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Western Carolinian Volume 60 Number 19

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  • The Ventilated Voice, in case you haven't noticed, has been running for quite some time. So what are you waiting for? You want to be published, you need to be published ... don't you? We know that there are talented people out there . .. aren't there? So follow Ed McMahon's advice and "Just send it in!" This literary "voice" has the largest circulation of any in this area .. .over 4,000 people per week! It's P.O. Box 66 - Do It Today! with crusty dishes neither wants. The movers will be here soon. In the ruins, we can share a last meal. Let us test this soup perfectly seasoned with tears. What better sound softly on the floor tempting and tasty how tenuous and rare by Randy Pitts Wadded tight like a child's crimson fist this rose is a seed, an offering for a moment's peace. My letter on the kitchen counter outlines the good in the short war of our togetherness, but you will not read my clutched words and pluck away at the rose — loves me, loves me not. Our rivalry must simmer for a time. I can feel your anger slicing like a rusty knife; everything else is bland, like a thin soup. Let a finger extend slowly, the rose relinquish petal, then petals. Let us chop our garden carrots together dust beef with flour, dice old potatoes and peel through onions layered like raw griefs. We can turn on the kitchen radio. We can dance once more on the cold checkered floor. We are not so far apart, you and I. Water, when seasoned becomes a broth. We can drink fine wine from coffee mugs, pull on thick wool sweaters and leather gloves; we can dance some more. The sink is filled of summer slapping my lover's ten toes naked In their travels the woman that rides. Page 1 2/9/95 The human race is the ione question mark in a universe of answers. by Michael Revere
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