haze of Rue Bourbon

and puffed cigarettes and went into

strip clubs while children tapped on

cardboard boxes

and a couple of coked out drifters

sat swaying and swinging on a porch

I traversed the open dizzy street and I

picked up their guitar after I set down

my beer I let them have it after they

took a drink and I plucked the worn

strings and illogical noises permeated

from the cracked wooden body and

I realized there is no time to tune up

when you tune out everyone has a

story everyone has a song.

I noticed a dense crowd of men encircling

a topless woman.

Waves rushed along the steamboat and

the wooden columns of the dock plunged

deep into the dark waters. Midnight music

echoed from the bright deck in harmony

with the gargling waters undertone.

In the heart of the French Quarter I was

insane on hurricanes as the ghost tour

crowded the on the sagging sidewalk the

ghost connoisseur Stacy herded our mass

up and down the dark alleys and damp streets

and chanted Voodoo Pirates Slavery

gnawing on tightly wound knots of history

swallowing the swampy water table

devouring big names like Truman Capote

Stacey grew black in the hot air of New Orleans’

streets in the stares of the sheep (the stumbling

drunkards with strollers) the cigarette air barreling

in each direction her silver regurgitating tongue

darting around each phrase.

102

Panda Family Portrait Ink & WatercolorsErin Zingré

103

I woke up and took a bus through the

bayou to see the Oak Alley plantation.

Outside the city I saw the Mississippi

from a huge steel bridge that over-

looked miles of Louisiana country.

Chemical plants dotted the horizon

and there was a fuzzy smell and the

bus driver said that you would get

used to it if you lived here. I looked

at smoke stack after smoke stack

bellowing putrid white vapor into

the innocent sky. It reminded me of

watching the oil spew in the gulf

for months on end. I wanted to

scream and yell and kick and

scream some more.

I plugged my little white headphones

into my brain and I was there.

Over the oaks from the top deck

windows of the white house I saw

the earthen levy holding back the

noxious Mississippi river. In between

the fat lady’s very long scary stories

(of the ever-right never-wrong noble

creole) I gleaned one gleaming fact:

the oaks were here before the house.

A mystic tribe scraped the earth

and planted rows leading to the

noxious Mississippi before we made

our own meaning.

A crusty brown map framed on the

wall looked like a treasure map tinted

with black lines and shades of green

(cotton) and red (sugar cane).

I saw pictures of maps of divided

land of white people of landscapes

of particular documents saying this

person owned it after this person had

it and particular sayings that were

about this house and it has been

in this movie or that movie and the

white settlers loved cotton but sugar

cane made more money and their

beds had room for blocks of ice and

big rooms to seat grandiose drunk

vibrant parties.

From the top deck windows the

wooden shanty shacks that housed

the slaves were not visible.

I did not see the slave quarters and I

did not see where water was boiled to

season and cook the puny scraps of

meat I did not see the blood marks

on the brown grass from their beaten

naked bodies I did not see their

rocking chairs and I did not hear the

beating music of their instruments

and I saw no map dividing up the

muddy land I saw no white and yellow

bannisters and grand staircases no

beautiful wooden table for twenty

guests no bedrooms full of ice no

windows facing the towering oaks.

The fat lady said that mint juleps are

only four dollars I almost threw up.

I care when the echoes sound in

my sleep and make meaning out of

image. I creep silently into a moat

surrounding the bubbling city. I float

adrift down the lonesome moat and

stare at the bright bubbling city

that glows in the distance. I circle

over and over and over and I can’t

stop. I want to wander into the

bubbling bright city and understand

every layer. The echoes give me an

eerie feeling and I want to feel how

disconnected I can become and how

obsolete the little rivers and dugouts

and broad levees are, and how every

pool of warm steamy water and

every unhealed wound and all the

biting ravenous fish from the richest

countries make me scratch the

inside of my skull. I want to consume

all the horrible diseases and the

thick blotches that scar us all.

We had several juleps and Po’ boys

paid our bill and went back to the

Chateau Bourbon and opened the

door with a plastic key and took off

our clothes and went to bed and it

was comfortable in our bed.

104

Dusty red lit roads stretch into

the distance

a purple vortex circling,

maddening over head

shifting gasps of green

over the slanted dull levy

drifting I was

drifting through the echoes

through the stories of another

through the echoes of terror

the trembling bumbling terror

consuming my eye with streams

of golden green and powder blue

my might is shattered

and helplessness overcomes

shallow thoughts again

the simple delusional man

Walking down the street I met this man

this dark man who clenched a spray

bottle and a dirty towel.

Him: Hey, shoe shine for twenty dollars?

Me: I’m wearing tennis shoes

Him: Ten dollars?

Me: (drunken contemplation) sure

I could hear his teeth chattering and

his veins retreating into his arm as he

sprayed water on wiped the oaky mud

off my shoes. He ran with my money

faster than I have run in my whole life.

Walking down the street I met another

dark man his teeth shining behind

his lips

Him: Can you buy me a drink?

Me: Sure (drunk)

Him: Thanks

Me: Where should we go?

Him: The karaoke bar

Me: (awkward pause)

Me: So how high did the water get?

Drummer PandaInk & WatercolorsErin Zingré

He pointed to the balconies dripping

with green vines

the night pounded away between the

open windows and doors of bars and

pizza shops where they sold liquor

smoothies and men closed their

eyes and pressed their faces into the

breasts of women tonguing colored

tubes of happiness because you have

to drink it that way

my eyes were never closed but

they were never really open either

they just stayed glued to the melody

of the night and bounced from scene

to scene as I walked on water in New

Orleans cement walls keeping me

from floating in New Lake Orleans

and the barman was brave the people

were brave they were strong and

independent thinkers who hurried like

little brass cannons bright in the sun

on the edge of Bourbon and Canal

the American dream blew up like

a thousand little cannons perched

on the Mayflower and everybody

stooped to pick them up as the

captain smiled laughing. The slave

quarters were used up until the great

depression some long afterwards

and when Lincoln gave his address

this country said no more slavery

of this kind and took slavery of

another kind

slaves became sharecroppers

became consumers became wage-

slaves became desk jockeys became

hollow became meaningless became

another piece of ourselves that we

lost to the chaos of the echo

it rained on me the last night

and walking down the streets

surrounded by enthusiastic strangers

who kept asking Where is the

haunted tour? Should we go to the

museum? I thought the ground was

going to turn into a soupy mix and

disintegrate into the Mississippi and

that these people would drink and

sing and blow their instruments all

the way to the bottom.

105

THANK YOU

The staff of Kiosk 45 would like to thank the Department

of Design and the Department of English at the University

of Kansas as well as KU Student Senate.

A special thanks to Jane Hazard of Mainline Printing, Rachel

Gray, and everyone who submitted to and supported Kiosk.