in black his eyes. | if you want at times, in hig irons at his sides a hero could You're a good guy, he gaia, to be somebody and so he’s a nobody. Reality tends to be, and he’s not a cowboy yet he left in a way only The Other Press November 30, 1993 DRAWINGS ON POST-IT NOTES He was a saint, with an evil-twang drawl He was a demon, with a heart laced with silver and gold. reminded me of a good-guy cowboy dressed riding across the dry, life-barren plain with his irons at his side and sorrowful anger painted in But it’s the twenty-first century reality is a must Jeremiah John Garcia but you take too much shit ! No I'm not, you're the best. | replied And he shook my hand like only a real man could. A tip of a black gallon-hat and the chinking of spurs would have made the scene complete. but he just left, no real Good-byes. All that’s left behind are drawings on yellow post-it notes one of an eye and the other of the road it peers down like sketches of a scene from The Twilight Zone. For Jason Gaffney featured poet douglas college's student newspaper since 1976 THE OTHER PRESS IS THE DOUGLAS COLLEGE STUDENT NEWSPAPER. WE PUBLISH EVERY TWO WEEKS AND WE WELCOME YOUR INPUT, WHETHER IT BE THROUGH SUGGESTIONS, SUBMISSIONS OR JUST PLAIN HELPING OUT. SO SEND US YOUR LETTERS IF YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY! OUR ADDRESS IS: THE OTHER PRESS, ROOM 1020, 700 ROYAL AVENUE, NEW WESTMISNTER, B.C. V3L 5B2 OR GIVE US A CALL AT 525- 3505. COORDINATORS AND SUCH PRODUCTION COORDINATOR - NIKI KING-JOCKS ARTS & ENTERTAINMENT - TARA MEIKLEJOHN CLASSIFIEDS - DUG HEBERT FEATURES - STEVE JOCKS SPORTS - LYS PEREDES & ELAINE LEONG CREATIVE - NIKI KING-JOCKS OFFICE - TIM CRUMLEY DECEIVERS AND FOOLS There is a man on the train There is a sickness in his soul no one sits by him he smells the bread he eats is stale and dusty it gathers with slobber at his lips he babbles too inexplicable murmurs of Galapogos and the Sea he rocks back and forth with the rhythm of fifty locomotives crossing the prairies he is a fool Another man enters the scene shirt starched to a crisp suit perfectly tailored shoes spit-shined immaculately he doesn’t smell he doesn’t rock back and forth he doesn’t eat crusty bread you can see it in his eyes ambition importance greed malice he sits with a self-righteous straight back briefcase on lap It is easy to forgive a fool they run in one direction only- no desire to deceive to hurt A deceiver is a dangerous breed It is the deceivers who make you feel bad POEM OF THE MONTH NOVEMBER 1993 Asylum The caretakers mutter incessantly. When they do talk, they shout at me. I do not have a name. I do not exist. Iam a curse, a cripple, they remind me daily. As if I’d forget. As if I could forget the gruel they force down my retching throat. The rough, fumbling, bathing paws that plunder my private parts. Or the disgusting night watchman, that watches my enraged eyes as he “teases” me. “A pillow to the face, to see God’s grace,” he mocks Laughter reverberates off musty mausoleum walls, and tomorrow -- it begins again. by Leanne Mulrooney ALL DOUGLAS COLLEGE STUDENTS ARE ELIGIBLE TO ENTER AND BECOME PUBLISHED POETS. PLEASESUBMIT PREVIOUSLY UNPUBLISHED POEMS BY THE FIFTEENTH DAY OF EACH MONTH TO: CREATIVE WRITING ROOM 3308. THE POEM OF THE MONTH CONTEST IS CONDUCTED BY THE CREATIVE WRITING DEPARTMENT .