Welcome to the official tumblr page of Headwaters, UNC Asheville's creative arts magazine. Headwaters is published every spring and features poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and art from UNCA students, faculty, staff, and alumni.Ask.
Was that you, Arango?
Standing before the hills of your life
you were bare, and on your back: a cross.
There was a place in your eyes:
a child, naked and crying,
still bathed in blood.
There were no mothers,
and the fathers carried
red-cloaked death on their backs.
A fortune teller’s hands
held the silent book of dreams
as her son boarded the final train.
Those who cried your arrival grew silent,
but you were not silenced,
and in your voice, your simple Deborah:
all who died were also alive, rivers bent to your feet,
and finally, a crow rose out of your throat
carrying a snake in its beak.
…I slipped on my moccasins, put a feather in my hair, &
decided to fuck greatness & fame –
I just wanna be happy.
So I went to work & handed in my 0 weeks notice:
Dear bossman sir,
I went through a metamorphosis today. I’m not
saying I’m a damn butterfly or nothin’ but I’m definitely not
a bug. You can’t squish me no more & I’m mostly talking
about your hand on my ass. Keep my last paycheck. I’m not
coming in to collect it because I don’t need no shiny things.
Buy something nice for that girlfriend you always talk about
but no one’s met or that raccoon I saw out back yesterday.
That trashy little shit would love it.
I put cyanide in the vinaigrette,
Suzy the Savage Server…
Read “Trashcan Thoughts” in its entirety in Headwaters 2014, to be released this month!
A White-Rumped Snowfinch
(Montifringilla Taczanowskii to be precise)
from a fat mother,
from the peak of Beaver Lake’s juniper tree,
where seeds arrive each night at supper
(the depression never struck our nest!)
and from a fine education—
I’ve learned my ways around this town,
I’ve learned the hedges where the crows cackle
By the school, on the mountain roads….
From Headwaters 2014, coming soon to an academic building near you!
You didn’t much chance
now did you little man?
When you ran across the road
and turned back to look,
fish brittle bones
under wheels that crush.
That road you’ve crossed a thousand times,
each crossing, the most dangerous journey
of your life….
Pick up your copy of Headwaters 2014 in Karpen later this month!
In the Deep South, God is a cotton king,
trussed up in plantation whites and powdered over smooth
with a little bit of talcum from Momma’s compact.
He’s the Georgia dust that gets on everything, in everything,
caking the soles of bare feet,
sifting through cracks in church pews,
and catching in your lover’s eyelashes.
In the Deep South, the Devil is a beautiful boy
who swears and cheats at billiards on Sunday.
He is the one who reaches up your skirt,
pulls out the prayers you were saving for someday
and lights them on fire with his tongue.
He will sing hymns while feasting on your forfeit heart,
call you blessed while peeling away dignity like stockings,
then drag you out in front of the church to be stoned….
Be sure to pick up a copy of Headwaters 2014 later this month, where you can read all of “Hossanna Americana”!
In a supermarket in California
you once asked that blathering old man
while he ate artichokes, and tasted the psychedelics
of hyper reality for the first time:
what America did you have?
which is something I too think about
when I peek around the loafed breads and
potato chips and see a man just barely hanging on
to the handlebar of an empty grocery cart, bending down
down as far as he can and making the perfect right angle
grasping, grasping, grasping for a single fallen apple…..
Like what you see? Want to read the rest of the poem? Stay tuned for Headwaters 2014!
Il a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Il a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Il a tourné
Il a bu le café au lait
Et il a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler
Il a allumé
Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumée
Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder
Il s’est levé
Il a mis
Son chapeau sur son tête
Il a mis son manteau de pluie
Parce qu’il pleuvait
Et il est partie
Sous la pluie
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder
Et moi, j’ai pris
Ma tête dans ma main
Et j’ai pleuré
-Jacques Prévert, 1946
In an attempt to define love I made a list of things love wasn’t
(a bridge, a car, a mirror, a friend) a butter knife peeled back
the skin of things & found love missing (even in itself). love
isn’t hiding in language but in a high school bathroom chain
smoking (next week,
I’ll hear the rumor she wrote about herself, with an unsterile
needle, after piercing her nipple.)
love is pregnant in the baker, fifteen pigeons. my god.
"love is just going through a phase"
doing everything & anything just to say, “Hello Jesse. It’s nice to
have finally met you. My name is Love.”