Benjamin Zellmer, Spring 2017
The sun sits softly high in the sky, A spring breeze sweeps through the valley, The river gently jogs around the rocks, Bouncing about on every turn. I follow the footprints left by the one ahead, The ground comforts me along every step, The trees embrace me with their sweeping arms, Somewhere a bird hums my favorite tune. The world loves me today. Love me more than he ever did. More than he ever would. He was as gentle as a rock, As warm as a shaded waterfall. I wish I could take this rock, And break through what seems so smooth, Exposing the crookedness inside. I wish I could take this rock, And this rock, And this rock, And this rock, And smash them into each other until nothing remains. He loves me not. He love me not. He loves me not.
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Alexis Worden, Spring 2017
I don't remember learning, but by age twenty-two I have become proficient at breathing—too bad it's not a resume builder. Don't ruminate about it unless you yearn to taste suffocation—fretting is frivolous; your autonomic nervous system will keep your tocker ticking. If you need tactile validation, place left hand on heart, right on stomach. If visual learning is the only way for you, try standing face to face with your reflection. My favorite is auditory-- ear pressed to a lover's chest. Tyler Farrell, Spring 2017
Pluto planet PL plots long and drifty Greek voyages. God surround space in our heads, our eyes form the night sky. They photograph us, each finger nail in the celestial playbook. Tombaugh analyzed every single negative from the astrograph, connected dots in the heavens. Little movements, a large moon and debate trajectory accidentally. Discovery telescope told the tale from Mars Hill in Flagstaff, on planet Percy Lowell, distantly spinning askew like a teenager wandering the entire galaxy in the ancient orbital path of a 17 degree deviation. Saul Lopez, Spring 2017
La masa de la tortilla corre por mis venas, de serpientes me alimento, y con orgullo solo me sustento. Soy Latino, pues fui, y seré, porque el presente es la mezcla de lo real en un mundo imaginario. La tierra que piso, es la única que admiro, como el agave, se tiene que esperar para disfrutar. Que me quemen como Cuauhtémoc, si por mi patria fuese, pero el problema es que ninguna me pertence. Tláloc llora, al ver a sus hijos en el limbo transnacional. Es tiempo de sentir, no de proponer, porque el corazón del pueblo está en busca de vida, y no se detendrá hasta ver la marea invertida. Ravi Ghayal, Spring 2017
Wake with a blank slate, Time to put on the disguise that people see. Stand in line and wait, Pretend to behave and be the best you could possible be. Laugh and smile behind a fake face, Read and write behind an order of command. It's a competition, it's a race. Top of the page is your own official brand. Shoving and pushing your way to a nonstop path, #2 sheets are read by a computer. Other than accomplishment, you feel your own wrath Because you will always think about your future. The future is near, Permission to forget. Anytime is a time to fear, The past here is full of regret. White sheets that record information, Directions to do everything. An add-on to a timely situation, Practice, practice on anything. 8 hours of brainwashing orders, Ending off where you began. Finding the answers, going beyond the borders, Trying to form the perfect plan. An emotionless day here and gone, To find yourself in a restless state. Do the same thing over again and so on... Start again with a blank slate. Emily Reynolds, Spring 2017
My cousin Al and I were the rulers of the backseat, Our domain, littered with crumbs and crayons and trail maps. We sang ABBA too loudly, and asked too many questions. We were an incessant soundtrack of giggling, singing and whining. It was a Pacific Northwest road trip, The kind of road trip you wish you were older for, Views you wish you were tall enough to understand. Sunsets in the car you wish you could relive. A wide stare, a jaw dropped in wonder. My father told us both we had to keep a journal, of how it felt to be eleven, and camping. Take notes on the animals and plants. I want to be there when I read it. So Al drew pictures and I wrote, An overlooked tell of who we were to become. I described the smell of Yosemite, The heat of an afternoon hike, a bite from a red ant, And the chill of the nights you beg to share a sleeping bag. I didn't journal about the sights, more the people seeing them with me. Like my aunt and uncle, I hid in the tent while they fought. The patient old man in the clearing, taking pictures of deer. How close the fawn got to him, how gentle and slow it moved. I wrote about the woman in Portland and her compost pile, How she praised her rotten carrots and banana peels. And she told me to always give back to the Earth, And that waste is rude to those who have nothing. Ryan Murphy, Spring 2017
Right when I think I've conquered the need to pair off and share my life, To buy rings, a house, new sheets-- Right when I think I'm happy to take life at my leisure, Quietly, a single man, I find myself in a bar. My friends with their lovers, Me, content to sip beer, Above love. Content to be a friend With just friends, To mock the thought of having or being more. Then, music blaring, lights dim, Among the drinkers I see A laughing face-- Then, that fiend desire leaps free, fangs bared, Tearing down the illusions I'd so carefully pinned up. And as that mad bird rages, I see my task was futile. And when again my path is crossed by lover hand in hand, I'll see that crooked smile, And yearn and be sad. Megan Smith, Spring 2017
Oh, honey-- look at you! This is a nice view. The word stunning fit before but now-- now that I've dissected you! Touched limbic and cuneiform, exposed everything from sacral vertebrae to rectus abdominis, squeezed bile between fingers, hummed the melody gushing out of your brain, played croquet with the organs beneath your ribs, and tasted the curve of your spine; Now that I've carved foreign semen off your breasts, hurled your limbs across the room, and smelled the inner layer of your skin and laid inside it-- Now, I can say that I know you. And what I know is made clear by your lung in my hand; You, my dear, are beautiful—inside and out. Abby Vakulskas, Spring 2017
It was a good decision we made-- Not to win the pageant. That moment we looked at each other, Stopped pretending, And sat instead, On the table in our dresses, Legs swinging, Scooping up peanut butter with Oreos While the other girls shrieked about jewelry and ate celery, Exclaiming with relief when their gowns fit. Exclaiming like they'd just won the Nobel Prize. They ripped out their hair, Dyed their skin, Subsisted on low-calorie snacks and compliments delivered through clenched teeth and not much else. We shrugged, Raised our Oreos, And promised to sabotage each other if that's what it took. They strapped and sewed themselves into their shoes-- We ran barefoot down the hallway with the stage crew, Telling dirty jokes. Their smiles were plaster of Paris-- We were now free to frown, Free to make any expression we wanted. And as the heavy crown came down on the skull of the squealing victor, And the homogenous throngs screamed and swarmed the stage, We slipped out the back-- Smiling for real. Lily Cheong, Spring 2017
Face so grim and sullen cause I'm thinking of you all a sudden. Wondering where did our friendship go? Too bad neither of know, but what I felt was so much more-- I wish I could have told you, but I'm behind a closed door. |
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