Eye and Guy
Spacer Spacer

Fall/Winter 2003

From the Editor
Thom Didato

T.C. Boyle

fiction by
Liana Scalettar

"The Cold Reader"
fiction by
Matthew Simmons

"Magnolia Estates"
fiction by
Heather McElhatton

"Buried Alive"
fiction by
Bryson Newhart

poetry by
Raymond McDaniel

poetry by
Lauren Sassella

poetry by
Anne Pepper

"Over Pork Chops"
"A Shovel Floats from the Red Barn"
poetry by
Annalynn Hammond

"An Exploration"
poetry by
Richard Fulco

"Canon: History: Cycles...#1"
"Canon: History: Cycles...#2"
"Canon: History: Cycles...#3"
"Canon: History: Cycles...#4"
artwork by
Katsura Okada



An Exploration

He awoke one morning,
head flat on the
agonizing pillow,
to find himself in a
familiar place.
Only one question persisted.
Who was this woman
sleeping next to him?

When the stranger awoke,
he pretended to be asleep.
When the stranger left
the apartment for her
daily job at the firm, he
was still pretending to sleep.
By mid-day, he remained still
beneath the sweaty sheets.
Outside his window
tantrums from disturbed children
tormented him.
Notes from a saxophone floated into the courtyard.
The cat cried outside the bedroom door.

Moby Dick was on top of the night table.
The phone rang. The answering machine
did not pick up. The stranger will arrive late.
Some meeting will inevitably detain her.
The bedroom floor was covered in dust.
Fur balls sailed across the room.
The clock blinked steadily.
The blackout erased any semblance
of time. It was now late afternoon,
but he thought it was earlier.
His head was filled with cobwebs.
He was hungry, but the refrigerator was empty.
His landlord was in the backyard sweeping.
He got up and stood by the window.

It was early evening.
The window was no longer interesting.
His landlord sweeps every day.
There is one solemn Japanese maple.
The cat still cried.
The clock continued to blink.
The saxophone stopped.
The children had gone indoors
to eat macaroni and cheese.
As he opened the door, his cat
squirmed its way inside.
He slammed the door shut.
He stood in the hall,
turned around, and headed
back for the bedroom, but then
made a sudden, awkward step
for the bathroom.
After he splashed hot water
on his shadowed face, he looked
for a clean towel. He pulled one
from the laundry bag. He clipped
his toenails and sat on the toilet.

The journey to the front door tired him.
His endurance was never any good.
He removed the chains, turned the knob
and stepped out. His stoop was covered with
autumn's leaves. His bare feet kicked
them aside. A construction worker stared
at him and pointed him out to his colleagues.
Another laughed and whistled.
He was naked, but sat anyway.
The evening was brisk.
He thought about the next day.

Richard Fulco is a poet and playwright who has recently quit his day job teaching drama and literature at a New York City public high school. His poetry has been included in Serpentine, Third Rail and Aphros Literary Journal. His plays, Flat Pop, Swedish Fish, Bullshit and Goin' South have been produced throughout New York City. He has been the recipient of the Edward J. Rehberg Memorial Prize for Poetry and a MacArthur Scholarship for Playwriting.


From our
poetry archive

“I Dream A Highway”
Maggie Smith
Issue 16 - Winter 2005

"Cypress Point"
Karyna McGlynn
Issue 13 - Spring 2004


Marie Ponsot
Issue 7 -
Summer/Fall 2002