Art & Scope Magazine

Art & Scope FALL 2016

Art and Scope noun.

A Student-Association funded club that is dedicated to the promotion of education and involvement in the creative arts.

We are proudly in charge of publishing the biannual magazine that we present to you now as Art and Scope.

Sonnet XXIX When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featur’d like him, like him with friends possess’d, Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate; For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

William Shakespeare

Fall 2016 Members

Paige Welch President

MairĂŠad Farinacci Managing Editor

Chelsea Beavers Treasurer

Kayla Barnes Secretary

Meghan Gude Public Relations Layout Editor

Michelle Behr Public Relations

Amber Mercado Copy Editor

Brenna Crowe Copy Editor

David Anderson Copy Editor

Gabe Membreno

Hanna Da’Mes Copy Editor

Henry Burkert Copy Editor

Irene Bautista

Janaya Josephs Copy Editor

Jillian Moczara Copy Editor

Julia Langro Copy Editor

Lauren Milana Copy Editor

Marissa Hogden Copy Editor

Zerin Bay Copy Editor

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

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table of Contents Societal 4

6

7 8

Coming Together Ashley Warner

A Letter for Ladies Rebecca Pollard Untitled Daniele Freeman

Generation Katie Hebert But I Love Him... Janaya Josephs

10 Night Life Paige Welch

Black Matter Janaya Josephs Daily Headache Gianna Boveri

14 Abuelos Ruben Delgado

Angels of the Border Kayla Barnes

15 Untitled Danny DeRusso This World Jenna Tiffany Haiku One-Hundred Sam Filkins 16 Composed David Cervone 17

18 19

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Celestial Kiss Meghan Gude

Limited Capacity Paige Welch Defying Gravity Ben Lasky

31 I Could Do This Forever Gabe Membreno Untitled Aimee Seymour 32

Dying, Reborn Amelia Lee

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Heartbreak Reversal Paige Welch I Like My Coffee Strong Kelsey Block

33 Haiku Eighty-Eight Sam Filkins Deadline Michael Ludlum

Untitled Kristen Guastella

You Made Me Ink Noah Barton

23 Embers Gabe Membreno

Youth Sydney Strano

Becoming a Fool Justin Babbino

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I Don’t Buy it Jason Birkelbach

22 Sandra Ruben Delgado

Main Street Gabriel Vargas

In May Paige Welch

35 Valley Michael Ludlum Untitled Danny DeRusso

Haiku Ninety-Six Sam Filkins

21 Abandoned Kayla Ray

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When I was... Josh Pacella Serenity at Carrick-a-Rede Mairéad Farinacci

Days and Rays Through the Window Pane Dennis J. Carroll Untitled Kenneth Schick

20 Home Katie Garrity

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Emotional

Market for Stability Mairéad Farinacci Dans la Rue Mairéad Farinacci Untitled Kenneth Schick

9 Malarkey Brenna Crowe 13

Amsterdam Meghan Gude The Four Agreements Kristen Guastella

Cheers to a “new” Year Konstantina Salales Tiniest Friend Kayla Barnes Burned Lucienne Ford

36 Absence Kelsey Block Rainy Day Shuci Wu 37

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A Walk Through Time and Deterioration Mairéad Farinacci In Between the Sheets Daniele Freeman Playing a Dirty Sport Katie Hebert

39 Vulnerable Konstantina Salales The Part in the Curtains Gianna Boveri Maison de Monet Mairéad Farinacci

41 Untitled Danny DeRusso The Preferred Journey Mairéad Farinacci

40 Phases Katie Hebert

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A Beautiful Something Dennis J. Carroll

43 White:Black Laiken Whittredge 44

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El Atlántico Meghan Gude Silver Lining Jenna Tiffany Feeling Blue Daniele Freeman

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Bright and Breezy Benjamin Glew

Time Is No Friend of Mine Dennis J. Carroll Out of Time Meghan Gude

49 Tales from a Bathroom Paige Welch Stages Janaya Josephs 50 I Know a Girl Sam Filkins Self Miranda Cagliano 51 Flowers Sydney Strano Bond Madyson Macejka

60 Parked Gabe Membreno

61 Untitled Danny DeRusso

46 Brew Katie Garrity 47

I Felt Good on a Gray Day Gabe Membreno

52 54

The Fantastic Looking Glasses Sydney Strano Color Vision Ben Lasky Weather Reporting Paige Welch There’s a Storm Coming Ben Lasky

55 Roses Katie Hebert Untitled Aimee Seymour 56

Universal Mind Ben Lasky

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The Day You Died Hannah Smith

57 Linger Gianna Boveri

Peach Flowers Sydney Strano Romanticize Gianna Boveri

62 News Michael Ludlum Cyborg Tattoo Sketch Ashley Warner 63

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Under the Covers Henry Burkert Faucet Gianna Boveri Uncomfortable Daniele Freeman

The Summer of Impatient Angst Paige Welch Color Me In Ben Lasky

65 Red Kelsey Block

Yellow Katie Garrity

Wild Things Ben Lasky

Fayetteville-manlius high school 66

Phase 202 Shelby McNaughton

67 Watering Our Roots Athena Donnelly Pink Chloe Flores 68 In The Dark Katie Garver Museum Isha Fazili

59 Perception Amelia Lee

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Coming Together Ashley Warner

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SOCIETAL [səˈsīədl] Adjective.

1. Of or relating to the structure, organization or functioning of society 2. Of or relating to human society or social relations

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

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A Letter for Ladies Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels...

Shame women. Shame their bodies.

Make them nice and make them naughty.

Make sure they know they’re not enough, They need less fat. More boobs. More butt.

She’s asking for it…

Turn them into dolls and objects, Make them Barbie; call them basic.

Beat them, cheat them, then call them crazy.

Make sure they know they have to be a lady.

Treat them mean, keep them keen…

Tell them to be bad “Wear black plants with red thongs.”

Then tell them they’re trashy “You have no class at all.”

Women should be seen and not heard...

Or keep them as girls, Request they wear lace, pink, and white.

Tell them to stay “pure,” Then call them too nice.

A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips...

Untitled Daniele Freeman

Diets and workouts and makeup are great, But do it too much and you’re nothing but fake.

Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free...

If you sleep around you’re a slut, But if you don’t you’re a prude.

SO WHAT THE HELL ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO?!

Society sucks. Just thought you should know.

It’s society that’s flawed, it’s not you at all.

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Rebecca Pollard

Generation I saw the masks of my generation crack under the pressure, driven mad from trying to squeeze their foot into a shoe, too small for any human being.

I saw the bottles burst open and flood, as the drowning souls of lost individuals came spilling out, Dragging themselves through each hopeless day, trudging along as the chains biting their ankles thunder with the concrete of conformity.

Juggling along the pieces and shards of their broken and bruised hearts with hopes that they can put the puzzle back into their chest, completed.

Trying to keep their composure, stuttering the word, “fine,” as their lips tremble and their eyes are a tsunami that’s waiting for the perfect moment.

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

Fine.

Trapped in a box we restrict ourselves to, so tight that there’s no space to even breathe.

Stuck in a society that wants to color us all gray, make us all the same.

And we grow up thinking that this is okay for them to mutilate us in such a way like we are plastic dolls.

Moving us in every possible direction until they have position that fits to their liking.

Controlling us in every possible way until we forfeit our fight and let them win at their own game.

But this shouldn’t be a battle.

Life shouldn’t be a war.

We shouldn’t have to fight this fight until our brains ultimately explode and our bodies just can’t handle it anymore.

We’re all trying to put on a sane face. As if it wasn’t noticeable that everyone’s false happiness is just a curved crack on our broken masks.

But I Love Him...

Janaya Josephs

Katie Hebert

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Market for Stability I buy myself time But my pockets don’t run deep My mind sells for more

Mairéad Farinacci

Dans La Rue Mairéad Farinacci

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Untitled Kenneth Schick

Malarkey LATE! Everyday, you are LATE! But the oppressive Bell tower clock TONG-DONGs Two minutes fast Every Sunny seven fifty eight o’clock. The copper hands Spin and wind, grasping for something

Just out of reach,

Like the television clicker.

You LOCK the front door behind you.

Go ahead, SIP lukewarm coffee! Wait at red light!

Our greatest entertainment ain’t

Holy Scripture, But now cynicism IS fashionable

And agoraphobia IS glorified.

A bigoted Atticus shoots mockingbirds

And killdeers from his dilapidated roof Just the same as

Nyquil drowns frontal lobes

Faster than fatty hearts

Drive the GDP.

Lose weight by losing your mind,

SHOUTING knock-knock jokes into the internet, Or SLURPING slimfast ramadans;

With selfless reflections in bathroom mirrors.

Crawl into bed, COUGH up the giant moth in brown mucus Who nests in your stomach And set the alarm

Brenna Crowe

SIDE-EYE YOUR BABBLING CO-WORKER Type, t y p e, t y p e, type the words;

Photo copy the donor records Pick the poppy seeds from your teeth and Smile at seagulls beyond windows squawking

Over discarded pizza crusts; The dominate and the subordinate melt away With abundance, Hierarchies only habitual.

WALK BY ALL THE STRANGE PEOPLE YOU DO NOT LOVE AND TRY TO FIND IN THEM PEOPLE YOU ONCE LOVED

Because if you’ve been in this GAME long

Strangers ARE only those we’ve lacked motivation

To DESIGN delusional narratives for Like childhood costumes.

Park the Honda on the street So the Neighbor’s girlfriend’s cousin doesn’t again.

REHEAT frozen meatballs Crack open Budweiser and ignite TV with six o’clock news: RACISM, SEXISM, VIOLENCE, AND OLIGARCHIES CONTINUE

Pitter pat your stomach: too fat FAT, TOO FAT. Before and after, buy our product

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Night Life The booze still flows from distilleries and down allies into bursting speakeasies. Somehow night in the Big Apple is louder in the illegal darkness and figures stumble through the city, into cabs, back to their apartments. Along the back of the main drag, Emily stands and watches the shadows intently, the ashes falling from the red-hot tip of a filtered cigarette drifting and cracking onto her shiny kitten heels. She blows smoke upwards at the cloudless sky rimmed with light pollution. A classic Model T rushes past, irresponsibly drifting onto the sidewalk. Emily jumps back, shouting “Watch the damn road you zozzled maniac!”

But she laughs at the fun they must be having in a time of no war. Suddenly, a struggling masculine figure appears from the building behind her. He spots the empty space on the sidewalk and saunters over to fill it. He leans in, the scent of cheap whiskey lingering on his breath. “Why is a woman like you all on her lonesome on a night like this?”

Emily does not remove her gaze from the cigarette still dangling from her skinny fingers. “It’s too obvious that I’m waiting for someone” she thinks, “these men are going to do what they can to keep me occupied.” The man speaks again.

“Well, can you talk with those pretty lips sweetheart?” She rolls her eyes at him, flicks some more ashes onto their feet.

“Yeah whatever broad, women these days don’t know how to be polite. Think they’re too good for everyone now that they can vote.” Thankfully, he starts to walk away into the opposite direction but yells “You should cover those bubs if you don’t want people talkin’ to you” before disappearing.

“Yeah, well your mother should have never let you out on your own” she whispers to herself, distracting from the discomfort of being alone in a clinging, tasseled dress on a back street in New York City. The bones of the skyscrapers drape dramatic shadows over the concrete and garbage filled ditches.

She feels so self-conscious, then angry at herself for almost letting a man ruin her night. Still, she pulls a compact from her clutch and checks to make sure her caked white foundation is still smooth and her new red lipstick is not smudged by the cigarette.

Then, footsteps and the silhouette of a curvy figure with a shrill laugh.

“Hello, darling!” The woman yells, relishing in her ability to disrupt such buzz killing silence.

“Paddy, there you are! I was convinced that you weren’t going to come after all. How have you been?”

“Me missing out on the opportunity for a night on the town with my best girl? Please! And

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I’ve been doing wonderful since leaving that bore of a ball and chain I used to call a husband.” Again, her laugh echoes, filling Emily with comfort.

“I’ll cheer to that! You bring the giggle water?” Paddy smiles a sly, crooked smile and takes a tin flask from her purse. They both take generous swigs, relieved of their inhibitions.

“So, where should we go?”

Paddy stows away her flask again into her purse before saying “Anywhere we want! This is the dawn of a new life.” They hook their arms together and waltz into a giddiness brought on by moonshine and the prospect of change. Into the night they go, two young flapper girls in sparkling dresses.

They continue along the main drag of Broadway, passing the flashing lights of the lively theaters in their golden age. Paddy and Emily’s flawless complexions sparkle in the night life.

“Shall we see Sunny tonight?” Emily asks, unhooking her arm from Paddy’s and gestures towards the show’s theater. Paddy rolls her eyes, her arms crossed firmly across her chest.

“Again? Come on, Emily. I said that this is a new age, not a year ago when we were still so naïve.

You remember that, honey? That feeling of being trapped? Men walking us around like we don’t have eyes? We have to do something spectacular. You know, the cat’s meow and all that.”

“Ab-so-lute-ly., I know you’re right, Paddy.”

Emily returns to Paddy’s side and with a signature mile-wide smile, Paddy says “Aren’t I always right?”

Without a place to go, they stick to strolling along. Along the street, crowds throng. Gentlemen in wool suits, ladies in long dresses and hats. They wait for the doors to open, chatting about the latest news or their new washing machine: “It does all the cleaning for you! No more elbow grease needed!”

What a time to be a housewife. They have traveled in from the booming suburbs, leaving their children with the babysitter. But Paddy and Emily are the color of rare metals. Silver and gold glistening as they wade through neutral colored clouds of people.

They feel as if they are booming louder than industry, on top of the world.

“I have an edge, how about you?” Emily giggles as if her stomach is made of bubbles.

“Baby I haven’t been sober in months!” That shrill laugh still manages to echo even in a place full of noise. A few couples stare as they walk by with disapproving eyes. A middle aged woman with graying blond hair tied up and hidden under a hat looks at her husband and loudly whispers:

“Can you believe it? Two young ladies out on their own without a chaperone and showing so much skin, too. What has this generation turned into?”

Suddenly, Paddy stops in her tracks. Emily watches her eyes shift into stubborn slits. She squeezes her hand.

“Please Paddy, let this go. It’s not worth it.”

But nothing can hold Paddy back when her mind has sensed an attack against her free spirit. Paddy whips around, digs her silver kitten heels into the ground and points a bony index finger ended with fire red nails at the now bewildered women.

“Listen here you swanky old wet blanket!

Your opinion doesn’t matter to me. Just stick to your own business and your wrinkly husband and keep walking!” The woman gasps and drags her husband by the elbow whispering frantically as he keeps looking back, thin wire glasses bouncing off the bridge of his nose.

“Are you satisfied Paddy?”

“Of course I am Emily! That was something that needed to be done so stop flashing me your judgmental eyes.”

Emily couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed. Paddy has always been the exciting and spontaneous one, dragging her out of the apartment she shared with her parents and younger brother to see the city. Without her, she would have never gotten a job as a secretary down at Ford Motors Headquarters or had learned anything about having fun. It was her that cut her long black hair into a silken, wavy bob, went to Macy’s with her to get cosmetics and dresses. Without her, there would be no shine, no pizzazz in her life yet as she walked next to this brazen beauty, blond bob, long legs, always void of something, she felt ashamed. All the things she has been taught about manners rose up in her throat, burning her more than the moonshine.

“You shouldn’t yell at people on the street” she thinks to herself. Oh, but she would never get the courage to say this out loud to a person who taught her freedom and confidence.

She remembers when she first met Paddy’s husband. He was a tall man of about 6ft, broad shoulders, a smug smile, always holding a cigarette or a glass of brandy. She also remembers the bruises on Paddy’s arm. Long, blue ones shaped like fingers from a malicious grip. Paddy would catch her eyes grazing them and she would snort and say “Oh I fell down the stairs. Clumsy me!” Emily believed her because her powerful, outspoken friend would never let a man hit her. But sometimes on lunch dates, Paddy would be lost somewhere. Blue eyes

empty of their usual summer-like vibrancy. Emily would ask: “Paddy are you alright?” And she would respond “Me? Yes I’m perfectly swell. I’m just a little tired I guess” while shaking a cigarette from their case.

Robert, the husband, was a war vet who drank like a sailor. Learned from the trenches how to dislike the taste of life. He would yell a lot in his sleep, wake up crying. Paddy would hold his shell shocked frame, gently cooing “Rob I’m here I love you.” But in the morning he would push her away seemingly forgetting that moment he fell in love with her when he saw her outside of the theater, laughing, a hand on her prominent hipbone, surrounded by a group of hypnotized ladies. The only reason Emily knew these matters locked behind Paddy’s proud façade is because when she had a few drinks in her, she would spill out the truth. Every shade of its darkness. She would unravel her whole life right in front of Emily, but she would never cry. Not Paddy, who has never showed weakness. Instead she would light another ciggy and snort while saying “Isn’t that sad, Emily?

Aren’t I just balled up?” Emily’s heart would break right there at the table while the reflection of the candlelight would bounce off of the window pane and they would sit in a forlorn silence that would somehow seep out into the street for when they stepped out of the restaurant, the city had seemed to shut itself down in mourning for its biggest fan.

Emily bit her lip, now in the present moment. She looks over at Paddy whose eyes were cast downwards, her arms still crossed.

“Paddy I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? For what?”

“I just feel like such a dumb Dora right now for judging you. I can’t help my manners sometimes, they fall out of my inner self like my mother is speaking for me.”

“No Emily never apologize. I’m just thinking about how you’re too good for me that’s all.”

“Me? Too good for you? You’re the queen of New York, Paddy don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”

“Hah! I could never forget a thing like that.

It’s just… I don’t know. You’re sweet. You remind me of all the good a person can be. You’re the only person I have ever been honest with and that includes myself.”

“Paddy it gives me the heebie-jeebies when you get serious like this. Let’s just pay attention to the night ahead of us, okay? A wise girl said once that we are at the dawn of a new age.”

They laugh together, beating each other’s

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gums about their lives. Paddy had a love for this girl stronger than any she has had for a man. Men didn’t do it for her anymore. They were always too macho, too obsessed with sex, too angry. They have seduced her with their charm and wired biceps around shoulders, enveloping her in a spicy masculine scent. But it would sink into her skin, leaving an imprint she could never seem to wash off no matter how hard she scrubbed. She wishes that there was a machine that would rid her of the bruises. Emily is the closest thing she has, and she is real, beautiful, and lighter than air. Never has she witnessed Emily pine over the sailors smoking by the docks, and she could spit out a Drugstore Cowboy in ten seconds flat. Paddy is so proud of her gal.

She has grown so much from that shy girl with long hair that was at that same party for some family friend. Paddy just went because Robert dragged her along with him but she had been drawn to the girl in the corner. She needed to conjure out the internal life that she could see in everyone. It’s not like she “made” people, she was just able to mold what was already there and turn a human into something more. She thought she would be able to do that with Robert, who had swaggered up to her while she laughed with friends outside of the theater. The first thing he had said to her was: “Hey doll. I was hoping you could direct me to the good times around here since you seem to be the one who knows where to find them.” What a line that was, so obnoxious and confident, even a little awkward.

But still she found herself looking him up and down, smooshing her cigarette down with her feet, and fingering the tweed lapel of his sports coat.

“I like the confidence and that cocky smile, bimbo. But let’s get one thing straight, I’m not any doll.”

Robert laughed, pushed his greased hair back and said “you got that right, you’re more of a bearcat.” And Paddy found herself taking this man on the town, succumbed to his deep laugh and gentle way he held her waist. Sometimes he would whisper “You’re the most beautiful goddamn woman I have ever seen” and she would believe him because of this twisted desire to get married to prove to herself that she could. Most men were afraid of her fire, but this one liked its warmth. How was she supposed to know what he held inside of him? That toxicity that decayed first his mind and then their love. Once he started laying his hands on her, she thought she could reflect them with charm. For the first time, a project had gone beyond her control.

She shook herself out of the past, letting the cool nighttime summer air fill her with peace

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knowing that it was over. Emily is looking at her with concerned, deep brown eyes.

“I was just thinking.”

“About what? Please tell me.” Emily took her arm and smiled sympathetically in Paddy’s direction.

“You know how much I hate telling the honest story. But because I love you it’s safe to say that I was thinking about… Robert.”

“Oh Paddy, don’t think about that man. He almost ruined you. He doesn’t deserve a single part of your mind to be reserved to his memory.”

“Don’t you think I know that? I loved him though, you know. I pretend to think that no man can let me down if I had no expectations of him in the first place but when you love someone, it’s a different way of letting go. It’s like mourning someone that is still alive and kicking just because you can’t see them anymore. And I don’t want to see him, I can’t see him because I would see only a ghost.”

This night is stuck at a dead end. They are stagnant in the street, caressing parts of each other they never thought they would find again. The once bright lights had dulled into stretches of shadows.

Their blood is still thick with the booze, so they did not sense the growing chill. But they are slowly starting to feel again, immune to weather but not the climate of an erosive past. They start to feel foolish in their sparkling frocks.

“Emily, do you think we could just go home?”

“Of course.”

“Would you stay with me?”

“Always.”

They walk back the way they had come, through that initial alley way meeting place, past the man who had heckled Emily hours ago passed out on the side of 42nd street. In a solemn silence, they both wondered why there was no freedom. In a changing world, they felt as if they had been trapped in the concrete foundations of the sky scrapers. Steel beams piling closer to the light polluted sky as Paddy and Emily stay on the ground, level with the garbage filled ditches.

“I want to have a beautiful life but the world won’t let me” Paddy mumbles, while Emily leans her head against Paddy’s protruding collar bone.

They drag themselves to an apartment leaving the waltz behind, two flapper girls in sparkling dresses.

Paige Welch

Daily Headache I am a slave to my prescription Repeat after me: “refill, refill, refill,”

Black Matter Janaya Josephs

Gianna Boveri

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Abuelos I use to visit Visitation place Because it was the safest place to be for a young kid like me Even though the kids next door were taking key bumps out a kilos, that made them read slow, because all their dads were too busy throwing money on games of cee-lo to see their kids throwing money on bricks just so they could feel whole And when my grandparents didn’t let me take a block stroll I would grow cold But that was because I didn’t see their goal See they didn’t want control they just wanted to keep me from ending up on parole Because doing hood shit all day leaves its toll on the soul And no options except to enroll in chilling outside the corner store selling rocks to people you use to call brother Remember when you were kids you use to play throwing rocks at each other Now you avoid making eye contact with that guy’s mother when she passes by on the way back from her 9-5 Where she makes just enough money to feed her sons habit and stay alive I got the opportunity to miss all that because Abuelos’ taught me to strive for more And showed me what it is to thrive even if you’re poor That’s why I never needed a man up above because I had my Abuelos’ and mom preaching love With happiness and health as its common wealth And all my joy and success wouldn’t have been felt without their help I’m just writing this down because Ima miss my Abuelas kelp brown skin and the smell of fried food in her house And I hope one day I grow as short, strong and stout as Abuelo is Because I take so much pride in being Fela and Bartolos grandkid With the future brighter than the fire on the top of the lighter because I’m many things including writer whose riding a slew of creativity that won’t tire because my mom has my brain hot-wired to kill all challenges I face like mike Myers with the Desire to give time where it’s required I’m going to be my neighborhoods hope supplier With all the kids in the projects being the buyers Because you gotta inspire to be admired And now Ima Retire this rhyme scheme Because that’s not the theme of this poem And Ima keep going just to remind that all that these

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rhymes could never have been recorded without the investment of Fela and Bartolos time.

Ruben Delgado

Angels of the Border Kayla Barnes

Untitled Danny DeRusso This World My mind is not my own It’s filled with thoughts so dark A scream, a cry, a moan You’ll hear no angels hark I lay here set in stone This world has left its mark

Jenna Tiffany

Haiku One-Hundred I wish you’d speak up, Tell me how you really feel.

This game is unfair.

Sam Filkins

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Composed 1

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Composed 2 David Cervone

Days and rays through the window pane Scarlett bonds linger in the skyline Hands swing, twenty four times One motion, our motion together Amber grows bright in day’s brightest light Crisp chills thrill our bones Still yearning to be on my own Cold air doesn’t spark a fear But losing love…

A fear forms from loves first flare Under the hallucinogens seen through shadows in the night

As the days go, all we do is look out the window Scarlett rays break into dust Particles dance, mixing colors finding the cracks Slipping into broken spots Leaking out to explore so much more So much more, than what we see or say So much more, than just Scarlett rays

Dennis J. Carroll

Fog collects, filling alleys Hiding the way The abyss of possibilities that could play Held restrictions, from our own depictions of more than any hope to know

Untitled Kenneth Schick

Gears grinding, wheels turning Spinning faster and faster Derailed understanding and empathy Our own shoes tied too tight Tattered souls scrape on the sidewalk Scarring the ground, ripping holes Flush riddled glances Programed monkey dances Innocence melts fast, as a clock ticks Growing numb minds that ride the quick fix They tape; form to fit the pretty void Trying to avoid the creative side ‘They’re’ fear of my mind ‘They’re’ fear in your mind They build the blockade That we lay behind As we sit, watching shadows grow

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I Don’t Buy It I first noticed the man for his massive size—then for the massive bongo drum he carried. His body filled the entire subway door. He twisted and ducked to slide through. I had been enjoying the peace, but I knew what he’d be doing with that drum.

The drum was the size of a small garbage can. The top was covered by a beaten animal hide that was stretched atop the drum’s wooden body, which tapered down to its open bottom. Laces of green, yellow and red were strung along its sides, through its head, crossing, weaving, and revealing only small patches of the body’s natural grain.

The subway was crowded. We sat at the opposite end, pressed shoulder to shoulder with other riders. Janet sat to my left. The air was hot and thick that day, but the subway, with only a wispy, cool draft, felt luxurious.

The train emerged from the underground. The sunlight pierced the windows and glimmered the sweat beading on the man’s bald forehead, while he hobbled through the crowd, holding the bongo beneath his left arm. His eyelids hung over his pupils like half closed blinds. His face was idle. He settled beside the side door where the ceiling curved downward. His head nearly scraped it.

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, If I can have your attention please,” The man said. His voice was deep and resounded without strain. “Me and my family have fallen on hard times. Every single day we struggle to scrape together meals. Please take some time to help those less fortunate, those in need. Thank you.”

He squatted with the drum tilted forward between his legs, and he held his left hand over its head. The hand looked like tree bark. He stared. He waited. I waited too. I looked away and I wished that our stop would arrive before the sound.

But then he played.

The first beat rattled my ears. It was a firecracker, and more rolled and snapped off his fingertips. The rhythm bounded forward. He struck accents that swept up and down, and between which he tapped the drum’s edges, and the pings dissolved the empty spaces. The sound flooded the car. It splashed along the walls. He played loudly, yet no one

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turned; no one watched. He pounded the drum again. Again. Again. The salvo shook my brain.

Janet tugged my arm, clutched it and cringed.

“I don’t like it,” she said. “It hurts my head.”

“I’m sure he’ll stop soon,” I said.

“No he won’t,” she said. “He’ll just go and annoy more people, and they’ll only care about getting him to stop. Why can’t he just work? I can’t respect that. It’s likes he’s not even trying.”

With my arm around her waist, I pulled her close, and she pressed her right ear into my shoulder. The drum still rumbled.

I looked back at the man. His stoicism had faltered and reemerged as ardor. His eyes were closed, and his head was tilted back while gravity parted his lips. As he bobbed with the beat, his teeth gleamed. His ears seemed spared from the noise. The constant pounding had dulled the ringing pain deep in his brain. He was numb. In time, we all were.

And for a moment, when the noise no longer hurt, I could see each thud and pop move the air. But the air would settle before it could graze anyone’s skin. The rhythm was real and surrounded us, but it felt far away, as though it were filmed in a studio.

Then the man opened his eyes, and his calm returned as he softened each pop. His fingers were now pattering and the noise soon faded.

Then he looked at me. It felt cold. I shot my eyes forward at the opposite bench onto a man who was staring at his phone. I glanced to his right and then farther down, and then to the left. The riders’ sights were affixed downwards, staring at nothing. Their bodies were bound to the floor and to the benches, and they moved only by the will of the subway.

The man stood, and he constrained the bongo beneath his arm. His eyes were dimmer than before.

“Thank you again,” he said. “I hope I entertained you. Remember some people in this world need

help and you can do something about it.”

“I don’t buy it,” Janet said.

The subway halted with the shrillness of shattering glass, and the riders swayed forward then snapped back into place when it stopped. The crowed moved.

The man pushed his way to the door holding the drum upside down, exposing the open bottom to donations. He had a limp. His left leg moved well, but his right leg dragged behind. He looked from face to face, hobbling, holding out the drum. The drum remained empty.

When our eyes met, the ice and the chill hit me again, but I didn’t look away this time, and the frozen impact simmered, then it smoldered, then it seared, as though it would burn a hole in my pocket.

I scowled. The man ducked through the door and stood waiting for his next audience. We rolled away in silence.

After some more stops, the number of riders had reduced and our station crept closer.

“You have the Card so we can get back, right?”

Janet said.

I spread open my wallet and plucked through a pile of old receipts. The Card was not there.

“I must have dropped it at the other station,” I said.

“I borrowed some extra cash. I’ll just buy a new one when we get there.”

You Made Me Ink Noah Barton

Jason Birkelbach

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

19

Home I thought that you were home.

Your arms were walls around me, a deep wood that shines in the light and darkens in the snow.

You kissed picture frames onto my skin, leaving artwork scattered across walls that had never seen anything so beautiful.

And your scent, staining my pillowcase every other day, so it never had the chance to disappear.

You smell like candles, the way my mom lights them.

Your hair is the pine in the bathroom, Your neck is the warm vanilla on the windowsill, Your chest is the pumpkin spice on the kitchen table.

So many scents, three or four, that shouldn’t go together but somehow they do.

You’re the fireplace causing me to melt, defrosting my bones and winter hands.

Your whispers in the middle of the night are like rain falling on my skylight.

Delicate, soft, tentative, but strong.

But home doesn’t act like you.

Home is stable, definite, consistent, changing but never truly changing.

You can’t be my home.

Katie Garrity

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Abandoned Kayla Ray

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

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Sandra You bled for me as much as you read to me On those cold dark nights Back when the land lord didn’t let us have lights And the only clothes you had were those overalls, a work suite and those worn out tights All so you could dress me well, so those kids at school didn’t pick fights But thank you for fighting for me when those teachers called me a child who never make an earning You told them that I just had a unique style of learning I know when they said that it left you burning And yearning for some help Because you were raising a challenged child by yourself So you taught me to be quick witted and told me it’s better that my personality Never Quite Fitted and that we have to work as hard as we can with the cards we’re dealt Thinking back on how hard you hustled makes my heart melt And I’m sorry if you ever felt like you couldn’t meet my needs Because I couldn’t be prouder of how far we’ve come from that one room house with no stove and heat on 206 Richards street Back when you couldn’t afford deli meat so You would sit with me and watch me eat With your stomach empty and your heart full of love When you were younger the only thing you had to look up to was a god up above But I don’t need that because you gave me a role model in the form of beautiful flying dove You showed me we could make it in this nation through hard work determination Because now we live in 46 Sullivan Street where there’s always heat and something for both of us to eat Thank you mom because you gave me work ethic and love I always keep.

Ruben Delgado

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Main Street Gabriel Vargas

embers

Youth Sydney Strano

August 19th, 2016

look i don’t need to be up in flames you don’t have to restock the wood i know you have it piled up it doesn’t have to be burned yet we’ll never get the right channel on the songs on the damn notebook cover settle strip down bear down on me, sun fire’s back in my throat straight rum either i’m immune or drinking less not the one to lash out down to almost ashes not quite there i could shine light to glisten on the lakes through trees for campgrounds, campers but i’m glowing in the embers

Gabe Membreno

Becoming a Fool Any fool can write a poem Take a look around Write down how it makes them feel Use fancy words It takes a certain type of fool To live a poem To see a sunset And become immersed in its cotton candy pupils To get into a car And pave an ethereal road of eternal stardust Any fool can write a poem But it takes a certain type of fool To become one

Justin Babbino

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

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Amsterdam

Meghan Gude

The Four Agreements

Kristen Guastella

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Cheers to a “new” year

I hear the words being mumbled under your breath Now the yelling I can’t help but be reminded of All the times New years was ruined Excited and dressed up in bright smiles Turned to silent nights Watching the seconds on the screen go down 3 2 1 0 The number at the end of the year Going up Apparently a new year meant change But the next year would be the same Anticipated celebration which Soon enough Led to tears And then again Silence It gives me goose bumps knowing I didn’t ever mind it.

Tiniest Friend Kayla Barnes

Konstantina Salales

Burned You came into my life like a cigarette.

Dropped and forgotten on a carpet floor.

I never saw you fall, never saw you coming.

Kindling a fire. You warmed a numb body.

Caught by surprise, I doused you.

Afraid of losing your warmth, petrified of burning.

Overpowered, I was mesmerized.

Dancing a number that’s suffocating me.

Sprayed down, you had to go.

I, was to be left alone.

Lucienne Ford

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

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When I was...

When I was a cop And you were a robber You were an escaping convict And I was a valiant police officer on a bicycle.

When you were an astronaut And I was an alien My planet was the horrifying room next to the kitchen And your ship was the vacuum box.

When I was the king of the jungle And you were my servant The swing set was my kingdom And the shed was your home.

When you were on the couch And I was across the room The floor was lava And the couch was safety.

10 years have gone by and our choice Is clear: forget how to be imaginative Or not.

I have some ideas: I’ll be Walter White You be the DEA. Catch me if you can but I’ll get away again.

You be Monica Lewinsky And I’ll be Clinton I’ll run the world And you will take the blame.

Serenity at Carrick-a-Rede Mairéad Farinacci

26

I’ll be Gordon Ramsay And you be my guest.

I’ll cook the most delicious meal then you tell me it’s the best.

You be Voltaire I’ll be Dr. Seuss I have to live a life worth living.

Josh Pacella

In May In April You had been sitting In your favorite green recliner.

The one by the door, with an unobstructed view of the 10:00 news.

In April You had been cutting coupons Setting some aside for me Because you knew everything I “needed”, Keeping minimal grandchildren Close to your thoughts.

In April You left a message on the answering machine: “Lisa where are you, please call.”

You were a worrier that walked On two metal hips With perfect curls and pink rose lips.

In April You sent my brother a card With the signature crisp twenty, Some words of endearment, Echoing the baskets of postcards Sent to you from our vacations.

In April Nothing was wrong.

Even you thought we had more time But something stopped within you Saying it was time to go In May You were gone.

The Saturday morning I woke To the sound of my mother crying The most heartbreaking sound known to man.

In May I was too paralyzed to leave my bed There was still a chance That I was not awake.

My body told me to go to her.

In May

We moved that recliner Across the hardwood and into the back Of a U-Haul, stacking the family tree on top And now it sits in the living room Under my senior portrait.

In May We planned a funeral.

I selfishly hoped I would see you At my high school graduation.

But seats cannot be reserved for spirits.

In May We all wondered what life would be Like without you in it.

A unanimous decision that it would be as strange As the hands I shook at the reception.

In May The lush spring made the drive To the cemetery feel like a Shakespearean dream sequence, The hole in the ground where we placed your ashes The setting of a tragic fate.

The end of a perfect tragedy, A soliloquy framing the rest of our stories.

Paige Welch

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

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EMOTIONAL [əˈmōʃ(ə)n(ə)l] Adjective.

1. Of or relating to a person’s emotions 2. Arousing or characterized by intense feelings

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Celestial Kiss Meghan Gude

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

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Limited Capacity No need to let go: Sticky summers Trapped in memory foam, Taught to conform to a restless body On a mattress in a childhood bedroom.

No need to let go: Those autumns spent waiting For the yellow bus to peek from the hill Blending with the sunrise.

Hoping to release the breaks, Escape into the atmosphere for just long enough To be home by dinner.

No need to let go: There is enough space for the future, At least it seems that way.

But the frontal lobe is stuffed to the brim, Vision blurred by the layering of past Kodachrome seasons Over the gray scale space approaching.

You need to let go: The past holds nothing But places to hide.

Paige Welch

No need to let go: The solace of springtime Forming poems out of red tulip pedals In an attempt to be a part of this burst of life.

The brave, decaying daffodil roots, Reminding humans that Nature isn’t forever.

No need to let go: Those brutal Upstate winters, Burning skin and perpetually cold souls Watching those first poems decay in the wind.

Drying grass, a perfumed aroma of lost time.

No need to let go: Of the blue skies above During the walk home from school, The trees climbed before knees were skinned.

Lessons learned, consequences of adventurous spirit Stifled by high school.

No need to let go: In a world populated by strangers Loved ones becoming coarse grains slipping Through fingers, Memories should be kept like Archipelagos Of disconnected thoughts So they can be returned to.

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Defying Gravity Ben Lasky

I Could Do This Forever I read poetry in her I could do this forever and I hate those words could is more often a lie than not and forever’s a promise but I could do this forever I heard it in a breath And I saw it in her eyes closed, pink sweater it’s not in the drawer no it’s in front of me it’s next to me and though I’ve already forgotten some things things are right here and I know the right things I could do this forever it scares me 12:57 and it scares me how she forgets to tell me she’s home I forget to tell her too but she’s gotta be there I hate this time of night more than anyone so don’t let it get by you I’ll get to it but don’t pass by it drive through it carefully I could do this forever some can’t understand that, please I don’t know if I will I’ve had my little victories even tonight yet I can’t see that I can’t see that yet to the clock I squint to the future I’ll do the same I could do this forever

December 18th & 21st, 2014

Untitled Aimee Seymour

Gabe Membreno

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

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Dying, Reborn Amelia Lee

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Haiku Eighty-Eight Your tongue has a way Of convincing me you mean Everything you say.

Sam Filkins

Deadline Coffee tasting coughs and flavored phlegm so thick After showers linger longer, still it sticks.

Heartburn ceasing never, quenched only in sleep Because tears don’t fall from sleeping eyes that weep.

Muddled steps and muddy feet through time scatter Leaving skids of grey on face and grey matter.

Draining valleys in to neutral canyon’s creaks Cut deep in minds thinking, “Can a plateau peak?”

Michael Ludlum

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

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Heartbreak Reversal Sometimes I feel like my heart is dropping Down an elevator shaft; Plummeting towards an empty cable Cavity as I watch it happen From the gaping mouth, doors stuck open.

I expect it to never return to me, Never find itself climbing up the wet concrete Walls called forth by a magnetic pressure But somehow, like in reverse, It will fall upwards towards my open arms Into me again.

The breath returns all at once I am alive again but with new finger prints on my arteries.

The beating, bleeding muscle stays but only When you are with me.

Paige Welch

I Like My Coffee Strong You’re my cup of coffee.

I’ll take you as you are; at any hour, I crave you.

You never even liked coffee until you loved me.

Kelsey Block

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Untitled Kristen Guastella

Untitled Danny DeRusso Valley When holidays feel like footsteps on a map I count each step after every breath And I fall in between mountains And step on steppes To drown in lakes That feed from rivers Atop heights I just fell Lost in this piece of paper Desolate cartography And the map to remind me How I alone I really am And how alone the rest of the world will be.

Michael Ludlum

Haiku Ninety-Six She’s the type of girl Who will push you ‘til you break; I’m learning to bend.

Sam Filkins

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

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Absence This empty bed is cold on my skin,

like the ashtray resting on your bare chest.

I long to press my lips against your sleepy cheek,

to watch your eyelashes flutter asleep, our thighs kissing in the most innocent way,

tangled in tattoos and white sheets,

hours spent wrapped up

in our own little safe haven.

But I’m here, and you’re there.

Kelsey Block

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Rainy Day Shuci Wu

A Walk Through Time and Deterioration The small hand of the clock is on eleven, I reach over to my night stand for my flashlight, without it a long dark trek to the bathroom lies before me; a daunting route for my five year old self that starts from my childhood bed in my Granny’s home.

Outside the sky is bright for this time of night, but that’s how it always is in the middle of July this far north in Donegal, Ireland. Rounding the corner I take caution in my dimly lit path; these stairs are steeper than back home.

I grip the banister which has both guided and strengthened those who have climbed here. For three hundred years. And my journey through the dark house tonight, feels just as long, at least a decade brushing through these familiar steps has become automatic over summers.

With feet touching down on the cool stone kitchen floor, I can smell the turf and coals still cooling down from evening tea in the sitting room just a few hours before.

I whirl into the pantry, outside the window is the green unruly grass covered in dew.

The old tiles bearing my weight are brave for keeping together all these years.

rotting and retching.

Out the window, the rain touches down on the pane.

My childhood journey is irretraceable along with fifteen years of absence.

A legend and history of a home. Abandoned and disillusioned.

Mairéad Farinacci

In Between the Sheets Daniele Freeman

Out in front of me now I can reach the bathroom door, but I am now aged, and mindful that there has been fifteen years passing behind me, since I left the cold bed frame and set out on my journey.

Turning around in retreat, I drown in the depressing reality of the deterioration. In a reversed journey, the tiles, now less brave, are shattered and leading me to a damp, damaged, and colder old fashioned kitchen stone floor. From there the door swings open returning me to the stairs which remain standing, but not without a heightened risk of broken beams, or of softened wood, or of rotten rug. The fire for the turf was diminished years ago, in the now vacant home, in a bleak and unlivable sitting room in a door just beyond my touch.

Following the staircase up, my trek to return has ripened into a more burdensome and daunting one on my twenty year old self’s spirit than my childhood routine could have ever known A childhood bed in my Granny’s house is gone;

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

37

Playing A Dirty Sport I wish I knew what love tastes like.

I wonder how love tastes when I am not stumbling around trying to find it, Clutching onto it with dizzy hands so I don’t fall over on all my insecurities.

When the alcohol infuses with the desperation, it makes for a pretty sick drink.

Imagine chugging four cups of frat house punch, three beers, two jello shots, and one bottle of self-hatred, ripping off someone else’s mask, heading face first into an attempt of trying to save yourself.

Chugging down the hunger of being loved, Feeling the loneliness seeping into my veins; The burn of shots doesn’t hurt as bad as the thought of falling asleep in an empty bed every single night.

I end up at home alone, with a stranger’s saliva on my lips, and goosebumps on my skin.

The only times I have been kissed are when I am drunk.

Maybe because I can blame the alcohol for everything instead of blaming myself.

Maybe I can use all the red solo cups as steps to make the bold moves that I can’t do when I am sober.

Or is it because I don’t know how to love when I am sober? or no one can love me when I am sober. or maybe I am not worthy of love unless I am too trashed to understand the difference between my love and their lust.

Strangers’ hands on my waist feel like home and I move around a lot.

I’ll try to couch hop into their hearts, but they’ll evict me before I can move in, Leave me exposed out in the cold, out on the rainy nights where I attempt to wash away their hungry lips from my skin, rinse off my desperate heart.

I feel myself crumble in the their palms, slipping through their fingers like a destroyed sand castle.

They kiss my neck and grin as I moan, not realizing that I’m groaning at the fact that it takes being wasted at a random frat house for me to feel like I can be loved.

I may stand a strong six stories tall but they demolish me in seconds.

I don’t want to crumble in the hands of everyone around me anymore.

“I’m very drunk, and you’re very hot, can I kiss you?!”

I would have wanted to regardless of my B.A.C., but speaking in brewed slurs makes it easier for me.

I will wake up the next morning and recall the night.

Hangover remedies and forced laughs, Waiting for the next party to see if Cupid won’t be in my drink this time.

Katie Hebert

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Vulnerable Close like wallpaper plastered on a wall Their fingertips tangled together Like Vines in a jungle.

It seemed as if The streets in the city were empty On a summer night Unexpected yet somehow Right.

Still fear crept in like light through A small crack in a cave.

For the past walked in and Made her turn away, When the taste of sweetness Was all She craved.

Konstantina Salales The Part in the Curtains The sun breaks through the part in the curtains like open lips ready to speak streams of yellow float down as dust traffics through.

I raise my hand and break the prism into four rays that reach the floor.

Gianna Boveri

Maison de Monet MairĂŠad Farinacci

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

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Phases Full

I woke up with a pain in my side and drums in my head.

The sun looked seemingly darker this morning.

I turned crystal into dust as the rim of the throne shined like a trophy,

But this was not a prize to be won.

Waning

A flood ensued in our bedroom that evening, Although everyone else seemed dry and impervious.

A nightmare that only I could see and feel, Even in bright hours of the day, it felt like midnight with a different sun shining on me.

I sat in my room in shock, thinking about how I lost everything.

Half

He said we should go,

I decided to stay.

We decided to let you stay, It’s no big deal, we will find you some space.

Waxing

That March, we smiled about the new Spring bloom.

That April, I blew out candles.

That fall, we would be ready to welcome you.

Crescent

Hurricane season came early.

We were destroyed yet again.

There was a sliver of hope that could still be seen, But you were already too deep into the darkness.

He cradled me as our broken hearts curled into each other.

New

If you look close enough, you can still see the outline of what could have been, what would have been, what used to be.

You are not shining tonight, but we can still see you when we look up.

Dancing around with other wayward hearts, jumping around in the sky.

You are a shooting star, something beautiful, something everyone wants to see but gone too soon.

Katie Hebert

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The Preferred Journey Retreating to my closet after unpacking my bag I gaze at my boots with thoughts of fulfillment.

I am prideful knowing how many countries they have traveled through and how many mountains they brought me up and how many cities they trekked through and wandered through and how many trains I would have missed without them carrying me over the first half of this year.

I notice that they have a few battle scars, markings that I consider honorable on their leather revealing the wear and tear that I demanded from them on the days I refused to return home and explored just a few further miles ahead.

I remark on how they look even better now than I remember they did when they were my newest purchase.

I wonder if I would think similarly if likewise scars were on my body by the end of my journeys.

I wonder if I would look as honorably at tears of stress and markings of usage on my body as I do towards my Docs, a binding of leather and laces.

I wonder why it is that I’m grateful for them, my material things, for bringing me where they did and why not my mind, which went just as far and even farther.

My internal monologue and dizzying thoughts brought me to new depths and greater angles of this world, of my world.

Then, I think of where my mind really went.

During the quiet, desolate nights Where my Docs were untied, removed, and tucked away Behind the double doors of my nineteenth century Parisian armoire.

And my mind went to the places That can’t be touched in any binding of rubber soul to leather to laces And these places are gloomy and unwelcoming.

During my visits there, my mind was pulled and hurting And the following mornings left my mind vibrating, and coping.

Not wishing to ever reveal the extent of my depressive position I reluctantly recall these dark journeys.

And I think it’s then that I realize Why, exactly, it is that I prefer the journeys of my boots over those of my mind.

Mairéad Farinacci

Untitled Danny DeRusso

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

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A Beautiful something A beautiful something Played in my ear

It was art he displayed Five fingers sang a song

A beautiful something The flames that raged

It seems from her look That bit of love was strong

As the ones from within In which I aged

A beautiful something The envy riddled me green

Red flames burned my heart to charcoal From the fire, smoke came of my old soul

Wishing I was him The man making the scene

I fell far under assumptions Looking for greatness within

Hoping for sound To leak from my pores

To only hope plagues me To wonder what could have been

Praying to any god My loneliness is no more

A beautiful something A life wondering away

A beautiful something I came to feel

Working for music To become my sound

We all consistently move But life never stays

The beer filled me Affecting the mind a great deal

Practicing all the time With no one around

I moved around a lot Mistakes helped me grow wise

I saw her In the room idol and afar

A beautiful something My fingertips callused hard

I look back at the past At an old me I despise

In the background Sweet sounds of the guitar

I tried to play in front of some Leaving the party scarred

From pain and anger I had something to sing

A beautiful something She leans to the beat

I went home back to my room Where I cried

I went back out Bought a new guitar, and six strings

Dancing slightly While off her feet

Deciding to move on Tossing my guitar to the side

A beautiful something Practicing to no end

There was love in her eyes She couldn’t look away

The strings broke In sounds so dire

I’d always play for anyone Especially my friends

As her gazed was captured By the man who played

I broke up its wood To burn in a fire

They’d say things like “Oh yeah that’s great!”

To be known, Those six strings rang so clear We gathered In a smoky room In the rhythm All as one I presume Carlsberg glows In it’s glass so effervescent Large gulps Drowning my mind in life’s depressant

42

As they started growing speechless I realized it’s not too late

I lost myself in the music And never came back again

It seems greatness Doesn’t just come to one

A beautiful something I couldn’t go wrong A beautiful something was the name of the song.

It’s endless work And greatness may never be won A beautiful something Returning to the bar

Dennis J. Carroll

I came just to sing Not to be a star Next for open mic night My heart dropped from my chest I sat on the stool And took a deep breath I began With a sound sweet and clear My body soon expelled All of my fear

White:Black Laiken Whittredge

A beautiful something She was there Looking at me, In the same stare I slapped the wood The room moved to the beat I played a little louder Everyone jumped from their seat Everyone cheered As the song reached its end

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

43

I felt good on a gray day I felt good on a gray day there were little words at work and little work no bagel still 2 cups of coffee 9:45, then noon the songs were just right the sweater too my citrus was warm but I had sweet pesto while going over my mistakes soon after read Othello saw not doubt but surety and it couldn’t have been worse I thought of a friend and his birthday adding layers to the years we will see the sun rise and be in the sunshine not this day this day, I drew a house a few flowers some shingles and windows a tree w/ fruits or birds I can’t tell the knothole was low but not too a boy swinging he’s okay all poor and saying nothing about me I spent nearly 2 hours 10 dollars in a thrift store it was these used cassettes bruce springsteen, chuck berry, forrest gump alongside the freedom writers diary a corner desk and a grandfather clock I might come back for and a canvas for another friend that say much I want them to I danced around a supermarket returning to aisles for different frozen foods iced teas and energy not leaving w/o gelato and rye bread and avocado a quick chat with one more friend at home I made everything mine

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tuesday april 26th ’16

cornered myself for a project I will only put off ate mom’s cooking but threw in salt harvard’s been on my head the whole time that’s as far as that will go I will see hunter and upstate new york hempstead often where I am now saint joseph might want me saint john didn’t I realized next to Eisenhower the memorial that the subtle silent rain forces ripples in the pond like rocks do too but it only adds to it I am waiting to know there that i may go and that we will march push the wheelchair along and carry each other before the continent can no longer I feel a burn today but a burst is on its way no hell I am hesitant with heaven my joy is an omen so I felt only good on this gray day

Gabe Membreno

El Atlántico It’s been a while since I counted the hours between us Three in the morning and I am still awake I would do anything to be in your time zone Sitting in bed listening to the wind I’m sorry that sometimes I am afraid to fall asleep for the chance you might be in my dreams Waking up only to remember that you are across an entire ocean There are only so many times I can try to convince myself that none of it meant anything Yet this fucking cigarette between my lips is the only thing that brings me back to you Why do I keep letting this smoke enter my body as it fills me with poison Just to remember how you tasted as I left you It’s nine in the morning for you I wonder if she is waking up in your arms

Meghan Gude Silver Lining It was a Monday when I lost all control 3:16 when I heard three precious words spoken Every day you took another piece of my soul Promises made I never thought would be broken Before I noticed you’d left me hollow I lost who I was, let you be the master Thought I needed someone to follow It was your fault we ended in disaster Ridiculed and made to feel insane Said she meant nothing and I knew you were lying Whatever love we shared was slain When I saw you two in bed, denying Took days to get calm But I see the silver lining in the atomic bomb

Jenna Tiffany

Feeling Blue Daniele Freeman

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

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Brew You are a travel mug full of strong coffee I sip eagerly at your brim, burning my lips, because somehow your safety has always been more important than my own I carry you with me every day, addicted to the way you wipe the sleep from my bones, but you always leave my mind racing and my heart beating, painful against my chest When I try to function without you, light is overwhelming enough to keep me in bed all day My body craves you Once, twice, three times a day Sometimes more I need my hands to be wrapped around you Someone told me you are bad for me to cut back They told me the rumbling in my core is dangerous and that you were stunting my growth How was I supposed to know something so good could be so bad?

I’m trying to switch to tea, to kick my habit, to ignore the withdrawal I face in your absence Tea is good It smells lovely It’s hot and it offers a new world to explore But you will never be my cup of tea And I think I’d rather have you I relapsed yesterday I wrapped my hands around you and pressed my lips against you once more, feeling your warmth spread through my body I breathed in your aroma, let it soak through every cavern of my mind, let you intoxicate me

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I missed it I missed the way you make my body tremble the way you make thoughts race through my head and take my breath away But you always leave me sweating and shaking and confused You are a travel mug full of strong coffee, made of equal parts threat and promise I know what you are capable of and I drink you in, slowly and carefully, wondering if the risk is worth it You are my drug of choice the beginning of my days the single force bringing me into reality You are stained shirts unstoppable headaches a separation of mind, soul, and body Should I let you have that much power?

You were brewed strong, dark The type of coffee that coats my entire brain and awakens my senses But I don’t need you anymore You are nice to hold to smell to taste But you are not my cup of tea

Katie Garrity

Bright and Breezy Benjamin Glew

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

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Time Is No Friend of Mine I yearn to restart my heart, to turn back the clock Try for missed love, to forget past permanent shock Time is no friend of mine, it moves with such haste It’s only the days that grow so somber That slow precious time in its wake I’ve become so weary as my intentions spread Losing my mind when I trust my heart instead But with passion comes risk and our sense peruses safety With all of love’s chances missed It’s an envy that grows within me With my irises a light blue and dark yellow The green in me is all I have seen And as time goes on, a boy’s pure heart Grows cold and mean I’ve cried clear tears and bled blood’s red I’ve worn bruises on my body And I’ve taken hammers to the head And although time is no friend of mine I’ve felt a lover’s kiss Danced with friends endlessly, till we ripped up the rug I’ve learned lessons from my father Debated my sister’s sarcastic notion Felt my brothers hug, and I wear my mother’s love We may all not experience life But we all experience time And though time is no friend of mine Time teaches us to cherish the happy little moments It soon leaves behind

Dennis J. Carroll

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Out of Time Meghan Gude

Tales From a Bathroom Strange footprints stamping dust Into strange tiles, Sticky and stifling stoicism Enclosed in four walls.

Crouching by porcelain, A seat rimmed with bacteria so close To the face But one celled organisms Are safer company than The coffee shop beyond that door.

Public intimate spaces are fortresses; Leaving them would be suicide.

These people will see your tears Sense the panicked sweat, Clammy palms, Triggered gag reflex.

It’s better to hope For the blue themed room in the place You grew up in before You make a scrapbook of all the floor patterns Memorized while escaping.

The room with the blue linoleum, Propped up white tiles covering holes, Walls covered with towels, counters, tub.

The one window drawing in sunlight That crashes into the blue-yellow vibrating fluorescent light Bulbs naked against the mirror.

Stages Janaya Josephs

Many people would not equate A bathroom with a panic room.

But in times like these, Nauseous emergencies They have everything you need.

Here you do not worry About the sound of your weakness Breaking through the insulation As the purging of your fears Shatters the silence.

Paige Welch

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

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I Know a Girl I know a girl who is so in love with the moon, she soaks herself in its glow every night, waiting for the light to fill the emptiness inside her heart.

She has no idea that her smile shines so bright, the stars selected her to represent everything they aspire to be.

She has no idea that her eyes hold such grand galaxies, you are convinced every promise she’s ever made will be followed through.

I know a girl who has no idea she has the ability to belittle the entire universe by simply being her but all I can do is give her some space and hope she finds whatever it is she’s searching for.

Sam Filkins

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Self Miranda Cagliano

Flowers So she ripped open her chest and out popped three flowers Three flowers that represented the hours The hours in which she sat alone Are the hours in which these flowers had grown The flowers were big and yellow and bright She sat towards the window to give them some light The flowers kept growing and stretched over her face The flowers used her lungs as a vase And so as the flowers kept growing and weaving The girl began to have trouble breathing She could no longer move and remained out of sight Because of those flowers that moved in that one night.

Sydney Strano Bond

Madyson Macejka

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The Fantastic Looking Glasses The fantastic looking glasses A peculiar creation That let one see another’s eyes Far beyond imagination The girl sat there, in her quiet and content And everything around her was distorted and bent.

But you wouldn’t know that, no, not by looking For her eyes hid her secrets, hid her words, so obscuring.

The fantastic looking glasses Made for understanding Place them on your sleeping eyes And see your mind expanding She took the glasses from her face and placed them right beside her They sat there in the leaves and grass, as she calmly sipped her cider The people need not pay attention to the girl, oh so strange But one person in particular, slowly approached her range…

The fantastic looking glasses An interesting icebreaker They build and break relationships For any lucky partaker.

The stranger sat beside the girl, nodding towards the glasses Offering a puzzling glance, their thoughts were like molasses The girl became ecstatic, the visitor, confused…

As the girl picked up the glasses, seemingly amused The fantastic looking glasses If one dares to wear Will show another’s thoughts But you have to truly care “What do the glasses do?” the stranger seemed to say The girl plucked them off the ground without a second of delay.

“They show you what I see” she said, “they show you all I know” The stranger was now startled, wanting to forgo…

The fantastic looking glasses Not an easy game It’s a decision of great weight To see another’s pain

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Color Vision Ben Lasky

Why would You want to look, into another’s person’s thoughts?

But you must admit to wonder, want to connect the dots…

Don’t you want to know why the girl is so peculiar?

What really makes her tick, what’s her past? In her future?

The fantastic looking glasses Not to be made a fool of The experience is draining And gives the mind a shove After the hesitation, the visitor complied.

Taking up the glasses, in a swift and easy glide Placing them upon the face, right upon the nose The visitor leaned back in awe, for their eyes they could not close.

The fantastic looking glasses See the world in a new way The wearer of the lenses Will not know what to say The visitor now saw the world, they saw it all, in every way The visitor now saw the stars, saw the moon, saw every day.

Her world was so different, and so bright, and brand new Her world was all dripping, and in words, all askew The fantastic looking glasses Showing strangers a new light A new world full of air But can one handle all the bright?

The glasses take one’s breath away, nothing will be the same.

Everything is different now, how will your life remain?

You’ve felt all her suffering, her joy, and her sorrow But how will you feel, when it still is there tomorrow?

The fantastic looking glasses A peculiar creation Leaving all the scars upon you From that one lone temptation.

Sydney Strano

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

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Weather Reporting Bursting from you Like the fog over a morning sea, Drifting in slow motion and Colliding with the sun.

Elements tying together a perfect day, A new one freshly picked from an orchard Of starlight trees.

Never contradicting Only coexisting.

This is how you must feel When you are in love, Like the limb of a new person Two natural fronts colliding At dawn and never separating ‘till time, Though intangible, Doesn’t even matter anymore.

You must whisper to yourself While watching change happen from the shore: “It’s a nice thing to exist in the morning, To be alive, to not wonder what will happen.” and your lover must come up behind you Wrap the other limb around your soul, Bring it close to some essence.

Bursting from you Like a storm with no place to go.

There’s a Storm Coming Ben Lasky

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Paige Welch

Roses He plucks me in the name of love, but doesn’t see that he just killed me.

He hands me to her with my brothers and sisters, she takes us all in a big hug and squeals.

She drops us in a glass to drown, as she runs away upstairs with him to drown herself in what she calls love, in what he calls lust.

We stand still at the kitchen table. Her mother tells us that we are so pretty.

We will not be here for much longer.

Famished and lonely, she passes us day after day, ignoring us unlike she did when we first met.

We start to fall over onto ourselves, we cannot hold our own anymore.

She is puking, he is passed out, we are wilting together; this is how we bond as a family.

A pool of blood leaks onto the countertop as we begin to die.

From the blazing fire we once were, we blend into the colors of discarded cigarettes on her mother’s ashtrays.

We don’t serve any purpose anymore. I don’t know if we ever did.

He has dumped her for another girl. We soon end up in the garbage.

I can see him, handing more of my relatives over to someone new.

Katie Hebert

Untitled Aimee Seymour

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Universal Mind Ben Lasky

linger She told me she still smokes her old girl’s cigarettes.

She said they taste like her.

I’ve heard of keeping sweatshirts because they smell like their perfumebut this was interesting to me.

She told me her stories about how toxic they were together as she pulled the toxic clouds through her lips into her lungs.

“It’s kind of fruity,” she said and we pulled out of the gas station.

Gianna Boveri

Romanticize

Peach Flowers Sydney Strano

I hope you romanticize the things I do.

How I scratch the lyrics that are running the walls of my cerebrum into the margins of my notebook.

I hope you romanticize the things I do.

How I trace the salmon confines of my lips with the rose jelly from the white and silver tin.

I hope you romanticize the things I do – Because lately I’m consistently finding myself romanticizing you.

Gianna Boveri

Art & Scope | Fall 2016|

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The Day You Died It was a sunny September day The day you died.

The fingers of fall were slowly beginning to creep in.

Days were getting shorter, the Edges of leaves starting to smolder; Yellow, orange, red and lifeless brown.

Lifeless.

I went to school that morning.

It was the second week of senior year; things were just starting to Settle in.

I had plans, just like you Did at one point a long time ago.

I went to physics, And you shot yourself up.

It wasn’t your first time.

Did you know it would be your last?

How did it feel when you plunged that needle Deep into your vein?

I sat in the cafeteria And chatted with friends about homework and the latest gossip over Potato chips and chocolate milk.

You laid alone on a dingy carpet in an old apartment in Schenectady.

I can picture you seizing, Foam forming at the corners of your mouth; An image I’ve imagined hundreds of times And can never unsee.

What came to mind in those last few moments?

Before thoughts melted away and breaths became fewer And then nonexistent.

Did you think of the Man Coward Who personally introduced you to the Grim Reaper himself?

You called him your boyfriend, We call him your killer.

Or did you think of your Mother Who cried on my shoulder at your funeral And told me I look just like you.

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Or your dad Who shut out the world And buried himself in work because he couldn’t Cope with the fact that you were gone.

What about your little sister?

Who should never have to know what it’s like to be an Only child.

I took the bus home that day And you flew there on a magic carpet.

You didn’t answer your phone So they came to find you.

But you weren’t there.

That wasn’t you, That girl on the floor With foam at her lips.

That wasn’t the spirited, boisterous girl Who sang an Aerosmith song at her dad’s wedding.

Who won ski races and soccer games.

Who was kind to every single person she met.

It wasn’t the person That I looked up to as a little girl.

Who proudly downloaded a recording I brought her of me singing And played it for anyone that would listen Just to make me feel special.

That wasn’t the girl that let me do her makeup Even though I was awful at it And then wore it around all day Because it made me happy.

That girl was gone.

Perception Amelia Lee

I’m sorry you were so sad, Rachel And I’m sorry that you alone.

I’m sorry I answered the phone that night To find out you were gone.

I’m sorry I’m still so damn mad at you.

But most of all, I’m sorry that I was at physics In the cafeteria On the bus And that I wasn’t there to stop you On the day you died.

Hannah Smith

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“Parked” “Is this what you do in your free time?”

He shouted I knew the voice so I didn’t turn “I’ve almost got it!”

I shouted “Got what?!”

“The right shot, I’m almost there, Just a second” It took a lot more “Got it.”

I was looking for the date Looking forward to it I saw something better Well, I’m here I stand here well It sits well The beatles now and sinatra The passing sign language The math I still don’t get The anxiety doesn’t but It’s present The books are stronger Where’s the history?

I’ll get it later I don’t know what’s next How’d you do it Eisenhower?

Two bombs and you guys fucked a whole country up; did you want to?

Did you know the war would end?

Did you know the geese would lead the goslings In your pond?

Did you know they’d erect your statue?

Bronze I think Did you know I would sit on one of your benches

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May 12th, a day I reached

And not know what’s next or soon or ever?

Did you hope?

Or did you just blow it?

How’d you stand so tall?

It’s May 12th And I’m sorry I brought you here Was Philly nice for you?

Did Oneonta treat you well?

How’s Florida?

You’re almost back Who will I see?

I know you didn’t like Queens Me neither well not this time You found Cortland and maybe her You deserve it I know we said we’d do California We still can The eastern beaches aren’t enough for us And not right Will I reach Long Beach? Will we?

What if you moved to Portland, Oregon?

Would you reach out?

Would you want me to?

You’re just across Jerusalem avenue I see you monthly it’s okay But what if you moved to Portland, Oregon?

You’ve spent almost two years in Colombia I played out your death and didn’t say a word What is your mission?

No no what is your mission?

You found drugs you found the hospital You found jesus, (but you?)

Did you know you didn’t have to look?

How will you find me?

I don’t know where you are I don’t know if I’ll see you I don’t want to see you

Did you not want to see me?

Did you know the savior’s in my bloodstream?

Did you know what you could do for me?

Was El Salvador all that?

You don’t know your country You don’t know me You won’t be there You don’t know where I’ll go I don’t either but I want to be there I thought I’d know today I was wrong You could’ve taught me You can’t teach me a damn thing About love About where to go

About my brothers, my kids Because you don’t know This I know Who’s with me?

Hahahahahaaaa shit Don’t shoot yourself Just keep shooting And snapping It’s your pace and you know it I don’t know, But I’ve got it coming Going

Gabe Membreno Untitled Danny DeRusso

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News A paintbrush soaked in gasoline Paints fire across the skyline And ashes of the Heavens Rain into the eyes looking beyond The set-pieces of the creator Set alight by a single hand And the delicate stroke of a brush As big wheels set upon the sky The orchestra of the aether crescendos Upon lines of sheets surrounding the world Erupt with discordant applause for itself Ushering the drubbing of mountain’s membrane Wind pierces her nooks; shrieks of piccolos Gusts propel into her woods Bastion of bassoons, Ocean of oboes Fields of flutes, Megaliths of melodicas Beneath the depths the organ begins Below the gravity of earth And legions of liquid mantle All to the metronome of a diseased heart Minds, riven by the blades of caesura, Stand patiently in silence Amidst another vociferous blast That burns the atmosphere, searing time and space Where all that can exist is a chamber From which no sound can escape Rumbling feet reach the edge Trembling mouths ask “Is there and end? Is there coda? Is there—“ Refrain, refrain, refrain “Is there reprieve?”

Still wishing for a voice The only words that can be heard are not said And scream soundlessly to the world beyond Until they wither, fade, and turn to dust Like those that wrote them.

A curtain closes, a window crashes Audience applause, the crackling of wood Standing ovation, support beams buckle The lights glow to life, the roof caves in.

Michael Ludlum

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Cyborg Tattoo Sketch Ashley Warner

Under the Covers I sleep with the covers on, It’s the only way to be.

For truly I am crazy and they know it too, those dark brooding forces Out there in the nothing, they know it and they wait in their wretched, ugly doomsday state In fits and ugly spurts of bile my body coughs to keep them all at bay Lest they draw their claws, and tear me limb from limb And all the hideous everything will rush out as I lay in dying ribbons – in another coughing fit All the visions and all the dreams and all the ugly I dare not say So I sleep With the covers on It helps Keep me sane I sleep with The covers on It’s the only Way to be

Henry Burkert

Faucet I was deteriorating a decorative soap flake melting in the hot bath water

Gianna Boveri

Uncomfortable Daniele Freeman

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The Summer of Impatient Angst I have a clock set To your time on my phone But I will never tell you this For it’s easier to compliment your smile Share a comment or two about How beautiful you are Than to talk about the things you will never know About me like how I have been thinking about you While awake but am always dreaming About how it must feel to be loved by you In every sense of the word And how I have never felt this way before In my whole life and that includes the time I fell in love with the place I am in.

You make me think about things That are not just sad but poetry Meanwhile you are worlds away Thinking about nothing but the song That’s stuck in your head that is not one I recommended you listen to But one you found years ago on your own In the expanse of years you have lived without me And I without you

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Yet my mind is finding free time Filling spaces between the folds With pictures of you I have never seen up close.

I am Gatsby reaching toward a green light At the edge of my sofa and I find myself In this position always but this time I reach further and with hands Eager to touch something To find you in that vastness And I reach always Never finding anything and usually I don’t want to try that hard But this time I keep stretching my shoulders In hope for an increase elasticity So my arms will adopt the texture of rubber Bounce out wildly Oscillate, oscillate, oscillate Around the labyrinth of hooked thinking Because “never felt this before” means change is coming It must It has to

Paige Welch

Color Me In Ben Lasky

Red When it was frosty and you zipped up your pea coat, you loved me.

Snowflakes fell onto your eyelashes and I introduced you to the bustling café on Main Street where I go when my homework gets too hard.

When new leaves grew, so did you and I like the buds on a cherry blossom tree.

You loved me in the dog days of summer when we chain-smoked, and your right hand held my thigh in your fast car that you let me drive.

I took you to a music festival even though live bands aren’t your thing.

We made plans to see the big city and I can’t wait to see the way the lights reflect in your eyes.

I have faith you’ll still love me when the leaves turn red, even on the days we don’t wake up in the same bed.

Kelsey Block Yellow yellow is wonderful. it’s sunshine kisses in my hair and breezes full of ocean mist yellow is a flower crown made by a dear friend yellow is the outline of distant mountains and fruit juice dripping from my chin and dogs that get so excited they pee it’s smiles that reach all the way to my soul and fields of flowers that never seem to leave and warmth so much warmth more than a bowl of soup or a mother’s touch yellow is confidence the absence of fear passion and compassion and empathy deeper than most can imagine yellow is swaying trees and bird melodies and breakfast in bed on a sunday yellow is loud or quiet but never hidden i forgot how to be yellow for many years yellow is being happy to remember.

Katie Garrity Wild Things Ben Lasky

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Art & Scope magazine Proudly Presents the 2nd annual High School installment

VOICES by Fayetteville-manlius high school

Phase 202 It is fall and gold has begun to cover your fingers right where your cuticles are bitten down to blood and this person’s face is seeping into every inch of your young brain, smelling of cinnamon in the morning and the suburban backyard fires of early June. Hunched over laughter presses gently against your eardrums.

You are very tired after your shift and you just want some sweetness, you crave love tasting like how honey does.

All that is all I want, you tell yourself this under the stars at two in the morning before the clouds come in around sunrise.

Shelby McNaughton

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Watering Our Roots So soothing is the golden grass along uncovered roads, softly spoken chinese.

We must be close to Home.

Athena Donnelly

Pink Soul is what he had (Wild hair, legs crossed, lips zipped) inside of him His heart sometimes jumped in her hands, more often when she would slip her jacket off. as her hair came down against her neck, he could almost see through her.

His lips would part, His heartbeat loud.

She was always steady, her eyes low, thoughts heady.

Salt on his lips, in his hair, She would sigh, fingers brushing what was smooth, what wasn’t There.

Fingers feeling for his soul, she could’ve sworn it was just there, Just in her hands, on her tongue She tasted him, knew that he was young and proud.

Knew that he knew She was too She tasted him, the brine of his skin Pink crystals on his voice, pink sounds.

They were cool against her throat, Cool as his heart jumped more, cool as his soul unzipped from inside of him, wild hair, legs uncrossed, Wings no longer clipped inside of him.

Chloe Flores

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In the Dark We were sitting in the dark That somber night, As his hand ran over my knee.

He searched for my eyes Amongst the flickers of light Provided by the lonesome flame.

Wax slipped down Like the rain that wouldn’t stop And the tears that had been shed.

The calm was quiet, But silence did not exist; Time passed like a parade.

Darkness consumed the house we loved.

A slight breeze blew between us, Which increased the chills on my spine.

I heard him shiver, As the house moaned And the wind took away our last chance In a single breath.

Katie Garver

Museum As porcelain and stone we stood Upon glass over water My white fingers made to curve towards Your carved grey smile.

Where the only sound is greed And the only clock is light And pillars of ivory marble glow.

Straight teeth and full pockets Replace the red hands that sculpted us.

Your carved grey smile fractures My curved white hands falterBut tourists don’t like tears.

Laughter is as thin and brittle as The glass beneath us Which shatters with a crash That echoes above us In an ebony alarm.

The pockets lighten The water carries All traces of porcelain and stone away So that the only sound is greed And the only clock is light And pillars of ivory marble glow.

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Isha Fazili

A Special Thanks to...

Barry Haney and the SUNY Oneonta Print Shop for always doing such exceptional work!

Kathy Spitzhoff, for being our wonderful Advisor!

Members of Art & Scope for being incredibly awesome!

Submitters, for being so unbelievably talented!

Oh, and YOU! for all your support!

Cover Art Romantics Anna Graziosi

Back Cover Art You’re Outta This World Michelle Behr

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