March 19, 2004  
Volume 97, Issue 89  

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Arts Issue 2004 - Page 1

American Anathema
By Evan Mussor

Dallas Curow


Jose, can you see nine McDonalds in sight?
Are some crowded in jails so the high life keeps dreaming? (penitentiaries teeming)
Whose fraud, bribes and superstars skew their frivolous life
More reruns to be watched; networks blatantly scheming. (ignoring the screaming)
Plug the sockets with care,
Bombs bursting in prayer,
Aloof in their fight of cultures still there
Jose does that star strangled banner still wave (tidal wave)
Over a land not for me, the home of the paved? (the Rome of depraved)

Owen Wong

“I am a woman,”
she claims,
wringing her tightly clasped hands
as chalky as dry dust in the corners.
her eyes worship the floor,
and she shakes, afraid
to admit she is a person.

“I can never have freedom,”
she says,
and her voice softens to a whisper
as the word clots in her throat.
She searches nervously for the way out
without getting hurt.

“I am nothing,”
she repeats,
words that bring hot tears
taught to her by her master,
a man the world would call her husband,
who treats her like a rag doll.
She steps into the shadows.

“I am not angry,”
she lies,
as though the scars and knife marks
on her malnourished body
are what she asked for in return
for giving him herself.

“I am nothing,”
she cries,
retracting into herself.
She lies to cheat death
and she is forced to believe
that she will never be
worth a second
of anyone’s precious time.

Chris Black
Dave Picard




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