Words From the Inside Out

Some excerpts from the writings )f members of the Terminal Island vorkshop:

I see you in my dreams Swimming with calico carps And riding Dalmatian giraffes Climbing bougainvillea vines into the skies I treasure your happiness As you hopscotch in the early rain Or tag me with bean bags And kiss my bruised neck ... --Bill Bonanno from an untitled poem to his daughter Gigi, 10

The old lady's mumbling made me iware of her presence again ... The sun was making me drowsy, and I lapsed into the comfort of the past, telling the vieja for the hundredth time about my love, my life, my Frankie ... By some miracle I got pregnant that nite, and since I was only 14, his p.o. [parole officer] made him marry me. The other choice was to go back to Tracy. But he loves me! I know it, because I love him. He ain't around that broad no more! At the back of my eyes, the old, familiar red dots started rising, just at the thought of that bitch. I still get confused when I try to remember the day I caught them together. That puta and my Frankie in our bed, while the baby crawled, crying on the floor. Everything was red then too --only it gets mixed up, screaming, the kitchen drawer, the silver knife. And the red again--on the sheets, the wall, my hands, his face, her legs, even mijo's diaper turned red--ha, ha, the red bed --"Shut-up old woman, why are you yelling in my head? SHUT UP!"

--Margaret Martinez from The Bench, a short story

It's tucked off in the corner of the yard, kind of out of the way, kind of unobtrusive, kind of nondescript... In the vernacular of convicts it's known as the "iron pile" and is the pastime for weight lifters, body builders and ego trippers ... From work call to lunch hour, ironpushin' regulars hit the pile with predictable regularity ... To them, working out is a contest of who is the strongest, who is the baddest... As the sun slides down ... style is now trump and all hands hold the boss suit. Pump-up freaks are in the game; they rip off [lift after lift] until their muscles are swollen with blood and then, and only then, they strip to the waist. As they remove their shirts, a discerning eye weighs the audience reaction. If the crowd doesn't respond, they do. It seems the pump-up tripper can't believe he's in his own body. He cocks his head, he digs his arm and digs ... and digs ... and digs ... And the show goes on. The fat have a contract with the iron to get slim, the slim work to get bulk, the got-it-together dudes keep it from disintegrating by frequent geezes of iron. If you have been casting a covetous eye on the iron ... then come on over, get right in, pump up your ego, flash your flex, kill the iron ... add more style to the iron pile.

--Gary Taylor from Iron Pile, an unfinished novel

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