Volume 2, Issue 1 Page 3 17 Mar 96
Epistemological Metaphor of the Week
We have decided to host a group discussion on epistemology; the group consists of the Predator staff and the Predator's readers. The metaphor of the week is this: Life is a river. Ok, so it's nothing sparklingly original, but we have a new twist for you that takes the form of a survey: If your life was a river, what would you do on/in/with/near it? We polled the staff and came up with these:
1) Hop from stone to stone trying not to get their feet wet.
2) Wander through the mountains; look for whirlpools.
3) Wade along slowly downstream, trying to get to the delta at the end.
4) Stand by the bank and let the mud squish in between their toes.
5) Set sail on my raft with Jim.
6) Piss on it.
7) Spear the crocodiles.
8) Wander upstream and explore all the little tributaries.
9) Stand very still, face inches above the water and try to catch fish with my teeth.

How 'bout your river? Respond by email to <bjl4009@rit.edu> or papermail responses to 141B Perkins Rd., Rochester, NY 14623.

Vacuum Blues
- Prisoner's Tears

They handed me the plastic bag of his personal items in case I wanted to keep them for the sake of my memories; in case I wanted to pack them away lightly to be uncovered and explored periodically throughout my life so that I would never forget him; in case I actually wanted to remember him. My relationship with him had been reduced topractical exchanges of time and information for years before he ever got sick. For years we had been nothing more than acquaintances, our once-known friendship and even love now barely remembered. Sure, we both knew it had been there and we both knew that we had to keep up appearances for the sake of the family and the sake of our own consciences. My conscience gave up on me years ago when I stopped listening to it. But he always listened, never to his real voice, but always to his guilt; he never ignored his guilt, he just couldn't handle that kind of personal torture, and instantly gave in to the slightest pressure. When they handed me the bag of his personal items and I realized that they were just fulfilling their legal responsibilty, that this guy on the other side of the counter probably never even met him, that for years he lived as a number, I couldn't move. I couldn't take the bag, I couldn't cry, I couldn't turn and leave, I couldn't scream aloud the pathetic dirge circling in my head. I couldn't even breathe.

-Victor S. Graydon
 Dull Roar 
	The Gott Creek Runaway Boy

When the bandit trusts, 
The Casanova-child, 

A rendezvous thrusts a journey to abide, 
So wanton: for the night is wild, 

Kissing balloons with winds riding high, 
Steaming his relentless whim with a gusting come-cry,

Every car,
	---a potential piglet with anxious gum-balls,
Every hour,
	---silently, his Love bleeds of lust,

Nothing seemed to please,
Until contact,
Something screams inside he,
and she would tease to fulfill,
suggestive impact on telephone lines,
			Electric voices of dream-fancy
			and closed blinds,
			Her innocents and ease,
appropriate like squint-lines-lies, 
		Concentric interpretations of a riddle, 
		Haystacks in the needles of a find.
Speed-racing streetlight trails,
devoured to streaks as they shined,
In pursuit of the romance fleet,
His eyes wide open - never to retreat,
Need pacing one night gals,
A Virgin to be deflowered as they line the sheath,
of his dream-sword that prevailed,

His disguised pride; now waits alone
beside Gott Creek's tiny tide,
The darkness, soon to be unveiled,
beyond the gloomy creekside. 

			-J.R.Finlayson
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