Site Survey

I can imagine
the glossy eyes

and slobbery chin
of that yapping dog.

It will probably
out-live the old lady.

Nonetheless, it will
disappear, eventually.

When they haul the
lady's body to the morgue

the little dog will follow
like some vestigial organ.

The organs, those eyes,
like small land-locked

fishing holes, will become
a reminder of

forgotten places,
of material remains.

Human refuse.

Our ancestors will use
fragments of their bones

to weave convincing
fictions by the hearthside.

Analecta is Now Hiring for Next Year's Editor

Now Hiring Editors for 2012-13 Student Publications:

Analecta, New Views on Gender, Undergraduate Research Journal and History Journal.

The Publications Board is now accepting applications for the position of Editor for each of our student journals: New Views on Gender, Analecta, the Undergraduate Research Journal, and the History Journal. Duties include: advertising for submissions, reading and deciding on submitted work to be included in the issue, finding and working with an artist on the cover and design, creating a file of the final issue to send to the publisher, working with the publisher to make sure the journal is available in April, etc. These are paid positions.

Deadline to apply: Monday April 2, 2012

To apply, please submit a formal letter of application that describes your interest and experience. Email the letter to the faculty advisor of the appropriate journal:

For New Views on Gender, please contact Prof. Christina Gerken at: cgerken@iusb.edu
For Analecta, please contact Prof. Clayton Michaels at: ctmichae@iusb.edu
For the Undergraduate Research Journal, please contact Prof. Tom Clark at: tclark2@iusb.edu
For the History Journal, please contact Prof. Yosuke Nirei at: ynirei@iusb.edu

Hawkeyes

Once
upon
a time
I came
out of
my eye
socket

and got
all up in
your high-
way like
a shit
load of
frogs

when it rains.

Animals

I
Eat
Animals.

Of Morning

Darkness
is the gallop
of wounded—

bones

clanking
in the shadow-hall.

Light
is a frantic
corridor of

organs,

the end
comes
in dead—

hands and daggers.

Silence approaches
motionless
like the growth

of a sycamore,

ghostly
white mourning
behind the teeth

of a churchyard.

The twist
of cobble stone
mimics the creek

bed in its winding
to the foramen
corpus

like the formation
of snake-line
fractures

in the ceiling-texture,

animals:
hyenas,
the condor,

the weight—

of a coffin
lid pressing
on the bedside

of morning.

Occultation

Beneath the sulfuric kettlestorm lies the lost river of Kame; the uprush of megastructures shorten the intercept time in the projection of the spine. The nacreous worm's-eye spews ejecta into the ecosphere. The faunal assembly is where certain creatures in the footwall have begun to swell. I've lost hope in capturing a good shot of this rusted old tricycle against the weeping of the tesla-alloy outcrops. Some order-disorder in the undergrowth has upset my stomach and I can't locksteady in the mud pot while zonal-turtles pry at the subaerial crustlayer.

Skullmatter

Skulls

get shattered

and it's

not a matter


of violence,

it's a matter

of hammers.


Certain pieces

will come up


missing.


*Fill in the pieces with dough.