Thursday, May 27, 2010

Summer 2010

We are rolling right along here! It’s summer already, well, almost. Before we get into the really good stuff I have a few announcements. As some of you may know I have a lot on my plate. I’m going to school full time while searching for a job and I just finished cleaning up that mess left by the virus in my other email, so I don’t have the time for bullshit submissions because people can’t read the guidelines posted on the website. Therefore I have rewritten the submission guidelines. Oh, and that was another headache. After the first time I wrote them, I accidentally deleted the page and had to start over from scratch, but I digress. If you read nothing else on this website, please, please, PLEASE read the guidelines. Most of the people who have been with me for awhile are very courteous when they submit but there are a few who are more interested in their fifteen minutes of fame than supporting the small press community, and that is a big no-no, especially with me.

Illogical Muse Creations is now up! Yay! The setup is similar to Illogical Muse. Each person who advertises will get his or her own page, or post, however you want to term it. As there are more advertisers, they will be listed according to category but right now it's easy to navigate because . . . there's nothing on it! So, read the FAQ and drop me a line if you'd like to take part. It's located at


American Life In Poetry Column 172

American Life in Poetry: Column 172


I don’t often talk about poetic forms in this column, thinking that most of my readers aren’t interested in how the clock works and would rather be given the time. But the following poem by Veronica Patterson of Colorado has a subtitle referring to a form, the senryu, and I thought it might be helpful to mention that the senryu is a Japanese form similar to haiku but dealing with people rather than nature. There; enough said. Now you can forget the form and enjoy the poem, which is a beautiful sketch of a marriage.

Marry Me

when I come late to bed
I move your leg flung over my side—
that warm gate

nights you’re not here
I inch toward the middle
of this boat, balancing

when I turn over in sleep
you turn, I turn, you turn,
I turn, you

some nights you tug the edge
of my pillow under your cheek,
look in my dream

pulling the white sheet
over your bare shoulder
I marry you again

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (, publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright © 2000 by Veronica Patterson, whose most recent book of poetry is “This Is the Strange Part,” Pudding House Publications, 2002. Poem reprinted from “Swan, What Shores?” New York University Press, 2000, by permission of Veronica Patterson and New York University Press. Introduction copyright © 2009 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

Untitled 108

Artwork by Andrew McIntyre

Age Of Man by John Sweet

They’d built a garage next to their trailer up on Burnt Hill Road, and we were sitting in the shade of the doorway, were sitting in these battered plastic chairs that I’d taken from a restaurant I’d worked at a few years earlier, and it was July, was beyond hot, pushing 100 degrees, sun like a fist, like a smothering blanket, blurry through the haze and irrefutable.

And he had a beer, and so did she, and I was drinking a Pepsi. My third or fourth in the past couple of hours, my teeth coated with sugar, my mouth starting to get that think, burnt feeling, and all afternoon there had been low rumbles of thunder from further up the lake. Empty promises, more than likely, but I held on to hope. Could feel the sweat pooling in the small of my back, stinging in the corners of my eyes, and I was looking at their gazing globs on the edge of the lawn, out by the driveway, a deep, profound blue, this beautiful concentration of light where the sun touched it and then, just beyond, at the edge of the road, a few kids from the trailer kitty corner across the street, shirtless and filthy, digging with spoons in the loose gravel. Running tiny metal cars through the trenches they were digging.

And he was horribly thin, was already dying, and he knew it. Kept telling the doctors, and they kept answering him with shop talk about possible treatments, about stronger medication, kept discussing options, and he would just shake his head. Would just sit silently in the passenger seat while she drove the thirty miles back home, and I kept looking at him next to me, sitting there with his eyes closed, sweating hand held loosely in a claw-like hand, and I couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not, and eventually he smiled. Said I’m still here in a soft voice, like he’d felt the weight of my stare, and I flushed a little. Took another swig of Pepsi, and she asked What do you suppose those kids names are? Said They’ve lived over there for almost two years now, and I’ve never done anything more than wave at their parents, and he shrugged. Brought the beer can to his lips, took a slow swallow from it. Sighed.

And they made me think of my own kids, of course, spending the summer with their mother down in Virginia, and the feeling in the pit of my stomach made me wish I drank. I took in a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Looked at the gazing globe some more.

Asked Think it’ll rain? just to be saying something and neither of them answered. None of us moved. If I kept my mind blank, it almost felt good just to sit there beneath the soft drone of a distant plane. Almost felt human.

Forgetting by Chris G. Vaillancourt

That's the soul's answer to the locked doors
that confront you in the path.
Open the eyes and see
the zero that has become you.

And when the danger comes, let the
forgetting become a mantra.
Let it flush away the diseases
of yesterday's disasters.

When the yellow sun shines, ignore
the grey skies that have
defined you.

Be the empty that you can be.
It's the solution to the
falling asleep at the wheel.

And when the pencil lead breaks,
sharpen the axes to begin
the hacking away.

Let the zone alarms arrive,
and make them the purpose
of your ashtray heart.

It's the most obvious solution
to the drowning of the
sense of being.

And when the rain starts to fall,
hold the radio
in your arms and let
the electricity
snapple your brainwaves.

Leave without saying goodbye.

Summer Heat by Santiago del Dardano Turann

The summer flashes gaudy heat
Much like a fusty pompous diva
Who stumbles on the bone-dry street
With bitchy tranny drunken drama.

The downtown crowds are cooked and edgy
From the touch of that vampire
Dressed in an atmospheric fire
That sucks out spirit, leaves us lazy.

The song continues and we fade
More with each off-key note degree
That bleeds into the concrete shade
With snake steps slipping soft and slowly.

Perhaps tomorrow I’ll call in
To work, surrender to the sin
Of the summer’s kinky din.

Blinded by Julia Rothschild

Wings flutter,
as sparkles fall.
Fairy dust enchants you.
The doors open to a magical world,
where everything shines.
Nothing bad can happen.
You think you’re in heaven,
until you open your eyes.

Street Poet by Arnold Skemer

And while he sprouts harmonies on gloomy corners,
in the antechambers of subway stations,
the lobbies of office buildings
singing of the ecstasy of orgasms
that overpower him in the night
the world revolves around him in great enveloping waves
flooding him with the impressions that he must resist
else his visions must be washed away
under the hoof beats of hominids.

He speaks firmly in the awakening dawn,
perpetually renewing his invocations,
living in a world of his unique conception.
Do they hear him? He must move relentlessly
in streets measureless to man
on avenues of the mind wide and hazy,
on boulevards of capricious obscurity.

He is compelled to enunciate the vision
vouchsafed to him in dreams of velvet abandon
and trusts to the ears of adherents
materializing in the awakening crossroads
in the nerve centers of the tremulous urbus.

Diamonds by Nick Perry

Light is a slave to its resounding myriad,
Like the mercury boiling within a thermometer,
Through which a thousand alienating eyes marvel upon.

But they are not acknowledging the light,
They are preoccupied with the acrobatic shadows,
Whose showmanship is far exceeding,
As they summersault and trapeze within the blank space.

And their own gluttonous reflections,
Torn askew by a thousand screeching countours;
Yet without light the diamond is devoid,
Of all of its perfections;
And of its seductive charm.

Compelling materialists unto evil ends
Through evil means;
And they shall become just as empty as the diamond.


Photo Taken by Elizabeth Parker

Two Poems by David Hassler


A small black fuzz box for Christmas.
Impressed the hell out of my friends
at the music shop where you'd stopped
and bought it for me -- what kid's mother
encourages guitars?
Still under your roof, I enjoyed

playing cards, eating Chinese food
with you. I called if not coming home.
Checked out the Bible college,
but drove back from Seattle
after two hours of chapel --
not a place for me to stretch out.

Late nights in my buddy's barn, drinking beer
his brother bought and playing loud,
calling girls to come and hang out.
Empty half rack in the back of my truck
led to your lashing -- not about driving drunk,
but the evil of liquor and sin of fornication.

Screaming, eyes pupilless moons, called me
wicked, boozer, lecher, pervert.
Staggered by your bullets, their white cut,
part of me wished your charges were true --
would have made me
a much cooler kid.



Had little problem putting down
the Tonka trucks to play dolls with
his sister, or the girl downstairs.
Could weave a story just as spicy
as any on Grandmother's soaps.
Made friends sometimes, but no little girl
ever once tried to give him a kiss.

Never heard how to go about catching girls.
Chased them down playground slopes, in
poor poems, into gay clubs, around boyfriends.
Chased them right up to airplane gates.

The good ones steered clear, could smell
the doubt and fear, sour like month-old milk.
A few stuck, by some chance mix
of charm and luck: either messed up enough
that they didn't care, or their own stench
of missionary zeal and fanciful wish
didn't allow for a meaningful sniff.

Nothing lasted -- crumbled like clods of dried earth.
Hoped for years someone would write
"Women for Dummies". Didn't know
he needed to read "Fix It Yourself and Save".

Owning Up by Ronnie Lane

Whether we defeat our demons or become them,
become a better person or learn to pass as one;
cast in stone is not the stone itself.
Pretending is the same as doing or being
except to the perpetrator, and if you
can keep a secret long enough,
you will believe it one day.
If we could be honest we would say
that’s how I would feel
if I really felt that way.
The moon, the tide, kismet or chaos,
all excuses you wouldn’t tell your mother.
Everyone else will get a dose though.

Creation by Gerald Bosacker

The God of Hope and Circumstance,
snapped his fingers and the World began.
Inventor of the sharks and fire ants,
for pundit’s praise, created man.
All life evolved by selection chance,
by expiring flaws, from ordained plan.
Was man designed for second birth,
our time on Earth, a trial event?
Could man improve, deserving Earth,
with evolving change, design intent?
Or was God faulted by wit and mirth,
and too forgiving to ask for rent.

Aigues-Mortes By Raymond Hv Gallucci

(written while sitting within a tower atop the walled city of
Aigues-Mortes ["Dead Waters"], France)

Just birds and me, content to be
Alone within these walls.
The "waters dead" evoke no dread
Where ancient voices call.

Perhaps I trod in leather shod
When waters were alive,
A guard upon this bastion
With armor, sword and knife.

More likely just a wishful lust
For life of simpler ways.
No cars or planes or bullet trains
In medieval days.

Perhaps birds know that same winds blow
As for ancestors past,
And naught remains of knights or chains,
For only stone can last.

Adam Vs. The Animist by Joe DeMarco

And so it came to pass that after ten thousand years the Animist finally agreed to duel Adam, in what would be a David versus Goliath match up, winner take all. The prize: planet Earth. The Animist arrived early to scout the terrain. He searched for tracks and the presence of a divine deity. He found none. The Animist was mostly human, meaning he had the body of a person, except for a few strange anomalies such as a hog’s nose capable of smelling across miles in the fresh morning breeze, a bull’s horn jutting out of the left side of his forehead, and a raccoon’s tail. He looked rather inhuman carrying a spear in his hand, and had a slingshot slung over his back, his striped tail dragging at least two feet behind him. The Animist was a towering six-feet, four inches tall with bulging muscles, wearing the hide of some deceased animal around his waist. Most might be quick to call him a savage; certainly he did not think of himself as savage. He killed when food needed to be provided. He did not kill when unnecessary, for instance for sport, and he certainly had not declared an all-out war on the animal kingdom like his brother Adam had so feverishly begun ten thousand years ago. Slowly but surely Adam had begun to snuff out all species that might pose a threat to him. After ten thousand years he was closer to his goal than ever: world domination. He figured if he could once and for all slay the Animist, he could silence the critics, mostly because the main critic was the Animist and he’d be dead.

The Animist had been there an hour and a half, had slouched down in the shade and was taking a nap, when a fifty-foot tall Adam showed up in his shiny red sports car, wearing a blue Armani suit, talking into his miniscule cell phone. Adam came to a sliding stop, smashing into an orchard, killing a family of squirrels, some groundhogs and a plethora of fruit trees in one swift blow. He did not care. He might have arrogantly blurted out “That’s how I roll” if questioned about the annihilation of the squirrels or groundhogs or fruit trees. As Adam got out of the car, he held up a finger shiny with rings, indicating for the Animist to wait while

“I don’t care that the place is a historical landmark,” Adam yelled into the tiny rectangular box that was his cell phone. “We either expand or we die, do you hear me?”

The Animist sat up. He had been having the weirdest dream about a woman named Eve who thought she had acquired the knowledge of the gods by eating a piece of fruit from a tree. Eve had been sorely mistaken. The Animist shook off his weariness and rose to meet his aggressor.

Adam shut his cell phone and removed his jacket. “Shall we get this over with?” Adam insisted towering forty-four feet over the Animist. “I have a one o’clock appointment with a masseuse.”

Adam neatly folded his jacket, “But you wouldn’t know anything about happy endings. You can barely form a written language.” No sooner had the insult been fired, when the Animist hurled his spear. As the spear flew through the air, for an instant the Animist had an inkling that it would hit its mark, before Adam smiling smugly, swatted it away like a toothpick.

“I’m going to enjoy crushing you,” Adam remarked. “It’s been a long time coming.” He started to back the Animist into a corner. The Animist picked up a rock and grabbed his slingshot. He waited for the fifty-foot Adam to move in a little closer, then he was going to let the rock fly. As Adam stepped closer, he tripped over a branch. At that exact moment the Animist let the rock fly. The rock went high into the air in an arc, sailing clear over Adam’s head. The Animist picked up another rock. Adam stumbled but did not fall (at least not yet).

The Animist was cornered. He had nowhere to go.

"I’m going to enjoy this,” Adam said.

The Animist remarked that only the descendants of Adam enjoyed murder, but it was lost on this fifty-foot giant. As Adam brought his fist down to smash him, he found that oddly his hand went right through the Animist as if he were a ghost. Adam tried to bring his fist down a second time, but found as the Animist raised his hands, an invisible-force field seemed to stop him from smashing his prey. Adam swiped at the Animist again, but found he could not touch him. What he did not know or possibly couldn’t understand was that the Animist belonged to a deeper magic. Animal magic. He was in a sense the god of all animals including humans, and Adam was just a man.

“The only way you can destroy me is by destroying yourself,” the Animist revealed, but Adam did not believe him (descendants of Adam did not trust their own kind).

“Homo sapiens man was around 190,000 years old before you came around and started fouling things up,” the Animist explained. “Man, if you’re merely talking about people without the ability to foresee the future and reason cognitively have been around 3 million years.”

“Three million years!” the Animist roared.

“In just 10,000 years you developed a pervasive culture that would put us all out of business, and I have been there since the beginning, ensuring balance, that all animals live within the laws governing nature, and you my friend have been defiling them,” clarified the Animist.

The fifty-foot tall Adam laughed, “So what are you going to do about?”

The Animist shrugged. “Nothing.” There was very little he could do about it. This was more of a warning. “But you will destroy yourself VERY SOON if you don’t change your ways,” the Animist explained. Adam’s cell phone rang. He picked it up. The fifty-foot giant had recently been diagnosed with attention-deficit disorder, which meant he didn’t have to listen to you if he didn’t want. What it meant to Adam personally was that he could act loud and outlandishly brash and it wasn’t his fault, he had a disorder.

“Sue me!” Adam yelled into the phone.

The Animist shrugged (he knew a stubborn animal when he saw one), pulled some magic sand out of his pocket, threw it at his feet, and POOF, he was gone.

Printable Malaysia

Artwork by Teresa Meier

The Persistence Of Memory by Annika Bergen

I miss your firework face.
I want to laugh with you,
drink you like cola in August, not caring how it burns,
sit on that old abandoned train bridge in the woods
shoulder to shoulder, t-shirts and jeans,
letting our legs dangle twenty feet above the river,
and talk poetry and immortality.

Then we're over, it's biting December,
and I'm frozen to this stone bench,
listening to sirens sear the silent night,
watching the faint glimmer of a city far away.

Being Of Sound Mind by Brother Mario Andrew Parisi

Wind howling
Breezes whirling and stirring
Thunder clapping

Bells tolling

Neighbors yelling,
Shouting, screaming, chattering,

Lovers whispering,
murmuring and sighing

Trumpets blaring
Drums beating,
rolling, tapping, pounding
Music playing

Radio blaring
Bass thumping

Dragsters screeching
Car horns honking
Fire-trucks bleating
Police car sirens roaring
Traffic pounding

Trains whistling and steaming
Cargo ships bellowing

Lions, tigers, and bears growling
Monkeys aping
Reptiles hissing
Birds chirping
Dogs barking

Human being

Two Poems by Alice Beecher


Asleep in the slave deserts of El Salvador
A child is dreaming of tangerines.
He is dreaming of their pulp mashing between his teeth
in aphrodisiac orange,
of the juice humming through his veins
like his sister's cantering whistle
as she beckons the white nosed cattle
with the sword sharp ribs.
He is dreaming of tangerines arriving carelessly
they fumble single file
into sugarcane fields.
He dreams little dirt hands fight
for each concupiscent section,
desperate in animal greed,
their blood running gold in the afternoon heat,
heads screaming wild for the stray nectar
to grace their naked tongues...
But He will not beg the tangerines their vibrance.
He will take hours to suck out their hearts.



what better could you do
little girl
shook up with your blue suede eyes
as you roamed for the holy in oak trees
cross-stitched with the names of a thousand strangers
none of them your lover
while you listened shut-lipped for streetwalkers mumbling urban arias
your ears were sharper than sacred pavement
you thought they were writing bibles
from the strains of their madness

don't you know New York has lost its taste for poets
now that Jim Carroll died
and we all are getting silicon-drunk
on instant cures and digital access
now there are no verses left
and no smoky eyed dreamers
to wear ink on their elbows.

do you remember your grandfather told you
you would have countless loves
that they would burn your heart
do you remember he said to forget all of them
except the one you never begged to dance
the one with whose limbs bent in natural rhythms
thin and black, like accordion folds
the one who sang songs you half-whistled, half-wept
is there not enough poetry for you
in the curve and slip of his gaze?

Shade's Steam by Amy Huffman

No street is a rainbow.
Though the colors are always there.
isn’t enough
to make them real.
Turn them over.
Your eyes
not your dreams.
They don’t scream enough
to bother.
Their seams
only bleed
when a touch gets caught.
In your blink.


Photo taken by Jaime Farreh

Concords by Frank De Canio

She storms Town Hall’s stage, determined fighter,
sporting formal dress. A toothy giant
Baldwin grand stands keyed-up to ignite her
thrust. She attacks his body. Defiant
with fierce forays of floor-shaking fortes,
she crows her show of strength. Legerdemain
fingers stress criss-crossed wrists as she essays
pianissimo passages that strain
her battery of skills. These tasks spring traps
to challenge her defense force till it cracks.
But swift sforzandos show how fast she taps
into her arms, till hammered pedals tax
sapped resources. Despite the closing chord
she hunches by the ivory for sore
resistance from the pummeled sounding board.
Unnerved by battles with this rattling score
she stiffens, poised to muffle overtones
that resonate from her prolonged assaults.
They slowly fade away with dying groans
beneath her respiration’s starts and halts.
She slackens following this pregnant pause,
then smiles triumphantly to loud applause.

Deciduous by Edward O'Dwyer

Tell me, how does it feel?
But before you answer,
think about that tree;
remember, in the field
behind your house,
the one where we used kiss
when our feelings
first sprung to bloom;
where we took
a blunt knife, carved
a crude heart together
in the young bark;
where we inscribed
each other’s names
on the clean insides.
If you can see all of this
then maybe you can hear
the sound of leaves
rustling together
in a tender breeze,
sharing a rhythm,
skin over skin
and sinew for sinew.
Keep going. Follow
this thought, the vision,
the sound; follow
until, ever so suddenly,
I’m there with you,
waiting in chill silence
and shed leaves,
and I’ll ask you again,
how does it feel?
Does it feel like winter?
Does it feel as though love
has been stripped down
around your heart?
I know. I feel it too.

Two Poems by Joan McNerney


Groping through darkness
knocking everything down.
Down into enormous night
where thoughts unravel.

Memories moan past us as
shadows quiver across walls.
We lie pinned to bed sheets
like captive butterflies.

Dry butterflies...our throats
are brittle, eyes turning
from light. Sore arms reach
for anything soft to hold.
Remembering seasons gone by.
So many lost promises.
This huge moment surrounding us.
Wide awake we wait for the new day.



This December
during wide nights
hemmed by blackness,
I remember roses.
Pink yellow red violet
those satin blooms of June.
We must wait six months
before seeing blossoms,
touch their brightness
crush their scent
with fingertips.
Now there are only
ebony pools of winter’s
heavy ink of darkness.
Dipping into memory of
my lips touching petals
tantalizing sweet buds.
My body longs for softness.
I glimpse brilliant faces of
flowers right before me as I
burrow beneath frosty blankets.
Bracing against that long, cold
nocturnal of wind and shadow.

Possessions by Brenda Ledford

A hospital gown wadded up,
impatiens shedding spicy red petals

like drops of blood
on the waxed floor.

Bottles filling the medicine cabinet,
no longer needed.

The kitchen table scratched
with coffee cooled in a saucer.

A jar of honey on the counter,
beside the sofa, a Bible.

Three packs of chewing tobacco,
a red bandana, overalls

stained with motor oil, flannel
jacket hanging on the doorknob.

Three suits, two white long-sleeved
shirts and ties in the closet.

An empty leather wallet,
social security number inscribed

on metal ID, a Medicare card,
and a 50-year-old photo

of a blonde hugging her husband
dressed in his CCC's uniform.

Teens With Autism by Amber Rothrock

Remember how awkward your teenage years were? Remember struggling to fit in; to be cool? Even as hard as it was, you probably had some idea of what was expected of you. You understood what certain gestures and symbols meant. Now imagine you’ve just been told you are going to be part of a foreign exchange student program and your flight to China leaves in less than one hour. You have no time to learn the language or the culture. When you arrive in China you feel alienated and completely cut off from the rest of the population. This is how it feels to be autistic.

Autism is a developmental disorder usually diagnosed in the first few years of a child’s life. The illness is found in all parts of the world and can affect people of all races and ethnicities. The rate of cases in the U. S. has risen in the last decade from one in twenty-five hundred to one in one hundred fifty (Shute, Despite its prevalence nobody knows for sure what causes autism but family genetics and underlying medical conditions are important factors. It is also common for other mental problems to be present, including depression, obsessive compulsive disorder, and ADHD.

Autism is also considered to be a spectrum disorder, meaning that its symptoms range from mild to severe. With high-functioning autism, more commonly referred to as Asperger syndrome, teens can get by fairly well in the real world but can’t hold or maintain eye contact or a normal conversation. They also have difficutly playing with their peers and picking up on social cues. Those with low-functioning autism are often afflicted with mental retardation.

At each level of development a person with autism struggles with interpersonal skills (Coplan 16). Language development is delayed and sometimes children never acquire speech at all. Sensory input is processed differently as well. They may over or under react to physical stimuli. Those with autism also tend to be very clumsy. Taking all this into account, it’s interesting to note that some autistic people are math and memory geniuses. It’s as if the brain overcompensates for its disabilities. What it lacks in general development and social skills it makes up for with extreme intelligence in certain fields.

Teens with autism are very much isolated in worlds of their own. Some may appear to be completely normal but still have difficulty fitting in. Many are incapable of understanding the thoughts and feelings of others, making it hard for them to form emotional bonds. They may have many behavioral problems including anger expressed through tantrums and even violence. Whereas most of us can control the urge to act out victims of autism lack the mental capabilities to prevent these emotional outbursts (Evans,

This is not to say they can’t function in the real world. There are many different therapies available to help autistic children and teens improve their communication and social skills. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, for example, can help them understand and manage their emotions and encourage them to find constructive ways to express themselves (Evans,

Another form of therapy that is most beneficial, but often taken for granted, is animal-assisted therapy. It’s been proven that when autistic children play with animals their violent tendencies gradually subside as they take on the responsibilities of animal husbandry such as feeding, watering, and cleaning up after the animal. The friendships animals provide can reduce feelings of loneliness and promote trust, commitment and self-confidence (Evans,

In 2006, a graduate of New Mexico Highlands University School of Social Work conducted a research project to study the impact animal-assisted therapies have on autistic youth. One boy, Zachary, underwent a dramatic change. Zachary was prone to throwing tantrums and participating in new activities was stressful for him. He couldn’t understand how to play with others and had never spoken a complete sentence. However, after meeting an eight-year-old Australian Cattle Dog named Henry he became more self-assured and was able to relax in a new environment. He was able to better understand the needs of others and what was going on around him. What was most interesting is that halfway through the research project, Zachary spoke his first complete sentence (Evans,

It is also possible for teenagers with autism to attend college. Several U.S. colleges have services to assist the learning impaired, such as the SALT center at the University of Arizona in Tucson. The Strategic Alternative Learning Techniques, or SALT, center was originally designed for those with learning disorders and ADHD but has expanded to include students with autism (Hincha-Ownby, Autism Friendly Colleges).

To help autistic people assimilate into the push and pull of everyday life there are now programs that have recently been developed to help the mentally challenged find work after graduation and become productive members of society. Counselors work with employers to find ways to make the quirks of a disability useful. For example, one young man who had fun pushing buttons and liked the sound of swishing water started his own business washing towels for hair salons (Shute,

Today, autistic teens are being recognized for the important roles they can play in society. They no longer have to become wards of the state and collect disability for the rest of their lives. When given the assistance they need they can participate in social activities and live relatively normal and happy lives.


Shute, Nancy. “Teenagers With Autism: Want A Job?” US 2 Apr. 2009.

Coplan, James. Making Sense of Autistic Spectrum Disorders. New York: Bantam Books, 2010. Print.

Evans, Rachel. How to Handle Autism Anger in the Teenage Years, Five Strategies for Coping with Autism and Anxiety on Socialization and the Benefits of Animal Therapy for Autism. Web. 8 Apr. 2010.

Hincha-Ownby, Melissa. Autism Friendly Colleges. Web. 8 Apr. 2010.

Cello Girl

Artwork by Teresa Meier