Art & Scope Magazine by Meghan Gude

Art & Scope

Spring 2017

Art & 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 & 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

Spring 2017 Members

Paige Welch President

MairĂŠad Farinacci Managing Editor

Chelsea Beavers Treasurer

Kayla Barnes Secretary

Meghan Gude Public Relations Layout Editor

Michelle Behr Public Relations

David Anderson Copy Editor

Gabe Membreno

Jillian Moczara Copy Editor

Janaya Josephs Copy Editor

Zerin Bay Copy Editor

Michelle Barbero Copy Editor

Irene Bautista

Marissa Hogen Copy Editor

Julia Langro Copy Editor

Lynn Heed Copy Editor

Kelsey Block Copy Editor

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 1

Table of Contents Reality 5 Untitled Danny DeRusso 6

Dancing Fabric Aliana Manteria Better Than Coffee Sam Filkins

Death is an Inconvenience David Anderson

8 Namesake Denny Burhan Infidelity Noah Barton 9 Grownup Annie Botch Bridal Series 2 Nicole Cortina Drenched Janaya Josephs 10 Untitled Noa Moskowitz Ages Kristy Capel 11

A Slice of Summer Kelsey Block

12 Roses Kelsey Block Rose Anna Torri Roses Anna Torri 13 Mugs Kristy Capel Broken Glass Anna Torri 14

Weekends with You Kelsey Block Frozen Leaves Xavier Neal-Carson

Her. Him. Me Dennis Carroll Moonage Kathryn Fernandez

16 Once Kelsey Block Flora Anna Graziosi 17

White Balance and Color Sarah Bradshaw

Worthless Jack Annie Botch Untitled Katie Higgins

19 ...but you still love me Sarah Bradshaw Digital Painting of Serena Williams Brandon Belaski Untitled Alana Romanelli 20

Moving On With Your Life After Fucking Up Julia Nolan

23 Untitled Danny DeRusso Untitled Muddled Waters Best Friend Laiken Whittredge

24 On the Table Viola Brown Untitled Katie Higgins 25 6 a.m Kiera Monaghan Tables Laiken Whittredge How cruel that we have become like strangers David Anderson 26 You Can’t Hate Yourself When You’re Skinny Paige Welch Good Morning Megan Jansen Beauty Sydney Strano 27 Redeemer Jared Milller Octopus Brenna Crowe New Beginnings Kathryn Fernandez Koi Pond Kelsey Block 28

My mother’s face when singing Lynn Heed Hugo View Mairéad Farinacci

29 origin Hanna Da’Mas Blown Away Kathryn Fernandez Miles Away Henry Feist 30

The Healer Gianna Boveri

31 Untitled Danny DeRusso 32

Reflections on: “It’s Hard to be a White Man These Days” Paige Welch Color Study Sarah Bradshaw

33 Wave Kiera Monaghan Fine Arts Aliana Manteria

34 Untitled Victoria Walsh Self Medication Jasmine Cole

35 Fence Kiera Monaghan Water World Sarah Bradshaw Falling Folds Nicole Cortina 36

A Queen’s Great Loss Kristy Capel Puppy Portrait Sarah Bradshaw

37 Untitled Danny DeRusso What More Can We Do Annie Botch

Abstract 38 Untitled Gloria Mejias 39 Galactic Teresa Memole 40

sophomore slumber Gabe Membreno The Kármán Line Shuci Wu

while waiting Gabe Membreno Blue Sydney Strano Mania Noah Barton & Linda Kentoffio

Added Vitamin B Michael Ludlum Reality 3 Andrew Senese

Constellations Strung to Yours Janaya Josephs

Uh Oh! Brenna Crowe Strange Faces Anna Graziosi

To Be Anything Andrew Senese

Untitled Alana Romanelli

Queen of the Storm Sydney Strano South Jamesport 1.1.17 Michelle Behr

Sail Laiken Whittredge To the fearful liars, the wind calls Anna Graziosi

Death and the Sea Dennis Carroll Smile Nicole Cortina

howe Gabe Membreno My Friend Izabella Gusozski

Evil Meghan Gude Art for the Soul Andrew Senese Untitled Alana Romanelli

stagnation (ft. alice munro) Lea Davis Walk Unto Glory Andrew Senese

Imperator Teresa Memole vestments Lea Davis

Witch’s Remains Tianna Morris

When the dispensary runs empty... Paige Welch Construction Sara LaPell

57 Lakefront Jillian Moczara

The Day They Caught The Unicorn Henry Burkert Wild Deer Megan Jansen Bed Bug Teresa Memole

Sell-Out Denny Burhan Slut Noah Barton

60 Ophelia Lea Davis No Diving Laiken Whittredge Fish and Shells Michelle Behr

I Jake Frisbie Swiss Army Love Sonnet Lea Davis

Going Against My Grain Michael Ludlum Luna Anna Graziosi

63 Ethos Anna Graziosi Untitled Victoria Walsh Project B3 Kiera Monaghan

Poetry Slam Team 64 Goliath Princeton Smith 65 I’ve Got a Bad Feeling About This Megan Jansen Vicarious Teresa Memole

January 19, 2017 Chandler Aldrich

Tansparent Touch Nicole Cortina

Gay Fairytale Katherine Herbert

69 Untitled Danny DeRusso Yokai Megan Jansen 70

Snapshot of a Son Gabe Membreno

Ice Cream Cone Kiera Monaghan A Study in Values Megan Jansen

Eve 2 Jillian Moczara

Bones Izabella Gusozski

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 3

Reality (ree-al-i-tee) 1. The world or the state of things as they actually exist, as opposed to an idealistic or notional idea of them. 2. A thing that exists in fact, having previously only existed in oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind.

Untitled Danny DeRusso

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 5

Dancing Fabric Aliana Manteria Better Than Coffee Waking up restless, Trembling legs and gasping breaths; The best morning sex.

Sam Filkins

Death is an inconvenience I know what death smells like I know about its rhythm and tempo It’s boring, painfully boring And smells like baby powder There is no greater truth than that, Dying, like everything else, is routine. I learned when my paternal grandmother died that the world doesn’t stop I missed appointments, auditions And there was still grocery shopping and laundry to be done Four years later I was hoisting my maternal grandmother out of bed Onto the portable toilet Then up again so my mother could wipe her with moist towelettes And sprinkle her with baby powder Imagine that. We’d sometimes go out for breakfast after, my mother and I, then do it the next morning until we didn’t. I used to stare at old pictures of my grandmother in the evenings When she was my age and I want to beg her Stop Don’t let this happen to yourself Don’t let the decay of your self-awareness become as everyday as laundry or eggs benedict at quiet diners Don’t let your talking to people who have been long dead become so ordinary that we hardly notice. Let us pretend that death is quick and makes little mess. Let us pretend that it will not sit in our childhood homes and collapse on the floor where we used to open presents on Christmas. I want to pretend that I can hate it, that it’s cruel. I want to forget that death and regression and insanity sit on the laps of your family members And you feed them ice cream And wipe them with moist towelettes I know what death smells like

David Anderson

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Namesake Mom tells me she gets sad on her birthdays Wishes for celebration, not a funeral But a son has been buried under her tongue long before she named me

Denny Burhan

Infidelity Noah Barton

September 26, 2016 Poetry Forms Stanza

GROWNUP Played break up Barbies with the babysitter Drank whiskey water with my cocaine Pixy Stix Dreamt of dainty death and divorce Smiled at the tangy TV tragedies Wanted balloon breasts and lady Band-Aids To kiss a boy who would kick me back Couldn’t wait to clean and scream at the careless kids For flames to fly or the car to crash Didn’t know that breakups break That whiskey weeps and cocaine kills Never knew divorce was like death Or that tragedies get traded for tokens Who knew bleeding made for bruised boobs and bad days Or that men are just boys with harder fists and sharper tongues My house is dim, drunk, and dusty And I just hope I’m in the basement when it burns

Drenched Janaya Josephs

Annie Botch

Bridal Series 2 Nicole Cortina

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 9

Ages

Untitled Noa Moskowitz

Tippy toes grabby hands, blocks pushed together in a makeshift footstool. Fingers latch onto the ledge of a living room window. Small blonde head, curious brown eyes peak up over the wooden windowpane and out into the world, taking in the cotton drifting in the sky. The trees on fire, and the parents walking an animal slightly larger than the black cat lounging on the sunlit ledge. Someday he will go to school, and stand on the sidewalk, at the starting line of the next 80 long years of his life. Great things are instore for this small boy, but not for quite a while, he still had growing to do. For now, he learns through touch, sight, and trying to taste everything his sticky little fingers can reach. The block pile sways. Mother, with her ever present sixth sense, sweeps in from the kitchen, planning on just checking on baby only to race to catch a teetering tot before he can fall. A young family is not immune to disaster. Giggles catch in a cool breeze, mother twirling her precious 2-year-old around. Father comes to lean in the doorway between kitchen and living room, soft smile firmly in place. The peaceful scene continues to play, framed by soft blue curtains dancing in fall air.

For me, this is a long ago memory, just an echo. Something I once had but never again. I watch the life lines that stretch for many more years dance around that living room. I am not here for them. A lovely lady, gray haired, with a smile wrinkled face sits across the street, watching the same family.

A Slice of Summer Kelsey Block

She is who I am visiting. She sees me come, a darkness amongst the brightly falling leaves. She knows. They always do. She stands without prompting and I guide her in warm silence. One the porch she looks to be asleep.

Kristy Capel

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Roses My body was a bountiful garden, but you picked my flowers without permission and called it a bouqet.

Kelsey Block

Rose Anna Torri

Roses Anna Torri

Mugs Our cabinets use to be full of coffee mugs. All shapes, sizes and colors held in a single cabinet. She liked to collect them. If asked which was her favorite, the answer would change depending on the day. On the colder days, when snow billowed around the windows and the old heater decided to stop working, we would curl up on the couch, with every blanket we owned piled on top of us, no plans of leaving in either of our minds. This was when she preferred the tall blue one. A white trellis pattern etched into the light blue ceramic just like the sheets that had been left behind on the bed. The cup would be filled to the brim. She would drink most of it and then set it on the coffee table, where it would sit, forgotten, until the need for another sip arose. A quiet ‘fuck. My tea,’ would be muttered softly before a sigh permeated the air as she removed herself from the bundle of blankets to go and reheat it. During projects or school work she would pick the cup with the deep blue phone box that would disappear from the side with the street and reappear in the brilliant purples and blues of the galaxy on the other side. It held almost the same amount as the tall cup, but she had once told me that a shorter mug felt like the proper mug for work. I never really understood, but I happily obliged whenever she asked me to make her a cup, anyways. Every once and a great while, when friends would visit, she would favor the mug with her misspelled name in multiple colors and the ugliest font I had ever seen. She loved it for reasons unknown to me. All the same, it was used often enough, as I would grab it on early mornings when the sun had yet to rise above the horizon and I was meant to be on my way to the first of two shifts that day. Certain mugs were used for certain events. One of three mugs would be used for movie marathons. Her Tetris mug was a staple for game nights. A specific mug sat in the cupboard for hockey night. There were plenty more and all though some of them were considered for certain days, they were used more often than that. Half the cupboard would be in the sink by the end of the week and I am eternally grateful for the dishwasher that came with our apartment. Those mugs were one of the best things in my life. With most gone, the apartment feels empty. A few still linger behind. All gifts. If one were to ask me what my favorite mug had been I would be able to answer in a moment; on the coldest days, it was the ceramic blue. Game nights meant Tetris. There was one of three to choose from during movie marathons. The cup that was warmed by tea and slender fingers that wrapped securely around it, that was my favorite mug. Always changing. I could not help it if my heart loved whatever mug she held in her hands.

Kristy Capel

Broken Glass Anna Torri

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Weekends with You Dreary afternoons in that odd season between winter and spring when the earth is damp and the trees are still dead. Snuggled up under that soft, gray blanket that always smells like you. Sipping pink moscato from cheap wine glasses under icicle lights. Thank you for watching LOST with me even though you’ve seen it five times. You said it never gets old to you and I could say the same thing about your smile. Rain drizzling down diner windows. “Seat yourselves wherever you’d like.” John Mayer playing softly on the jukebox. You handed me the keys to your silver Charger and said, “You drive.”

Kelsey Block

Frozen Leaves Xavier Neal-Carson

Her. Him. Me. Her. The Colliding wind whistling The only sound she heard My words muted to her mind My touch hollow to her skin Waves were crashing against the shore She stood there in the dark Her blonde hair still bright Fixated on her reflection The darkness growing In the sea and sky Her posture unsteady, Her eyes slowly engulfed By the greens of her Iris.

I tried to hold her I tried… Funny the images That weigh on one’s mind. Her hand lay on his chest His hands hold her smile. That look She gave, He got. That look, Frozen in time. That look, The look I desired.

Him. Damp sand, grips Grabbing waterlogged souls The fibers of his legs rip Tearing his feet free Surrounded by an angry ocean Ship wrecked splinters ached in his side Pursuing the light, high at the towers top The only light he saw Rainwater weighed Still he moved on It wasn’t the storm He was fleeing from, but Her eyes He was running toward.

Dennis Carroll

Me. I felt the hurt My stomach swallowing itself Seeing their embrace I wore confusion It masked my face She gave me her name For a moment of time Racing thoughts, thinking She’d be mine But “we” crashed Like droplets diving down Broken on the ground Sinking into the sand

Moonage Kathryn Fernandez

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Once I)

Once, we met in high school. We sat the same lunch table. You stole my Vera Bradley lunch pail and rough-housed with me in the hallway.

II)

Once, I got drunk for the first time and the first person I called was you. I asked for a goodnight kiss and I could hear you smiling through the phone.

III)

Once we were laughing at a party. You made the most casual gesture. I looked at you and said, “I’m not into you like that.” I was a traffic light of mixed signals. I’m sorry.

IV)

Once, years later, I found your face in a crowded bar. You drove me home that night. I didn’t get out at my stop.

Once, around Valentine’s Day, I joked about you sending me a package. You sent one. I joked about you visiting me at school. You came. Once, you told me if feels like you’re a little kid on Christmas Eve when you know you’re going to see me the next day. I couldn’t put it into better words.

VI)

VII)

Once, we said the same thing in unison. Twice in a row. We looked at each other, eyes like super moons. No one’s ever finished my sentences before.

Flora Anna Graziosi

VIII)

Once, you told me you wished we could combine our bodies and become one. I’ve never wanted to share my soul with someone until I fell in love with yours.

IX)

Once, someone asked me where my favorite place was. I never really knew what to say until I found it in your arms.

Once, I was sitting next to you on your bed. I was wearing sweatpants from high school lacrosse. You looked at me and told me, simply, “This is how I want to spend forever.” Kelsey Block

White Balance and Color Sarah Bradshaw

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 17

Untitled Katie Higgins

WORTHLESS JACK I’m a jack of all trades who’s a master at none. So many useless talents without a passion for one. I have hands full of tickets and not one of them won. I can hug a tree, I can sketch a room, I can write a sonnet, I can hum a tune I’m a jack of all these trades, but what good does that do? Thought I’d write words people would be reading, But I’m just an undead artist with a manuscript pending: Another ticket that wins nothing. I can’t decide between the things I love, I’m waiting for fait to help me pick one. A cursed jack of all trades, and a master at none. Staring at all these numbers in my hands Believing it will finally be my turn, like all the other fans. Only to be left with a worthless ticket alone in the stands. I have passion for words and art and the moon. These loves get me nowhere, not even up before noon. But, although it leaves me with all these tickets that win nothing, I’d rather be a passionate jack of all trades than a mundane master of one thing.

Annie Botch

...but you still love me Sarah Bradshaw

Digital Painting of Serena Williams Brandon Belaski

Untitled Alana Romanelli

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 19

Moving On With Your Life After Fucking Up: A Step by Step Guide I’m assuming you’re reading this because you’ve hit rock bottom or something happened and you’re under the false assumption that it’s the end of the world. If you’re about to take advice from me, then you may have actually hit rock bottom but we’re gonna try to fix that. Whatever your reason for reading this piece of shit guide is, I welcome you with open arms. Here, I’m going to go through, step-by-step, how to bounce back after a not-soideal situation has occurred in your life (the life that is not ending, so get that dumb idea out of your head) ((unless your life is literally ending. In that case this guide is not for you; and I’m very, very sorry for whatever it is you’re going through)). This is a guide for all of you pussies in the world who fucked up and don’t know how to deal with it or forgive yourself. This is a guide for the people who didn’t work hard enough in a class and ended up failing it. This is a guide for the people who cheated on their significant others. This is a guide for the people who got too drunk and embarrassed the fuck out of themselves. This is a guide for the people who accidentally crashed their car. This is a guide for the people who did something really shitty to their best friend. This is a guide for the people who threw a party at their parents’ house and had the cops show up. This is a guide for the people who got rejected from their top school. This is a guide for the people who just got dumped. This is a guide for the people who drunk called their ex and told them how much they’re still grossly in love with them. Whatever your reason is, it’s most likely not the end of the world, and I’m here to remind you that. I’m not a professional and I’m hardly educated. I’m not Joel Osteen. I’m not Oprah. I’m not Les Brown. This isn’t your typical self-help guide or motivational speech. I’m a 20 year old girl from upstate New York who has dealt with a lot of shit (almost all of which I have brought upon myself). If you cut me open, I’d bleed tequila. I’ve dropped a class every semester that I’ve been in college. I’m not proud of a majority of the guys I’ve slept with and the list is not short. I one time almost moved into a house

with three other guys that I had only known for a month just because I had watched too much New Girl and thought it would be fun. I went to Lollapalooza in 2015 with my best friend’s entire family and got so belligerent the first night that I passed out in our hotel and missed the Paul fucking McCartney concert. I’ve gotten my stomach pumped. I totalled my parents’ mini-van. I’m the girl other girls who have never talked to hate and the one guys deem as the “funny” friend. I’m the big sister who taught her younger siblings way more than they ever wanted or needed to know by the time they were twelve years old. I’m the girl people love being friends with because I make them feel much better about themselves and the track that their lives are on. So why follow this guide? Why take advice from me? Because I guarantee I’ve fucked up plenty more times and much more royally than you ever have or ever will and I’m still standing. So clearly, I’m onto something. And if it just so happens that you in fact have made mistakes that trump mine, I salute you and encourage you to get in contact with me so we can swap stories. Because after all, nothing cheers people up more than being assured that they’re not the biggest idiot in the world.

Step One: Mope Throw everyone’s favorite type of party for yourself. I’m not talking about a birthday or bachelorette party. No, no, silly. I’m talking about a pity party. Swap alcohol out for milkshakes (or just stick with alcohol, if you wanna roll that way). Swap friends out for tissues. Swap music out for sappy movies. Swap drunken conversations out for scream crying the words to your favorite sad songs. Swap out the bed (or whichever surface of your choosing) you’d hook up with someone in for your own messy one. Be gross. Don’t shower because showering is for people who have their shit together and you don’t right now. Don’t put makeup on because makeup is not for people who are crying sporadically throughout the day. This first step is very crucial. Do not try to be a hardass and act like an angsty 16 year old

who listens to a lot of My Chemical Romance, has a twitter bio that says “I probably hate you”, and claims that they “have no emotions” or are “numb inside” because those people are just raw dog fucking society’s asshole sooo hard. Remember, it is OK to be sad. Don’t try to force yourself to not be because doing that is eventually gonna fuck your day up. Also, don’t let anyone tell you that what you’re sad about is dumb. Screw those people. It could be the most ridiculous thing ever. Whatever it is, it’s upsetting you and that reason alone is enough to make it important. So let yourself feel it. Be a little bitch. Depending on what the situation you’re dealing with is, this step shouldn’t last more than a few days MAX. You can only go so many days without showering or leaving your bed before you start to mold to it and then nothing else I suggest you do will help at all. You’ll be doomed.

Step Two: Stop Moping Once you’ve gotten all gross and dehydrated from crying a shit ton and feeding yourself approximately 7,500 chips that contain way too much sodium, get up. Get your ass out of bed. You’ve done your time and now you need to move on. Understand that though Step 1 is super important, it’s simultaneously completely unproductive and won’t get you very far. Now you’re smelly and you’re going to attract bugs with the amount of dirty dishes and wrappers you have lying around your room and whoever it is you’re living with probably would have assumed that you’ve passed away by now if it weren’t for all the times you yelled at the characters in whatever it is you’re watching. So, get up. This thing alone is one step because though it sounds easy, I know it isn’t. The world is mean, your bed is not. But it’s time to part ways. You got this.

Step 3: Clean Your Room Clean your room. We all know how annoying the white suburban moms who talk about the importance of feng shui are but they might be onto some-

thing. Admitting this gives me slight abdominal pain because said moms are my worst nightmare. You know exactly who I’m talking about. The ones who won’t get their kids vaccinated because they’re more afraid of their kid getting autism than polio and who passively judge parents if they feed their kids anything that isn’t organic. “Oh, wow! I can’t believe you let Johnny eat oreos that’s so... Cool of you! My little Tommy only wishes I would be that lenient on him ha ha! It’s just that I don’t want to poison him with the fruit of Satan :)”. What was I talking about again? Oh right, feng shui. Yeah. So, clean your room because even though it’s a pain in the ass, the sight of it going from gross to organized will put you at ease. Do your laundry, make your bed, get rid of all of your trash and dirty dishes. Make it so you can see your floor.

Step 4: Shower Shower. For the love of all things good and holy, get back on the personal hygiene track. Make it a long one. Shave your legs because shaving your legs always makes you feel better about yourself. Unless you get chronic razor burn or cut yourself or realize you missed a giant spot after you’ve already gotten out of the shower. In that case, just keep your head up and try not to cut off your legs throughout the day.

Step 5: Get Yourself Done Up Make yourself hot as fuck. Pluck your eyebrows, use a face mask, paint your nails, put on clothes that make you feel like you’re the most bangable bitch within yards. Spend time on your makeup, blow dry your hair. Do whatever it is that makes you feel like you’re too hot to be in public. All those other peasants in the world don’t deserve to feast their eyes on you. This step may seem a little superficial and to be honest, it probably is but who cares? If you do, stop reading this. I’m not trying to be politically correct or strictly give advice to help you contribute something to society. I’m just trying to get you out

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 21

of this funk you’re in. I’ve found that usually the better I look, the better I feel so maybe that’ll work for you too.

Step 6: Pep Talk Time to have a serious conversation with yourself. Do not do this in your head because people who don’t talk to themselves are fucked up and also liars because let’s be honest, we all talk to ourselves. Repeat after me: “I made a mistake. I made a big, fat, stupid mistake. I’m not a terrible person. I’m just a person who made a big, fat, stupid mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. Some make bigger, fatter, stupider mistakes than others. Like Hitler. Hitler made a ginormous, iconically idiotic mistake for a really long time. At least I didn’t fuck up as bad as him. He really can’t live that one down. Partly because he’s not alive but mostly just because he fucked up beyond repair. I didn’t. I can bounce back from this one. So fuck you, Hitler. I win. You suck, loser. I can fix this. I can turn shit around. Let’s do this.” I’m not really sure where I was going with all of that but you get what I’m saying. Give yourself a pep talk, even if it is a little bit insane.

Step 7: Leave Leave your house. Come on, kiddo. Time to get some fresh air and sunshine. It’ll do ya good.

Step 8: Deal With Your Shit Deal with your shit. Whether you need to mend things with someone or cut your ties, do whatever it takes. The only thing that makes whatever you did or whatever happened worse is not doing whatever is in your power to make it better. And if all of your efforts still don’t fix it, then at least you know you did your best. So go get ‘em, killer. Apologize to your friend. Look them dead in the eyes and list the 420 reasons why they’re better than you and tell them you’ll never be that stupid again. Go egg your

ex’s house. You had to fix your heart, so it’s only fair that they have to fix their siding. Start working harder in school. Do whatever it takes to make things better. There’s always a solution to your problems and it’s usually way more simple than you realize in the moment. When all’s said and done, just try not to fuck things up more for yourself. That should be the first thing you tell yourself every morning when you wake up. Don’t fuck things up for yourself.

Step 9: Move On Guess what? While you’ve been worrying so much about how shitty everything in your life is, the rest of the world has been continuing to do its regular thing. You’re lagging behind. You’re stuck in your own head and it’s time to get the fuck out.

Step 10: Be Happy This doesn’t need an explanation. I’m drunk right now and whatever I write will without a doubt be more idiotic than the rest of this (shockingly). You aren’t an idiot. You know how to make yourself happy. You might not realize that you do but YOU DO. Trust me. Figure it out. Dig deep down. Do what you need to do. Don’t hold yourself back from doing shit that makes you feel like a better person. Put yourself first. You don’t need my dumbass advice to make things better. You can do this, okay? I’m a piece of shit and I’ve done it a million times. That means that you can too. Thanks for tuning in! Good luck.

Julia Nolan

Untitled Muddled Waters

Untitled Danny DeRusso

Best Friend Laiken Whittredge

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 23

On the Table The ballpoint pen lies on the table, not the expensive kind, but the Staples pack of 12 for $2; the same one she uses to write me illegible letters that I throw away. Right next to it is the lopsided white and forest green mug I made her for her birthday. She says she drinks from it often, even though I haven’t seen her do so. She claims I’m not home enough to know, but I shrug, because she uses the Dollar Store plates my brother bought her. Underneath, a mess of cables poke out, the same ones I’ve tripped over hundreds of times. The ones that caused a sprained ankle that I still feel every day, the ones that we both left there waiting for the other to cleanup. Completed crossword puzzles are scattered, the puzzles she had to cheat on to complete, just like she does with everything else, just like I do with everything else. At the table is her empty smile, the same one she has had for years, because she knows her young heart is becoming old, while I was born old. On the opposite side, I sit in denial, one of the things I’ve always done. I think she’s okay, but she’s not. I close my eyes to open them again and when I do she’s no longer at the table.

Viola Brown

Untitled Katie Higgins

6 a.m Kiera Monaghan

Tables Laiken Whittredge

How cruel that we have become like strangers I see you in the quad and you grin at me with the tired smile that I know is reserved for friendly acquaintances. I want to scream at you How far have I truly fallen? To be greeted with that cold cordiality.

David Anderson

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 25

“You Can’t Hate Yourself When You’re Skinny” Having clothes draping From your bones like a clothes hanger That breathes shallow, rattled breaths Looks like death in reflections. Being told that people would die to look like you Is more of a premonition Than a compliment. As you loose all your dimensions, Shrinking back into a place where food Is fear and sickness; A closet where you hang as A dress of skin patterned floral and ribcage. You’re supposed to be the most desired Silhouette in the wardrobe But all you are is invisible Hungry and wanting more.

Paige Welch

Good Morning Megan Jansen

Beauty Sydney Strano

Redeemer Jared Miller

New Beginnings Kathryn Fernandez

Octopus Brenna Crowe

Koi Pond Kelsey Block

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 27

My mother’s face when singing My mother’s face when singing is probably one of my favorite things. Her voice is soft and honey-sweet, Wrapping around us all At the dining room table Like a cozy blanket on a winter night, Her gentle melody settling on our ears like A lullaby. Her eyes glaze over with memories, With all the love she has ever given, And all the love she could ever giveHanded down from generations of the same beautiful love. As she sits in this comfortable, homey reverie That I count myself so lucky to be witness to, She forgets the world and reality around her, - just for a second And delves deep into her own. As she sings, the song brings her to a specific moment in time, A person in time. She speaks of the sweet songs she sings, Explaining the significance, The memories behind each song. Each word spoken as tenderly as if the song was her baby, Each syllable pronounced like a kiss To each of a newborn’s stubby little fingers and toes. Her eyes grow light and misty And her smile widens as each thought passes her lips. She sits in her chair at our dining room table And looks out the window, Pondering the path her life has taken. Even though life has weathered her like the rest of us (perhaps more), She looks back on her life with deep satisfaction, A smile with sheer, unadulterated beauty spreads across her face Like sunshine making its way down a dark hallway. I hope to God my children see the same in me.

Lynn Heed

Hugo View Mairéad Farinacci

origin you stuff my mouth with your goddamn dandelions tell me to speak around the stems but i taste bitter, dirt, earth, origin and now reaching back and back across seas and centuries remembering a culture i was told to be ashamed of tracing the veins of my ancestral history the weight of my grandmother’s Qur’an pressing into my palms for the first time ready for perseverance and resistance

Hanna Da’Mas

Blown Away Kathryn Fernandez

Miles Away Henry Fiest

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 29

The Healer Lips weigh onto forehead in the cellar of an archaic antique shop. I’m trying to crystallize this moment in my memory in hope that it or I or the things I’m telling you will not be forgotten in time like the items that currently surround me: a stuffed duck in a shadow box another stone Buddha 8 paint chipped chairs, in two rows of four Why are the hammers nailed to the ceiling? Another stone Buddha. I rub this one’s stomach My grandmother is married to a man named Al. This is her third marriage. Marriage #1 was to my grandfather - Richard, -He is a good man but sometimes life goes on. Marriage #3 is Al. -Every time Al emerges from the somewhat terrifying elevator in their apartment building, I scan the familiar figure. white muscle tee -accented with mysterious stain - with suspenders and cargo shorts. Mid-calf socks and loafers. He rummages his fingers through his beard and it sounds like gritting sand. Al claims to be a “jesus loving jew” but his daily practices aren’t that of religious faith. In the apartment books of herbal remedy scatter the coffee table and couches and counters and window sills and chairs like forever welcomed guests so I choose to sit on the floor. Yet, the book shelf is cluttered with sizeable jars of assorted herbs, “Ginseng. Ginseng is what you need,” He’ll swear to us each time. My grandmother staring blankly out the window, not drinking his newest concoction again, “Please, Marie, for me.” Al will plead hugging his medical bible. Marriage #2 was Peter. -A man of black smoke words and cigarette burns, A chain smoker and a heavy cusser Not only ruined every fabric item in their house in his reign but my grandmother too with every part of his lips. Every “DAMMIT” that escaped his lips was like a crack of a whip My grandmother was always ever so careful to not even knock a fork off of the table. Peter managed to break down and demolish any city he could find within her until finally: her whole world collapsed right beneath her, grabbing her at the fingertips to pull her down with it. IT IS NO WONDER TO ME THAT MY GRANDMOTHER MARRIED A HEALER. A resident in her home she can tell her pains to that will listen to her

and tend to her and prescribe the proper cure-alls. He scratched me HERE rub the honey HERE Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve swallowed acid, pour the tea HERE. He bruised me HERE vitamin K cream here. How did she get so lucky to have found this shaman Or how unlucky to have needed this healing process in the first place? So. I stop. And I think. And I look around. Bovine skull Decaying baby doll Empty glass jars Another stone Buddha. Maybe my grandmother rubbed a stone Buddhaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stomach too.

Gianna Boveri

Untitled Danny DeRusso

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 31

Reflections on: “It’s Hard to be a White Man These Days” When my dad’s friend, a man in his 50’s, a lifetime hard worker, said this to me, I had to suppress laughter. It felt like he had just told me the greatest joke of the year and I was a part of the punchline. He is a Harvard graduate, selling paintings and art work to businesses such as hotels and restaurants to make a living. He does not make a lot of money and he faces financial struggles. I have had a rocky relationship with this man my whole life because of the way he yells at the world like it’s to blame for all the things he’s done wrong. But I don’t blame him, I can’t blame him. I try to imagine what it would feel like to be wronged after you’ve been taught about your privilege. You look at your life crumbling and say “this is not what privilege looks like, I’m struggling.” Hatred for politically correct culture begins with the idea that you can’t be privileged if you’re suffering and you can’t be included in a narrative if you’re white and you can’t be cared about if you’re a man. Exclusion is new to those people society has structured itself around. No matter what, being seen as white will make people automatically relax around you, be friendly, open and trusting. White is purity, man is strength. He says men built this country and he’s not wrong. But it’s not because men are better, it’s because they made it that way and allowed for no other options. Still, I see through his eyes. A man like this votes Trump because the guy provides an explanation for the sudden slipping away of automatic respect for his born circumstances. Instead of being an issue of government misuse or the failing of the economy or of the building pressure of a patriarchal society that makes a victim of everyone, it’s the fault of everything different. All the people of color, all the women, all the queer folks, all the feminists and social warriors; these are the individuals taking everything away from the man. Their call for difference is dangerous because who knows what the future holds? Marginalized people spend every day not knowing what will happen next, a feeling creating fear. So when a white man faces this feeling, he has no way of grasping it. I see his fear, and I know he’s trying to hold onto everything he knew before it’s all chaos. I feel for him even though his words are funny to me. I feel for him even though his perspective is different. Though I’m an angry activist, I have the ability to be safe while counteracting these figments of understanding.

Paige Welch

Color Study Sarah Bradshaw

Wave Kiera Monaghan

Fine Arts Aliana Manteria

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 33

Untitled Victoria Walsh

SELF MEDICATION Her veins pulse as toxic blood flows through. She did it to herself and now she just has to wait. It only takes 27 seconds, She counted last time. All she needed was a little self- medication. Everything was fine until she overdosed on thoughts, silent screams, and loud whispers. Blue, red, white. The only lights on the street, maybe in the whole world. For her, it was all dark, 24/7, no chance of survival. Good thing she memorized the feeling. It was the last thing she ever allowed herself to feel.

Jasmine Cole

Fence Kiera Monaghan

Falling Folds Nicole Cortina

Water World Sarah Bradshaw

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 35

A Queenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Great Loss Dearest Lilly, Your sacrifice, I am sad to say, is the first of many. The earth will soon be painted a twisted sunset. You are the sun, sinking behind the mountains. A pillar in this kingdom and without you, everything is crumbling around us. I long for childhood days; no duties and only freedom. I long for the simple days without war. When we were simple friends; no arranged marriage to get in the way of true love. No threats of war, and no loss of precious life. Many nights have passed since we have lost you. Our queen, Athena, drifts through corridors, lost. A sick reminder of the ghosts we chased as children. Her skin has paled, robes that once fit now hang off a too thin frame.

You were always more capable then I. Especially when it came to Athenaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heart. You died in valor, but I only find myself wishing you had chosen to become a lady-in-waiting instead. The you would not have died at all. I write to you in the hopes of gaining comfort. Sadly, it had not worked. Sincerely, Your loyal friend, King Markus

Kristy Capel

Athena continues due to her sense of duty. One of many reasons you loved her. She stands tall like the great oak in the courtyard, but she sways. Dark nights bring nightmares. I have lost count of how often she has woke, thrashing and sobbing in my arms. There is only so much I can do to comfort her.

Puppy Portrait Sarah Bradshaw

Untitled Danny DeRusso

May 2, 2016 Jayne Cortez Imitation

WHAT MORE CAN WE DO tar my lashes and stand on pins for you

Untitled Danny DeRusso

walk with a wrenching neck and dig my nails into my skin for you carve my coat and hike my skirt for you carry a blade and keep a scream in my throat for you you wont keep me if i’m covered you’ll kill me if i’m conscious we do everything you ask but it’s still not enough for you

Annie Botch

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 37

Abstract (ab-strakt) 1. Thought of apart from concrete realities, specific objects, or actual instances 2. Relating to or denoting art that does not attempt to represent external reality, but rather seeks to achieve its effect using shapes, colours, and textures.

Untitled Gloriana Mejias

Galactic Teresa Memole

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 39

“sophomore slumber” I’ll let you know when I get home I’ve been drawing a picture with crayons and change pens and dollars change in the spring I speak of flowers you wear them on your shorts 3 years ago: I felt okay on a front porch 2 years ago: saw me loving the first one had me preaching what I had become how I watched myself drown and felt better than ever the circle didn’t understand didn’t fit in your car I don’t if the seat’s not back a bit and I’m short but not light enough for this breeze to blow me off the roof I can only leave if I take home with me I’m always there and thinking hard enough I feel you in the blankets and see you in the streetlights the most beautiful shade at night stay warm and be away from your worst.

Gabe Membreno

The Kármán Line Shuci Wu

“while waiting” cold, finally layers and layers i need the layers get me dancing to jingles and tunes full of dead flowers worry isn’t warranted let me be in this sick i’m so enveloped in trying, I am trying to remember not how but to treat things right there’s so many days so many days to sleep it out sit with the rocks, remembering there’s so few days to treat you right keep you in i’ve got to have friends beside these trees it’s cold, finally where is everybody? guys, girl(s) what are you doing? i’m getting old i’m getting cold, finally trying to remember this won’t be long

Blue Sydney Strano

Gabe Membreno Mania Noah Barton (print & collage) Linda Kentoffio (drawing)

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 41

Added Vitamin B Swirling, caught in my own whirlpool of stress: More afraid of giving up than drowning. I never thought losing would feel the best. Lifting, sinking off porcelain brown rings. Time my gravity, where in pitch I fell And never felt speed until I stopped resisting, Freely subjugated under my thrall The sun, despite my darkness, keeps persisting. After getting worse, find getting better At dealing with getting worse spiraling Like how rooms spin as I get wetter And vices and worries start rivaling Like the contents of my stomach; taurine Mixed with cheap distilled grain and sour acid, Wishing, as I dent the floor, it was morphine; That I could stop the whirlpool and close the lid.

Michael Ludlum

Reality 3 Andrew Senese

Constellations Strung to Yours Janaya Josephs

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 43

Uh Oh! Laying in my floral sheetsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Tiny dancers waltz all over me. Twirling on my shoulders and toes, They whisper conspiracies about Me, and you, and the moon Calling carnivals Out far from the oh-great-yeah shoreline. The tiny dancers tell me the moon says Fusion never holds for Recombining melancholic molecules! But Writing outside your margins Dripping down my cheeks, Connecting dots With your water droplet scatter plots Are not easy tasks to complete, Like interpreting THE SOAPSCUM MIXED SIGNALS OF ALL THESE BLACK AND WHITE CATS CROSSING ALL OF MY GOSH DARNED PATHS!

Strange Faces Anna Graziosi

Thought I could be your Vincent Van Gogh, You’d always have my ear; I’d always be right here Caught UP in your undertow Please don’t step down on me I am VERY, VERY, Fragile.

The tiny dancers POP open my chest Spill out onto lilac tiles, The LUNGS

ing and

Inflat

deflating

Like confused balloons; And the wimpy HEART thumps On the floor Like an angry broomstick on a plastered ceiling, Something trying to get out! Someone wanting to leave me RIGHT NOW So I’ll raise my mustard stained white flag! This sort of self awareness

Sneeze, Cough, Achoo sick. The tiny dancers tell me the moon says Fusion never holds for Recombining melancholic molecules. But her bowing shadows, On hands and knees, BEG the question: Why are all these tiny people In my floral sheets?

Brenna Crowe

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 45

To Be Anything Sticks And stones May take a toll, Even on an empty man. Wait until the world is weak And it’s whispering its final words; Then and only then can I be anything. Until the jury rests and a verdict reached, And the townspeople turn to discerning stars, I’ll judge myself guilty of the crime of nothingness. Guilty, guilty, guilty; get your pointing fingers primed. Don’t forget to bring your lips and tell me how I really am, That I speak only for the wind to listen, that I really aren’t here. I’m upholstered to the chair that rocks in harmony with your television. I’m resting slightly off-centered in the middle of your living room wall. I’m the radio station in your car that supplies background noise; You never really listen, only when the rest of life is silenced. I’m the weathered boots you slip onto your feet each day. I’m the child left behind on a field trip to the zoo. I guess I’ll stay and relate with the primates, How we’re both stuck inside a cage, Veins like rivers full of rage. Here I can be something, I can be anything. Not with you Around.

Andrew Senese

Untitled Alana Romanelli

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 47

Queen of The Storm She sat on a rock Clad in nothing but lace And three pearls of dew Sat on her face. Her hair shone like the sun In curls made of wind And the seawater sparkled Like the salt on her skin. She breathed in the sunset And spoke in the waves. Her words were like lemonade In the midsummer haze. The mist sang her songs And the seafoam kept her warm Small favors of love For the queen of the storm.

Sydney Strano

South Jamesport 1.1.17 Michelle Behr

Sail Laiken Whittredge

To the fearful liars, the wind calls The thunder rests in my heart, reverberating in my chest. There’s lightning in my fingertips that yearns to reach the horizon. Our deceitful tongues will echo my accidental lies, and your gentle confessions. Inside these empty halls our ghosts linger. But we said nothing and nobody heard.

All to destroy what you built for me. I’ll rip my feet from the earth, take one step and name the stars. The storm wavers and cries one more violent breath. The ruins of our open hearts, that never knew each other’s names still stands.

Anna Graziosi

My voice is lost, swept away like the leaves off of broken branches. I want to let it out, but I don’t want to batter you down. I am a storm. I will rage and howl.

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 49

Death and the Sea Gone so long the oceans a part of me I’ve forgotten the land in my affair with the sea Deaths the lady with her smoky dress tangled in my sail Telling sweet Mother Nature to conjure storms so I fail “Is this your frosted bite?” I ask, Her quivering lips rip at the mast Death tells her to widen the clouds, to darken the shadows they cast Natures green dress drapes the ships lumber, splashed by the waves at my feet Hell rages under the oceans loud as thunder, shifting waters to rise from the deep Her golden curls dampened by rain she adds to the drops With tears of pain, Death’s tongue drives her insane Death’s whispers curl and bite The smoke of her dress is a snake snapping The ropes unwind, the sail sheets rip Lightning strikes the bow right at the tip Mother Nature falls to her knees Death’s drive to take life will never set her free Countless splinters fill my sight to the roaring of the ships wretched crunch Death’s amber eyes are all I see, and the storms grey grows to black Her crystal lips glow to grin Death smiles at me, and I smile right back

Dennis Carroll

Smile Nicole Cortina

â&#x20AC;&#x153;howeâ&#x20AC;? up on the pillows of rock my mind wandered back to seeing every other day a love for work coming from a teacher so learned in her love she sifted through students finding gems each semester immaterial whether or not I was one I followed in the trail of her tongue as it built earth like water carving walls of caves hills storming over each other their exposed rocks are arms frozen in their stretch for space layers layers layers and layers folding flattened itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the face of the planet making itself over and I heard her travelled upstate visiting a hardened heart with the knowledge that mine was the same it was all but for one store rose quartz on the counter in the shape of an arrowhead pocketed until her I saw monday one stone her face matched its hue a true professor of creation made me wonder what the hell under us could show bland and blaring crystals too

Gabe Membreno

My Friend Izabella Gusozski

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 51

Evil Meghan Gude

Untitled Alana Romanelli Art for the Soul Will you be my canvas? I’ll explore myself upon you, Testing shades and shapes of love On your 4 x 6 existence. The colors blend and blur and blossom, As genuine as a tulip’s bloom In the precocious months of spring. Then once a solemn snow has fallen And aged the ground below With a rush of whitened wisdom, I’ll run my frostbitten fingers Against you again, Not lascivious, not lecherous, Just an interim escape From the tremors of today.

Andrew Senese

stagnation (ft. alice munro) agonizing over a bank account balance for the first time you wonder when the world started to feel so artless jittering inscrutable performance anxiety in an empty room (as though you don’t feel it in every room) and you know what makes your blood rush and guts churn and nerve endings stand at attention when it’s in front of you but it’s not in front of you anymore so turn to stock porno plots lifetimes ago cauterized shaky moans-thick arms-curling fingers-short skirt-long tie and feel disgusting until your mind goes blank and heave like a stereotype & again you get up & the apartment is still freezing & you have a headache and “this will pass as it has,” you say microwave leftovers, unkempt and sweaty in half-baggy clothes unchaperoned dad’s-night-to-make-dinner living over sauceless pasta the novel you are reading is rife with heteroerotic subtext which you do not pick up on until the life-weathered midwestern widow and widower have all but achieved penetration (it’s not actually a novel but a collection of short stories and within the anthology the fifth goddamn time it’s taken this particular turn) and you who have built homes in between sentences regarding girls exchanging here a grin, there a glance, always knowing, always jaunty, always gentle did not see this coming and should have and resent yourself for not seeing that in 20 years and a dozen dreams and a million tries it would always end up this way

Lea Davis

Walk Unto Glory Andrew Senese

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 53

vestments dear old man, was i wrong to need a silent beacon how much do i presume crying in my bathroom over you maybe you held hands on the berm behind the church and watching the amber waves of flood-watered weeds prayed to everything america would not claim maybe you finally embraced him halfway over the ocean maybe you bought him a slice of pizza made him paintings of far-off cathedrals drove fast as you could side by side over rolling hills ostentatious as is allowed, in a red convertible maybe it was enough

Imperator Teresa Memole

i am a spectator stakeless, supposedly braver distant christener of things too dangerous for words I only know how lonely it must be He the bass anchoring hymns you accompany always miles across a tiny sanctuary and wanting when intimacy in prose could only be slander and love only an unmanly rumor you are so much joy and i pray for you as i barely do myself and know suddenly how you found religion halfway over the ocean again unnamed as you are in so many hearts

Lea Davis

Witchâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Remains Tianna Morris

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 55

When the dispensary runs emptyâ&#x20AC;Ś. Will I have to feel again? Wind on my face sharp, drying The heaviness of heart, sandbag limbs. Acid in my stomach curling up A hollow esophagus Tendrils reaching for my throat to dissolve Words inspiring courage before I speak them. When the dispensary runs empty, Will I stop breathing? Lungs coated with led negativity Lapping for air with a venom tongue. Open heart filled at once with solid fear Dark as obsidian, no shimmer only black. When the dispensary runs empty, Will I still be living? Caught between myself and a better reflection With something like a paradise as a backdrop Fingers smudging glass as I try touching. Closing in, all the empty space. When the dispensary runs empty, Will I have only myself To depend on?

Paige Welch

Bones Izabella Gusozski

Construction Sara LaPell

Lakefront She moves slowly Eyes adjusting. Rising Chopping blue In sheets ahead. Wet winds Kiss her cheeks As they pass her by. Looking ahead, Seeing Reaching toward waves. She has seen oceans, Lakes, Rivers, And ponds. Yet, This time, There is difference. Twinkling in the air. Are her ears ringing Or is that lost singing further down the lake coast? She rolls up her jeans Watching her hands move in slow motion, Slipping out of socks and boots, Sliding off her backpack Resting on a boulder, Undoes her braid Letting the playful breeze have its fun. She has never felt cold sand, Less give More hold Between her toes. Never allowed herself to enjoy When not appropriate.

To see a beach in October, To Christmas carol in July, To love boys she cannot keep, Throw caution like a bomb In the breeze Scattering winds in all directions. Her laughter caught in their webs, Redistributing joyful sound To those who need Reminders of quiet happiness, Like herself. As she walks, The waves inch and drag their Unmeasurable weight Toward her unmeasurable curiosity. To attempt to sate something Neverending. Distance bridged, Left behind, A piece of her will always remain Rooted Here. Swaying, Slowly dancing with waves Forever reaching out But she may not return. She longs to see all, Leaves strands of hair as markers Tombstones of some closed chapter. Grown and gone, Already, She walks back to the boulder, A glance over her shoulder, She would have sworn she heard the wind breathe â&#x20AC;&#x153;goodbyeâ&#x20AC;?.

Jillian Moczara

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 57

The Day They Caught the Unicorn The day they caught the unicorn They ground its horn to nub It fought back as best it could Then fell into the dust The day they caught the unicorn They took their samples of fur and hoof and stool Learned everything there was to know The day they caught the unicorn They threw it in a cage next to imagination And chained it up, for safety The day they caught the unicorn They made a horse In its chain, in its cage we were all safe And no one felt a thing

Henry Burkert

Wild Deer Megan Jansen

Bed Bug Teresa Memole

Sell-Out Key hums In my locked doors Someone is watching from a city I don’t recognize With gold in his wallet I recognize too well Begging for my choir And a lil’ something underneath the church robes “Simon says” turns into Demands, turns into Sirens in a key I refuse to recognize But you learn to play And you learn to play well Just do what he says A direction led to another meal, another pair of pants His wallet, light My pride, lighter And secrets, heavy My meals are great, though A religious experience After all, What matters the most Is that He comes

Denny Burhan

Slut Noah Barton

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 59

Ophelia she the river could not hold knew she had known so many others made rabid by neglect neglecting their own will to suppress she and they became the one the water could not bear sunken swollen weighted so by commonplace sorrows as to be more and less canonized sacrifice in the guise of girl the pain and pull above and below were one and better or worse she would learn to overcome so what then, when she the river could not hold had borne so many others the water too had borne and unborne all those weights unencumbered who knew the pain of being universal and still alone whole alone floating sinking transcending unlike but living she could never be both and was and fell

Lea Davis

No Diving Laiken Whittredge

Fish and Shells Michelle Behr

I Jake Frisbie

swiss army love sonnet I bled and still I begged to be alone took breath unwisely, stumbled day to day but wished for yet more time to wish away more wandering days between us and the known. Of all the goodnesses I have been shown of all the rooms un-laughed-in, beds unmadeled to themselves and leading me to say â&#x20AC;&#x153;I love youâ&#x20AC;?- yours are all, my love my own. My time here will be over like a dream: in weeks will pass into another blur, our hearts will be much less than they will seem, that sordid spiral of the way we were will conquer all and drown us in dead hopes so hold me now, in all that can be sure.

Lea Davis

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 61

Going Against My Grain Head-throbbing, noggin-knocking Answering the front door, Sickly tatted boots on rug Leaving doormats clean, A frank conversation Turned lengthy and leafy by tendrils Supplanting urge to vomit gregariously, Talking root in the unattached psyche Turns to mold on my shoes, Belching nodding silly, sickly relief From itching scratching, singing temptation Peeling, scratching muted walls That suppress bodies, Slamming doors into frames, Shaking windows into bottles And taffy-flavored membrane; Dangle, pint, stretch, exhale, plight On a tightrope turned lifeline, Now a piece of gum Stuck to a watermelon Irking to die and spread seeds And spread blood like sweet ink Mixed and stirred with corn: A meal for antennas Marching in line through airways, Bursting like tiny, black bombs Tucked neatly in churning guts Where all thoughts grumble chains; Selfishly yanking good dreams Like over-pulled taffy muscles, Now as tasteless as seeds Germinating sweet, red tundra Atop a desert of indigestion And heavy war-drums Paddling like seaweed without roots Crustaceans without hearts, Fish missing minds like gills, Or sharks absent nostrils to smell, Blood boiling below bruised leather Brazenly bashed to cause ripples in fluid: Only pain should reek, Leaving fear to bleed

On nose-blind passersby Who pluck loose lashes Now brow-beaten and smarts; The sting of battery, Reciprocal as hair-turning grey: Powdery and explosively antiquated Beneath a thunder-laden sky All racket and only Fractions of light To burn seared hairs Like charcoal in a musket: With a pop of the eardrums And a splitting of the skull.

Michael Ludlum

Luna Anna Graziosi

Ethos Anna Graziosi

Untitled Victoria Walsh

Ice Cream Cone Kiera Monaghan

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 63

Art & Scope Magazine

Proudly Presents our Annual Feature from SUNY Oneonta’s Poetry Slam Team Goliath when you tell the person you love that they have abused you for six years and they say “i know”: in the story of David and Goliath David conquers a looming beast against all odds it is too easy for me to make this into a poem. to use what we had and to make it tragic as if we didnt know this was all coming. we can call it a weed we can act as if we didnt plant the crop to sow ourselves when i take a hatchet to our thread. and it is so easy to imagine a resounding noise that carries down the suburbs we grew up in a call that shakes the dust it is too easy to imagine our childhood suburb shaking our houses rising from the dirt as if it were an upheaval somehow more worthy to announce that the inseparable have, finally, come apart. to imagine that “you’ll grow apart eventually” had been a prophecy but i know that it wasn’t. i know that the people we grew up with may not remember our names let alone our troubles that the people on that subway platform do not lay awake and wonder where we are, if we still love each other. i know that the only world shattered here is ours and ours alone that we are the only ones who will lay awake, wondering what happened. i am in my childhood home as i write this poem, and it is perfectly intactsomehow cleaner than i left it

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve Got a Bad Feeling About This Megan Jansen

when the moment you have been dreading for so long passes quietly, without impact, what are you supposed to feel? if Goliath had kneeled before david and simply offered his head to himwould the statues erected still depict what occurred there as a battle? and if Davidâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s victory was actually just a conversation would it be wrong of him to feel cheated? is it wrong of me to feel cheated? to want the door to slam on the way out? to want this to feel less like a preventable failure and more like a Goliath? was it wrong to imagine our love as a battle? is that what happened? when we were 15 i wrapped myself around your body like a barricade and felt warmth there. today we are 20 and when you ask me to get angry i imagine you kneeled before me, offering your head

Princeton Smith

Vicarious Teresa Memole

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 65

January 19, 2017 Manhattan, NY Pod 51 Hotel, Room 808 my friend kyle told me that if you step on every line in a crosswalk you get to make a wish so now i wonder what every person who’s used a crosswalk in new york city would wish for maybe the two crying teenagers across the street wish they could stay together or he wishes he didn’t cheat or she wishes she would just believe him maybe the tired looking business man wishes he could live on the subway so his home is always changing his normal life is getting so boring anyway maybe the streets wish that their manhole covers weren’t so damn heavy maybe i should just stop assuming things today i walked so much that my feet dedicated the sidewalks underneath them as their official burial ground and i wish they didn’t hurt as much if you were to look up my home on a map you would see more churches than street lights and I would be able to pinpoint every dead building i ever broke into if you were to look up my home on a map you wouldn’t see any crosswalks i’ve learned to make wishes on the things around me one summer a group of ladybugs built their nest under the railing of my back porch my mom told me that if one landed on me I could make a wish when it took off so every day after school I would sit out there and when one finally left my skin i would wish that didn’t always over think

i always overthink and I never knew where those lady bugs flew off to when I was little my dad told me I could make a wish by blowing on an eyelash and it took me a few tries before I realized that I wasn’t supposed to yank them out of my own skin they have to fall out on their own you can’t force your own wishes like that every thanksgiving I got the short end of the wishbone and my cousin would always pull the larger end of the straw rapper you know, I’ve never even seen a shooting star in my entire life

Transparent Touch Nicole Cortina

you can’t make wishes on things that won’t come true i’m never going to stop overthinking things i’m never going to cure everything my friend is never coming back i’ll probably never live beneath the empire state building did you know, in 1947 Evalyn Mchale leapt from the 86th floor of that very same building encasing herself within limousine roof below the photo taken of her was named “the most beautiful suicide” before she leaped she made one wish in a dying note “i beg of you and my family don’t have any service for me or remembrance for me” but here I am wishing my feet didn’t hurt as much

Chandler Aldrich

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 67

Gay Fairytale Once upon a time, I wanted to be a princess. Which means, I wanted to have a prince, Which means, I was hypnotized into believing that the only way to love was with a guy. that you can only be a princess if you have a prince by your side, that the only way to survive is if he is saving your life. I let my hair down for knights And they either walked by or yanked too hard at my head, Either tried to cut all my hair off or use it to climb all over me. Stepmother told me that love meant waiting for a man to come and rescue you. All the other girls and I shuffled to balls, Shoved our feet into glass slippers until they broke and walked miles with the shards in our soles to find our princes, Only to come back alone. “You are not worth it unless he tells you that you are.” so I lived thinking I wasn’t, Because no one ever said I was. Maybe I wasn’t looking in the right places. I begged the mirror on the wall to tell me my good fortune And it never gave me an answer. All the books say that the only way to love is with a man, and if you do not follow their straight lines then you do not exist at all. When I love with two hearts they only see me as the monstrous dragon, Burning down the so called “happy” ending that they want to write into my story. Cinderella got her man from lying about who she was. Ariel’s prince fell for her when she was forced to shut up. Aurora wasn’t even conscious when a guy fell in love with her. I am tired of being under this heteronormative spell. I spent too long of my life kissing frogs trying to turn one into a prince, When I realized true love’s kiss lied in the girl who was in the pond right next to me. We were waiting for a boy to save us from the dragon But we slayed it all on our own. I don’t need a fairy godmother to find magic with her. I don’t need to wish for glitzy gowns and money for balls, She loves me-rags and all. Together we have created an antidote to reverse the curse.

When we hold hands, I stop shaking--I stop shaking as much. the butterflies in my stomach no longer feel like a moth nest, but rather the pollination of a garden growing inside of my lungs. And when I see myself now, I see myself shimmering. We are both princesses, No, we are both queens. Rulers of our own kingdoms, Creating unity amongst our uncharted hearts Peace treaties to the lands of each other that we have yet to uncover. And we would live happily ever after.

Katherine Hebert

Untitled Danny DeRusso

Yokai Megan Jansen

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 69

“Snapshot of a Son” When I say I don’t know where you are, I am saying I don’t want to see you. And when I say I don’t want to see you, I am saying I don’t know what you look like. Tucked into a drawer there’s a picture Of some time you were seen by someone With your shirt tucked in. Heineken in hand. Arm around… my godfather. I know him. I’ve seen him in this Bronx apartment with his wife And kid. You know him. We greet each other with blessings when he comes over And talk about how the Yankees been doing. They’re usually alright. I’m usually alright. Sometimes I can’t look at pictures Or be in them or be seen at all. Something about trying hard to get the right shot, Getting captured in time, has me running. I never know who to take with me. When I started driving, it was mom’s minivan. I gathered friendly crowds in the back seats. We took off to parks and beaches, they nicknamed it the “Dad Mobile.” I drove it. Mom and I shared it while we worked and I went to school. Community College, their tag line was “Stay Close… Go Far.” I had to work in some office To pay for it, ya know the kind where you have to Tuck your shirt in. Wear a tie. I like ties. How they keep everything together. Don’t you think that’s a funny word? Together? Definition says you can either be with someone Or be doing something at the same time.

Doesn’t matter where you are. It doesn’t matter where I am. I am always finding some unfamiliar thing And never feeling like I am there with it. Like how I quit my first steady job ‘cause I convinced myself That tie was only there to keep me attached And I don’t know what that’s like. How I tried going to another school, But totalled my car along the way. How I wanted to go far ‘cause you never wanted to stay close. I am always hoping you are never doing the same, So we can never be considered together. Don’t you think it’s funny? Don’t you think it’s weird I know more About a baseball team than my dad? Dad, don’t you think about me? Or is my name too strange, too strong A statement for you to make? I take disposable pictures and tuck them in drawers. I never throw them away. None of them are of you And usually, That’s alright.

A Study in Values Megan Jansen

Gabe Membreno

Untitled Kiera Monaghan

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 71

Eve 2 Would Eve have spoken to the snake if she hadn’t been bored? Perfection will eventually leave your breath rotting in your lungs, amusement fading. Could Eve have done more than simply discover sin, was she shown the ways God planned to make us fail? And thus cast from Eden. I too have spoken to snakes, letting them slide over my knees, hissing temptation, driving it through my veins. I feel most connected to a religion I never picked up when I’m basking in the sweat of others, glorifying my own skin as Eve did. This is when I am truly Holy. Being naked was only sin when Adam and Eve fell in love with their bare frames. Allowing themselves worldly desire instead of celestial love. Wash me in sin so that I can make her proud. Dress me in Divine Feminine; let me throw back shots with the first Woman, shine in sin. We can all glow when covered in spit and sweat. Don’t tell me I carry the weight of her Mistake between my shoulder blades. History is written by the victors and His word is no different, !!!! cannot be trusted, warped to make Himself almighty. If we were created in God’s image…. But we were created in God’s image…. What if we weren’t? Not pulled from the God complex of some Almighty Dude who washed his hands of His creation after we got a little dirty, a little self-aware but we were gathered in the dust of the universe and molded to be exactly what we are? A vague model coded to allow all variation, anomalies, mutations, abominations will only exist if they are not allowed, not accounted for. What if God was a con man? Creator of the original pyramid scheme, giving word of benefits and love He could never prove but always preached. Only He knows. It’s funny how we have to Die to finally understand, give the ultimate sacrifice for a Guy that doesn’t acknowledge His work. What if God was a manipulator? Tricking Angels and the lesser Holy, Man, He loves us but only if we adhere to strict rules, accept Him as Savior. I want God’s definition of a false idol because I can feel Scripture in the fingertips of lovers and I never damned Eve, only saw Sister daring to Self-Love in the face of an Angry Father. God. The cruel Father, would’ve booted them from Eden eventually. No parent wants their kids living in the basement forever.

Jillian Moczara

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!

Frisky Fruit: Food as Sexual Expression Sarah Bradshaw

Pineapples Sarah Bradshaw

Art & Scope Spring 17 | 73

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