Lumen E-Book 2012

a creative arts magazine by

MERCYHURST UNIVERSITY

faculty advisors

DR. KEN SCHIFF D R . M A R ni E S U L L I VA N M S . J O D I S TA N I U N A S - H O P P E R editors in chief

CHRISTINA MIHALIC SARAH PRICE editors

CHELSEA SCHERMERHORN IRENE GALLAGHER ERICA GALLAGHER SUSAN HU designers

CASEY KREIN J. JOHN THIEDE

a creative arts magazine by

MERCYHURST UNIVERSITY

Table of Contents mark matash

christina mihalic

nicholas rex

j. john thiede

cameron demarco

chelsea schermerhorn

tyler stauffer

chris boles

christina mihalic

laura fiegelist

mark matash

casey krein

melissa tundo

jillian barrile

kayla nash

marika koch

angelina smith

alethea gaarden

alethea gaarden

erin mccandless

sarah price

kayla nash

isaac smith

tyler jolie

christina mihalic

david santiago

marika koch

christina mihalic

BITCH, I LOVE YOU..................................1 3 close up tight . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 4 color series # 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 5 selmer mark vi # 6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 6 pieces of you . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 7 the am / fm double album . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 8 B eauty in distress .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 0 T hree pieces for violin & piano audio.. . . . . 2 1 cigarette . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 2 savannah girl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 3 shroud.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 3 B alloon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 4 w ithout w ords . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 5 the diner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 6

U ntitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 0 drag q ueen & chair . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 1 grass burrs .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 2

cultural scream . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 3 defining reality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 3

memories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 4 san salvador , bahamas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 5 salut d ’ amour . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 6 the forever sailor .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 0 vie w from notre dame . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 1

T hree pieces for violin & piano video . . . . . . 4 2 vitamins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 3 tinselto w n .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 4 to my sister . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 5

marika koch

laura fiegelist

sarah price

emily francis

adrienne champine

natalie grospitch

jillian barrile

korrine hallen

sarah price

susan hu

natalie grospitch

angelina smith

chad weber

karma smith

sarah blair

james conley

laura fiegelist

alethea gaarden

paige gelsimino

jennifer mccurdy

hilda navarro

kaylyn stack

luke allport-cohoon

luke allport-cohoon

chad weber

sarah price

christina mihalic

miranda george

rodolfo carlos

mary nolte

magnum mysterium .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 6 to taste milk and honey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 7 the intersection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 7 untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 8 pearled thorns.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 9 w eird . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 0 faces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 2 dress patterns . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 3 southern charm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 4 the girl w ith the glasses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 5 kuna indian from panama . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 6 sonata for string q uartet.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 7 tiny grace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 8 your hands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 9 restaurant door . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 0

the unlikely summoning.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 1 anti - social net w orking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 2 freedom .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 4 elephant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 5 damn regret . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 5 i kno w you . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 6 the monster in the mirror . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 8 broken skateboard .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 9 old creek blues . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 0 irish breakfast tea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 1 send me on my way . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 2 variations on an original theme .. . . . 7 3 lurid .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 4

a high school disease . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 4 many years from no w.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 5

chelsea schermerhorn

katelyn cecchetti

sarah hlusko

dylan wiesner

christina mihalic

matthew c. teleha

alethea gaarden

mary nolte

tracy m. howland

rachel hammond

chris boles

april alfieri

j.a. macdougall

keven gregg

tess sinke

shea quadri

maura hunter

jordana beh

angelina smith

j.a. macdougall

durim loshaj

christina mihalic

chelsea schermerhorn

emily francis

daria laemmerhirt

paige gelsimino

nicole lawrence

giovanna thompson

chad weber

rosemary moore

flooded out of eden.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 6 ny botanical garden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 7 i had a run - in w ith your girlfriend . . . . 7 8 dockside . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 0 just a dream . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 1 living in a dream . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 2 ainslie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 3 lord , look do w n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 4 life and death . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 5 counter - cadence , a song . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 6 euclidean space . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 8 honey sticks and bluebonnets . . . . . . . . . 8 9 professor burke ’ s office . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 0 bo x ing gloves . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 1 eight legs .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 2

dress me up in color . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 3 untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 4 forever ( w rapped in letters ) . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 5 i am w endy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 6 self portrait . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 7 leaf over time .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 8 bridge jumping . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 9 toyhouse .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 0

moveable dreams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 1 procession in acadia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 1 it was a forbidden love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 2 invisible barriers .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 3 me and you . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 3 bracket . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 4 sunglasses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 5

carli hatfield

chelsea schermerhorn

ethan a. bratton

john strong

tess sinke

rachel playso

rachel clark

paige gelsimino

shane mccabe

hannah metzger

christina mihalic

sarah price

paige gelsimino

leeann stromyer

anthony chiarappa

matthew adamczyk

laura palermo

keven gregg

j.a. macdougall

eithne amos

amanda stafford

felicia sandino

lydia struble

megan fellow

mary nolte

shane mccabe

mark matash

ian gayford

brittany werner

chris boles

dad I I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 6 the cave . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 7 the ballad of s w eet giselle . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 8 boot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 9 celestial ocean . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1 0 w e found each other floating .. . . . . . 1 1 1 q ueen of the sand .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1 1 the hoop . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1 2 self portrait in florence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1 6 paper moons .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1 7 peeking in my door . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1 7 five variations on a theme .. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1 8 to mike . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1 9 the flo w of things . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 0 layers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 1

the horse ’ s advice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 2 oblivious beauty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 4 self portrait . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 5 rain , reeds , and moses .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 6 peanuts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 7 paean . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 8 in q uestion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 9 urban decay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3 0 the dream w eaver . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3 1

the letter i w rote . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3 1 on women and their issues/study of light. . . . . 1 3 2 urban design . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3 3 ceramic bust of shane mccabe . . . . . . . 1 3 4 theme and vatiations in d minor . . . 1 3 5 lovely cigarette .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3 6

Bitch, I Love You Mark Matash

The beaming smiles of my Nana and Papa are serene at first glance.

Their 50th wedding anniversary was four years ago And yet I remember every detail of their celebration.

My mom, their daughter, held a party for them At our family’s restaurant, where everyone celebrated jovially.

There was plenty of story-swapping going around Recollecting of past family joys and embarrassments.

Over golden flutes of champagne, they were toasted for their love And blessed for the remainder of their intertwined lives.

Last month while I was working, They came in to eat like they do every Saturday.

I sat with them and listened to the usual repertoire Of Nana telling him to have another beer and shut up, While Papa tells her to blow it out her ass like her cigarette smoke.

This usual banter, caught between bitefulls of chicken wings, Gulps of Bud Light and puffs of Marlboro, Has always been heavily laced with a satirical sounding Tone that matches the angelic pose of their celebratory toast, A tense slurring which sounds like they are ready to kill each other at any moment.

Fifty-four years and still going strong.

lumen 13 M M XI I

Close Up Tight Nicholas Rex

In the presence of cedars and laid to rest among the elms, we are always running out of heroes; they seem to tumble every day.

The antithesis of rebirth in spring is the slow decay of autumn.

Dorchester leaves rustling at my feet as I gaze upon your epitaph.

Granite carved depicting the trumpet of a hierophant transcending society with art.

Is there not something sacred about burning out rather than fading away?

Leaves of autumn erupt in conflagration, rather than have their hues fade.

So your fire was extinguished in your prime in the ethereal realm of the sky.

As you fell from the air, was your life-fire snuffed by the wind of Thanatos, just as the leaves follow the same path to earth?

As the blankets of snow cover you, the sound of a trolley pervades the distance.

Rest in peace, Chiaiese, and know you are not forgotten.

Your spirit lives on through vinyl memories praising Helios with stratospheric trumpet.

Lay down your staff and trumpet, and embrace the golden gifts of Morpheus.

As the icy embrace of snow seeps through the cold earth, so does your legacy warm the soul of any that heard the instrument of Gabriel.

cameron demarco

14 lumen MMXI I

color series #2 lumen 15 M M XI I

Pieces of You Christina Mihalic

Tyler Stauffer

16 lumen MMXI I

Selmer Mark VI #6

I want to uncover you, discover you, and study you with intensity.

I want to hear the slopes of your voice.

The rises and fall of your speech— your gibberish, I want to hear your answers, to life’s fleeting questions— those that recoil in and out of your mind.

I want to catch the ones you lose, and toss them back into you.

I want to memorize the sound of your voice.

The distinctive beats, your sound waves— I want to feel them rebound off me.

I want to unfold the levels of your thinking As though each one contains a new being, a different part of you— those inaudible contemplations.

I want to study you in silence, and whispers, the steadiness of your breath.

I want to see air move through you, and memorize your laughter’s pitch.

I want to hear you in major and minor chords, dissonance. I want to listen to your decibels.

I want to learn the tints and hues of your irises.

The colors that surround your pupils, the reflections that take place off your sclera.

I want to see them magnified.

I want to meet your hands, And trace your fingers— as though each lumbrical has a story to tell.

I want to see you, focused, still, distracted.

I want to get inside your genius.

And understand the brainwork.

I want you to demolish in front of me, then watch you re-build yourself— so I can memorize each building block, and truly understand the pieces, that make you.

lumen 17 M M XI I

The AM/FM Double Album Mark Matash

2003: Larry introduced me to George Carlin one night. The idea of a singles bar named “Frankie’s Fuckery” made my jaw numb from laughing so hard.

1977: Elvis’s pill habit finally dumped him off of the throne; everyone shouts “long live the king” again.

2006: Larry admits to me that he’s been smoking pot and that I ought to try it. I’m skeptical.

1980: John Bonham dies in a pool of his own vomit, rock and roll tagged along with him on the stairway to heaven.

2005: I watch the movie “Dazed and Confused” for the first time at Larry’s house. The soundtrack whistled through me like air blowing through the windows of a GTO blaring “Slow Ride.”

2002: Larry introduced me to Natural Light one night; I thought then as I think now, “Holy shit, this stuff tastes like cold piss!”

1969-71: The 27 Club trifecta of Morrison, Joplin and Hendrix was initiated. The soundtrack of the revolution was dead, one thing led to another...

18 lumen MMXI I

2004: After my grandfather’s death, Catholic school and I parted ways. Larry and the unknown hellions we considered friends welcomed me in.

1992: Sam Kinison died in a car crash; the preacher turned angry comic probably earned himself a place of comfort in hell.

2007: After nearly dying on a chain link fence, Larry seemed to hide doubt behind the vicodin-induced bravado symbolized by the scar near his femoral artery.

1994: Bill Hicks died of pancreatic cancer, his final words were “where truth, love and laughter abide, I am there in spirit.”

2008: George Carlin died of heart failure; it was also during this time I found out about the pills. The foundations began to crumble.

1966: Lenny Bruce died of alcoholism and Catholic revenge; telling people what they don’t want to hear can be more dangerous than you think.

2009: I find out from my mom that Larry was kicked out of college for cocaine possession.

The record scratch of the comedy and rock albums we shared felt endless.

2011: I’m ashamed to try to talk to Larry again. He’s climbed up from rock bottom, but the meanings behind the jokes and songs we shared have been buried long ago.

Switch over to disc 2.

lumen 19 M M XI I

audio content only available on cd

Three pieces for violin & piano audio

(2012)

kayla nash, composer barton Samuel Rotberg, violin andrew rainbow, piano

melissa tundo

20 lumen MMXI I

beauty in distress

for performance see page 42

lumen 21 M M XI I

Alethea Gaarden

Angelina Smith

Cigarette

People don’t like old-fashioned magic anymore, but my grandmother was a traditionalist, and we always had a horseshoe hanging outside our door.

Nine-year-old me knew the right way to wish for the new Nancy Drew mystery or a black cat of my own, but Momma thought it was all superstition— so when grandmother died, she buried her in black and sent me to school to get a proper education.

Two rosy vice grips and a pink jack to keep it steady I stood on the stoop and pulled in the cloud a few inches Capturing it long enough to create a foggy town Down around Pearl City Walling up against the fresh ozone And just as swiftly relieving the town from the mist

Grade school taught me long division and preterite tense, but I always hated history books. Instead, I hung around the graveyard with the old Confederate soldiers, and laughed when Momma scolded; the dead never did anyone half as much harm as the living.

Besides, grandma liked it when I came visiting.

Rinse and repeat Each time relaxing my cheeks and my eyes Until it seems like the sluggish action of a REM cycle Brings in the fog.

Bring it in.

You can’t cheat death but you can pick your cancer.

Sarah Price

You can’t run away but you can run away the moment

Savannah Girl

Shroud

I dreamt of dinted tambourine bells in the rills of a late March shower under barren trees, fretful birds.

I dreamt of shrikes in the hedges in red nooks black blindfolded and thorn enshrouded with the wind a Gregorian chant stretched into a moan with the breadth of the world pulling it close.

22 lumen MMXI I

I dreamt of salamanders lying like curls of liquorice in the silt and the shadow, like smudges on the moon; they drowned there,

and did you know there were cranes there with bills in the shale blue water and the fall flowering alone and that the browning of the grape vine ran with rivulets of frost while the spider slipped on the water into a pale mouth?

lumen 23 M M XI I

Christina Mihalic

Without Words

Interlocking under sheets, Fumbling into buttons, and multi-colored shirts.

Falling out of words, language— articulated gibberish.

Elongated sighs of release, entranced into each other’s eyelashes.

Pausing in silence, and then whispers.

Turning your breath into sound waves, descending into ears.

Words and letters spilling into nonsense, random articulations, Quickly molding into a mishap— A confusion.

A “what did you say?”

Some mismatched speech, evolving into elongated silences.

A Stop.

A Pause.

A miscommunication piled up from misplaced signifiers.

Manifesting into blockades of bricks and birches.

isaac smith

24 lumen MMXI I

Accidental drywalls warped around, Each others being, emerging into, Immediate remorse.

Guilt.

Moments of malfeasance and then a stop.

A pause.

Concentration, ponderous movements, And then, A gracious expression.

Lips curving into one unspoken statement— of laughter, And understood forgiveness.

A demolition of previously built barriers, A curse to the signifiers— Rebelling against them, through laughter and contact Your hands pressing harder while Misplacing fear with song lyrics, a voice, Burrowing into the other’s bare skin, kisses of contentment.

Tumbling over and into each other’s bodies While leaving our left temporal lobes dumbfounded over the ease of comprehending feelings without words.

balloon lumen 25 M M XI I

The Diner Marika Koch

C haracters: JACK, a well-dressed man in his mid-thirties CELIA, a waitress, mid-twenties Setting: This play takes place in New York City, in the present day. The scene is set in an empty railway restaurant, late at night. There is a long dining-table near to stage left with a bell and a cash register, in front of which is a chair. There is a sign beside the table reading “MENU” with a number of soups and sandwiches listed on it. A toy gun will be required eventually.

A spotlight snaps on stage right, with Jack standing in the middle. He is wearing a suit, a hat and carrying a large briefcase with him, looking a bit dishevelled and rather anachronistic. As the light comes up, he begins to look around in the audience, seemingly curious about their presence.

JACK: (To the audience.)​It’s nice to see such a big crowd, all to hear

my little story. Surprised there’d be such interest, really.

Well, let me tell you, it all started the way you don’t think.

That’s to say, it happened strangely. Out-of-the-blue. With a certain measure of curiosity, you might say. It all started when I went to the railway diner that evening, hoping to catch a bowl of soup before my train got in. (Runs across the stage to the table where CELIA is standing; the spotlight follows him until the lights come up to illuminate the scene on stage left. JACK speaks breathlessly when he begins, as if he has just run a long distance.) Excuse… ex—pardon me, Miss, but I need a bowl of something hot, fast as you can give it to me.

CELIA: (Tiredly; without looking at JACK.) Of course you do. Too bad I just donated my ovaries to the Society for Asexual Women.

You might have had a chance last night, Slick.

JACK: (Pause.) What? (To the audience.) She really hit me over the head, ol’ Celia. But, then, I’d always been rather susceptible to misunderstanding since the Incident. Haven’t been quite the same up here since. (Taps himself on the forehead before returning to CELIA.) I don’t know what that has to do with anything, lady. I just want a bowl of soup. The ten-thirty’s arriving soon.

CELIA: (Looks up.) Fine. What sort of soup would you like?

JACK: What sorts do you have?

CELIA: (Brightly.) Well, there’s the Goat’s Blood, of course, which people really seem to like. Not quite as much as the one with a base of Destroying Angel Mushroom, though. (Points to a sign beside the table.) Just read the menu, genius.

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JACK: Oh… right. (Pause.) I’ll have the potato soup, if you please.

CELIA: Sorry. We’ve only got tomato left.

JACK: Well, I’ll have some of that, then.

CELIA: Cup or bowl?

JACK: (To the audience.) I didn’t know what this lady was getting at, but, boy, if it didn’t blow my mind clear across the room. She was a mysterious girl, that Celia. (To CELIA.) I don’t know. What do you think?

CELIA: (Pause.) I think you should decide if you want your soup in a cup or a bowl. Maybe you’d just like to drink it off the damn table.

JACK: Oh. Why would I want to do that? (Pause.) I guess I’ll take a bowl, please. I’m going to be here awhile.

CELIA: Thought you said you had a train to catch.

JACK: No, I’ve just always thought that the ten-thirty soup was the best in these railway restaurants. They must like the late-night travellers better, see. I have this theory that— CELIA: Whatever you say, Slick.

JACK: I never told you my name! And besides, it’s not really ‘Slick.’ See, I haven’t been called that since the time in school when we had the butter-eating contest. I bet you can guess who the winner was. (Winks at the audience.)

CELIA: (Looks curiously in the same direction before turning back to JACK.) Are you trying to be funny?

JACK: No. Just ordering soup, like any fine, upstanding English gentleman would do.

CELIA: (Pause.) You know that we’re in New York City, right? And that you sound as American as Apple Pie and anti-tax protesters?

JACK: (To the audience.) Celia wasn’t always the brightest of girls. But, damn it, if I didn’t love her from the second I realized her endearing stupidity. (To CELIA.) Poor, poor Miss Railway Waitress! I can see that I’m confusing you.

CELIA: (Mockingly.) “Miss Railway Waitress”? But I haven’t been called that since I was a stripper at Erotic Al’s Lust Emporium! (Seriously.) Look, buddy, just call me Jane, and maybe we can get along until you take yourself and your crazy head

somewhere else.

JACK: You know, you look more like a Celia to me.

CELIA: (Sighs exasperatedly.) I’m going to check on the soup. It won’t take a minute, if​ you want to make yourself comfortable.

(Exit stage left.)

JACK: (Sits, then speaks to the audience.) You can see why I loved her from the start, I know.

She was so bumbling, but with good intentions. You couldn’t ignore that. Plus she was a belle you could get used to ringing, if you take my meaning. (CELIA enters stage left.) What’s the word on the soup, Cellie?

CELIA: It’s going to be awhile. The cook’s having some trouble with the stove and we’ve got to heat the stuff up. You came in a bit late for our best soup. (Reluctantly.) So, what brings you to New York City, Mister—?

JACK: Jack’s the name, doll. Nice to hear some decency from a gal like you. You don’t get that much here in the metropolis—most everyone here’s a harlot or the snobbish type with her hands in interpretive dance or the opera or some other crap. I’m here on business.

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CELIA: Oh, Lord…. What kind of business?

JACK: Just entrepreneurial things… hawking my goods on the streets… that sort of thing.

It’s been a real trial, I can tell you. People just aren’t buying in this economy, lady. Sometimes you just have to sell what the public needs, and, boy, I sure try to provide that service.

CELIA: I suppose so. What do you sell?

JACK: The usual sort of stuff. Methamphetamines, cocaine, even some heroin when I can get it— CELIA: Whoa there, Jack. Back up a sec. You said that you’re out on the streets selling drugs to people?

JACK: Hit it on the head! (To the audience.) The girl was impressed with me from the start. The birds always are when you tell them that you’re a big-shot in the business world. It’s one of the benefits of the trade, really.

CELIA: I don’t understand— JACK: (To CELIA.) I’ve got some here in my briefcase if you’d like to take a look, along with my trusty revolver! Look here, I’ve got just the sort of stuff for you, a girl having to stand here on the late shift, listening to the woes of her customers and all that— CELIA: (With alarm.) No, no! That’s quite all right, Jack… I believe you, I believe you….

(Pause.) Do you… get a lot of business?

JACK: Sometimes, sometimes… depends on the time of day and the supply, really, Cellie. And whether or not that damn pimp down on 42nd Street is having a two-fer.

CELIA: A what?

JACK: A two-fer! You know, “two-for-one”? I would’ve thought an ex-stripper would know the lingo. (To the audience.) She was coming on to me. I could see it in the way she asked me about my job with such interest—people usually didn’t care. Stopped after I’d told them about the business, you know. And the revolver, of course. That was usually a bit of a show-stopper. Celia was different, the sweet girl. I really couldn’t help myself, and, after that, I had to ask her to be mine. (Opens his briefcase to reveal his revolver, then speaks to CELIA.) Celia… do you ever think about love?

CELIA: (Nervously, eyeing the weapon.) All the time. Let me go see if your soup is ready, now… just… call if you need me, Jack….

(Exit stage left.)

JACK: (To the audience.) She could see that I was going to propose something just by looking. The shake in her voice said it all. Well, I couldn’t blame the girl for being nervous. A pretty thing like that here in the tough city with nothing to protect her honor but a flimsy apron and the menu board would have to be a little wary sometimes, I’m sure. (Mimes aiming his revolver around the audience.) But I didn’t care. Love at first sight isn’t something I can just put off, you know. (CELIA enters stage left.)

CELIA: (Laughing nervously.) Well… it seems that the soup’s taking longer to make than I thought it would! The cook’s getting lazy since it’s the night shift, you know.

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JACK: Listen, Cellie. I think we’ve known each other for long enough now for me to make a little confession to you.

CELIA: Yes? JACK: My dear little Cellie, that’s just like you to say. “Yes.” You’re the most endearing girl I’ve ever met, and I’ve no hesitation in saying that I’d like you to be my wife.

CELIA: (Pause.) Come again?

JACK: (To the audience.) She was struck almost completely dumb, I could see. (Though she’d been before, too, if you get me.) But, then, anyone would be awed as she was if being propositioned by a Don Juan of my caliber. (Falls to his knees in front of the table.) Marry me, Celia. With your waitressing skills, and my supplies, we’ll put all the pimps in the Broadway District out of work.

CELIA: (Pause.) We just met, Jack— JACK: Don’t you believe in love at first sight, my dear, lovely Celia?

CELIA: Well, I— JACK: I do. (To audience.) And I think that everyone who doesn’t should be taken out back and shot. (Spins revolver over his finger before speaking to CELIA.) What do you say, my little spring rose?

CELIA: (Pause. CELIA stands wringing her apron for a short time before climbing over the table and throwing her arms around JACK.) YES, JACK! I love you! I have since the moment you walked in here, my dear, dear Jack! (Laughs hysterically; obviously humouring him. After a few moments, she lets go of him and stands back from him slightly.)

JACK: (To audience.) She really made me happy, you know. Especially when she was so happy. All that laughing, and the tears in her eyes… the way she kept checking on the soup for me…. But there was only so long a gentleman could stand being crowded by his gal. I mean, how long could you stand it? You’re thinking that you’ve found the light of your life, your “true love,” then she just starts taking so much out of you that you can’t stand the sight of her annoying mug. (To CELIA.) Celia, I think it’s time we had a serious talk. I don’t know that this is working out.

CELIA: (In a trembling voice.) What?

JACK: You’ve been holding me down. I need to expand my horizons… meet new people. It’s a shame it had to end like this, love.

CELIA: But… no, Jack, please, we can work this out! (Grasps JACK’S empty hand.) Please… remember your ideas, about your sales? We can do it all, Jack, whatever you fucking want, just… put the gun down.

JACK: It’s too late for that, my dear. I’m sorry. (Steps back to level his revolver at CELIA’S chest and shoots before she can run away. Speaks to the audience.)

Poor girl. She should’ve seen that men in my line don’t have time for true love, or the time to get others involved in our business schemes. Too risky.

(Pause; looks at his feet.) Well, anyway, that’s my life’s story. Nice of you to drop by to see it. (Rings a bell on the table; yells into stage left.) How long does it take you to make up a bowl of God-damned tomato soup?

(The light falls.)

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untitled Christina Mihalic

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J. JOhn Thiede

Our cat died. She died, in one swoop of the night.

She crawled out to find, freedom, only to find, black tires screeching loudly, against her once soft fur— Now hard from the shock of tires.

She died, and I couldn’t tell you.

Because I remembered your eyes When we picked her out together.

They evaporated into hers As though you’d never seen anything so delicate.

At the dinner table, they told me.

They gave me cake first.

A fresh cut piece in front of me, And they told me she’d died.

They told me she’d been run over.

They told me, and I ran over the event, crying into my vanilla icing.

While my parents, and their parents Stood still, staring, at my red 22-year-old eyes.

Our cat died, and I couldn’t tell you, how her bright eyes are now, buried under a hard earth’s surface.

I can’t tell you how, In death she took everything— Your look, her eyes, now evaporating under this earth.

Our cat died, she died, in one swoop of the night she heard tires screeching against her little dark body. and in that moment she took everything.

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Grass Burrs MMXI I

Cultral Scream

They are stuck in the cage, we have climbed out of.

They sustain fabricated faces, as we wallow alone.

It’s like organized stealing of the pure Motion continues to flow inside time.

It travels from soft tranquil liquid, to hard scratching distortion.

Indians: free, running in the quicksand of time, peaceful and content.

Tribes deposed by the technology of modern derangement Laura FiEgelist

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Chris Boles

Chelsea Schermerhorn

My wet feet trample the slick green grass, running back and forth while droplets in the air reflect and intensify the boiling sun.

One colorful square in a patchwork of brown— the immaculate yard is a Persian carpet next to the small white house with flaking paint.

The rust-stained door releases older sisters in swimsuits ready for fun in the water sprinkler.

Although they laugh and run with me, it isn’t quite the same.

They clearly see the rotting house And the ratted holes in our bathing suits.

The grass is not as soft as it looks; Daddy works day and night.

No matter what He cannot keep the grass burrs from sticking in our feet.

My sisters’ eyes aren’t sparkling, though they seem to be having fun.

Maybe right then, I was just too young.

Shivering yelps beneath the sun, are never heard…

We must arrest comfort, before they sell it.

No heart would trade trees for cheap coin.

Spiraling down is the only way up.

Why can’t the fear fade?

Sell your soul to fit the mold, Or the snake bites the warmth away.

Defining Reality

This is the place to be free.

This is the place for adventures.

Abandon the umbrella that restricts your hands; Let your worries drop with the rain. balance yourself as you hopscotch across Revert to the child you once were— rocks that separate you from placid water. stick out your tongue, lean back; Feel the smooth, cool stones painted with mud; catch the gumdrops don’t be ashamed of your soiled palms. as they fall from the sky.

This is the place to be fully alive.

Open your mind, your heart, your senses; only by doing so will you achieve tranquility.

Now close your eyes and listen with your soul— allow the symphony of falling water to penetrate your anxiety and destroy the walls you’ve built around your emotions.

Receive the energy from syncopating droplets.

This is the place you can count on.

In this moment, you are here and nowhere else.

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jillian barrile

casey krein

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memories

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Salut d’Amour Marika Koch

He couldn’t believe that it’d happened. He had checked a thousand times, reminding himself over and over again in his mind, practically sweating over the mere thought of forgetting it. Then, a sighting of a friend from home later, the thing had completely fallen out of his mind.

Jared was a young viola student just starting to make something of himself in the music community. He knew the series of Bartok concertos by heart, could tune to his own relative pitch (as long as he wasn’t in an orchestra) and could name the dates of any famous viola player he knew. And he was going to be the man who, confronted with the massive responsibility of bringing a prized instrument to its rightful resting place, would not manage to lose it on the train or some such nonsense. He was far too good a player, too good a musician and too good a man to do something so ridiculous.

Yet he managed to do practically just that after only a few hours out of town. He had been charged to make a sacrificial offering of his headmaster’s prized violin to the spirit of Edward Elgar by taking it to his grave in Worcestershire. Rumor had it that Elgar himself had accidentally given a puncture wound to the violinist who owned the thing with his baton at the premier performance of Pomp and Circumstance, which was quite enough to make the instrument irreplaceable and incredibly valuable to the “musical community.” On the train, sitting beside the fitted black case and chatting to the people around him, Jared had seen a friend from his old private school in Dublin and couldn’t resist striking up a conversation about his musical endeavors—so, with his preoccupation in finding his phone number to exchange with the suddenly pretty young woman, he hadn’t had the mental capacity to notice the train easing its way from the station until it was galloping out of the countryside again with the instrument taking up prime space next to the scratched fiberglass window.

The conservatory would undoubtedly have his head when they found out, and the media would deal with the rest. He could see the headline of The Mirror in the graphitised wall of the old train station when he looked up: Muddling Musician Misplaces Majestic Maple-Wood Violin, it would proclaim in black letters thick in font and in its ridiculous attempt to be clever, just like every headline those days. It seemed to him that the English were always trying to be clever.

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He lit a cigarette and stared around the nearly empty station again, feeling ridiculous and out of place in the tuxedo he had been charged to wear to show “respect for the dead.” With a bit of wry laughter forced from his throat, in something of a better humour since the shock had begun to ease its strangle-hold on his larynx, Jared finally stood and moved stiffly to the ticket-window.

“Excuse me,” he called inside, with an impatient rap on the glass between him and the oily teenaged girl manning the counter. “Where does the train go after this stop? I’ve left something quite important on it.” She shrugged and pushed her flat brown hair from her eyes in response, at first—then she saw Jared’s peculiar dress and let out a squeaking laugh that rang through the cement-walled underground.

“Blimey, you’re a one, aren’t you?” She giggled through her chewing gum and her strong Northern accent, and leaned close to the glass. “It’s gone all the way back to London.

You’ll have to wait here a good few hours, unless you want to go chasing after it.” The girl laughed snidely again and flipped open a magazine sitting on the pile by her feet. As much as he hated to admit it, the girl was right. He would just have to go about trying to get Doctor Hale on the phone and explain everything to him before it was too late to begin explaining.

Jared walked swiftly from the platform up to the street to make the call back to Cambridge, where his headmaster was already awaiting confirmation of his arrival. The dialling itself was painful. Jared felt like every depression of a button on his mobile phone was like a step made to the gallows, and, like walking to one’s execution, he guessed, was over and starting the main event without a moment’s pause. Doctor Hale’s voice over the phone was sickeningly cheerful when he picked up.

“Jared! I was wondering when you’d come in. Those London trains are always sloth-slow on the weekends. How was the journey? Did you find a taxi to Little Malvern yet?” Jared froze under the strain of the mild interrogation, knowing he would have to break that cheerful demeanor—and, likely, his future in music—with his responses.

“The journey was pleasant enough, Doctor Hale, and, no, I haven’t. You see, I—I left the violin on the train.” He spoke this last in such a rush that the lively old professor on the other line laughed incredulously at him.

“Speak a bit slower, will you, lad?”

The young man breathed, and started again deliberately: “I left the violin on the train. It’s en route back to London as we speak. I could try to catch it there, if I can find a taxi that’ll speed decently for me, but I don’t think there’s enough time to—”

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“Jared.” Doctor Hale’s voice had gone eerily deep. “There’s no point trying any of that nonsense. You will wait at the station, and pray to God that instrument finds its way back to you, or you’re going to have to find yourself a new city to start your career. London won’t forgive you for this.” With that, the line was quiet once more, and Jared slumped helplessly against the lamppost he had been clinging to, raking his hands through his hair as his scalp had begun to itch. Nerves and the tub of gel he’d used on it before leaving for the station, he supposed.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Jared decided that a walk around the small city of Upton-upon-Severn wouldn’t go amiss. The High Street was charming enough, with its old-fashioned white facades and church steeples poking into the sky every so often. He had been there before for music competitions, but everything seemed different since he had been thrown into a crisis only to have to “wait and see.” Before, he’d thought it terribly boring, compared with the metropolises of Dublin and London in which he’d spent nearly all of his life… then, facing a problem that would likely end with his death (or, so something nagging the back of his mind said, anyway) it was a muted and serene sort of town, staid, but easing to the mind.

It was a shame, therefore, that time had the unfortunate habit of running rampant when one had responsibilities gone undone. When he checked his watch on setting out through the city, it was ten-thirty; by the time he did so again, it was three hours later, and he had to run his way through the streets to get back to the station, just hearing the occasional little twittering of mirth by the people he passed in the street. He hadn’t had to worry such as he did, as the train hadn’t yet arrived when he tripped back down the stairs to the platform and threw himself into a bench by the stiles to wait. The anticipation made his heart continue on at the pace it had taken up since he’d begun running up until the train rolled in—then it felt like it had stopped.

The doors opened, and no one exited the train. It wasn’t exactly a popular stop, this, but, still. His mind frantically assessed the situation, wondering whether fewer people was a good or a bad omen for the presence of his violin, when, instead of steps emerging from the train, he heard music singing gently from the inside. Violin music.

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After indiscreetly jumping the stile he rushed into the first compartment and through to the very last, where he found a bent, poorly-dressed old man playing his violin.

The old instrument was spinning a gorgeous rendition of Elgar’s Salut d’Amour, the vibrato warbling wildly with the shake of Parkinson’s that held the man’s hands and managed to romanticize the piece even further. Only at the end of the melodic phrase did the man stop, and looked up at Jared through tired, watering eyes. The young man was stunned into unfeeling. What could one do? Take the violin away from him, because it was known for some ridiculous passing in the presence of a famous composer? No orchestra in London would have Jared play for them if he didn’t take it back, but… here was a man who looked little better than the average homeless man on the street, simply playing his instrument, having no idea of its worth, and—

“Play you a song, lad?” the old gentleman questioned with a croak to his voice, and set the bow peaceably back on the brightly-polished A string. With that, Jared made his choice.

“Yes, please… do you know any Shostakovich?” * * *

Doctor Hale was right, as he always was. The scandal of the lost violin made London so bitterly angry that, despite the lack of professional viola-players in the city, no orchestra would even think of taking Jared in once they heard his name. The kind of irresponsibility he had shown was not easily forgiven, especially for those imbued with the precision that came with being string-players. Jared could still recite the headline that condemned him: Irresponsible Irish Instrumentalist Irrefutably Disgraces Elgar.

He couldn’t say he was upset by it, though. England changed people, and made them shallow-minded. His countrymen had always said, after all, that England lived for appearances where Ireland lived for the soul. Jared liked to think that he had proven the theory.

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Alethea Gaarden

The Forever Sailor

[ 1 ] The first time I died I was fifteen, maybe sixteen; Into your hands, the captain said And dropped my body over the side, Misspelled my name In the dispatches.

I was old enough to say “Yessir,” go out to sea, Take my licks at the grating when I cussed on Sundays, or smiled wrong At the bosun— Disrespectful-like.

[ 2 ] Twenty-seven, the next time: North Atlantic convoys.

Unterseeboot ran through the waves Like Ahab’s whale, hunting and hunted.

We dreamt of home And naked pinup girls.

Old enough to get shot, to Collapse on the deck, drunk With pain. The whole world shrunk to sky, To the tricolor as it ran down.

The men cheered.

I bled out on deck.

The Germans dreamed too, I guess Of Munich and blue skies.

I hope the bastards got home safe, Because we sure didn’t. Two clean hits— Drowned in water, in metal, in fire.

Angel of death Guarding the heavens.

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Erin McCandless

[ 3 ] The last time, it was silent.

Space is like that, one smooth Sphere of black glass, and the first shots Tore through bulkheads noiselessly, a quiet

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video content only available on cd

choreography

A nastasia Welsh

music

Kayla Nash, Three Pieces for Violin & Piano With violinist Barton Samuel Rotberg and pianist Andrew Rainbow

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dancers Olivia Boyd, Ashley Cook, Anna Daught, Amy Deer, Katarina Fitzpatrick, Mary Kersey, Desi Laemmerhirt, Andrea Lankester, EmmaRishel, Chelsea Robicheau, Kristina Weimer, Elisabeth Wilson

Tyler Jolie

(2012)

for audio recording see page 21

Three pieces for violin & piano Performance

Vitamins

Today

the heat is unbearable today

the shade is invisible today

the solitude is a fire sale, today leather sears skin today

the ice melts; perspires today

the urge was irrepressible.

Today

the cat scratches the bedpost today

the scratch of pen on paper, today

that sound is insurmountable today

is itching ears and swollen veins. today

is priority and searching. today

is a lie to survive the day today

the knot didn’t come undone.

Today

the shoes do not come on today

the shoes cannot come off today

the window won’t stay open today

the carpet dazzles with boredom today

the time barely passes.

Today

the sun folds into haze today

the fireflies were smothered

by light, ground into a neon

paste used to paint the walls of night. tonight

the heat finally breaks the back of midnight

and snaps the legs of darkness.

- with thanks to Jen McCurdy

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Christina Mihalic

To My Sister

Driving wasn’t special until, My sister took to the wheel.

Her Guess sunglasses gleaming like The sun reflecting off our old Honda Civic.

Laura was the goddess of that road And I was second in command, Acting as her sidekick— Giving her left and right instructions, And finding myself awed as she sped past corn fields, and beat up Country Fair signs— landing us into new worlds’ destinations, each glowing like golden currents before me.

I saw a strew of city street lights.

A moonless, starless destination.

A place where our dreams didn’t seem So out of hand.

I can still feel the vibrations, pulsing through the stereo speakers— My sister’s voice, right in tune.

She’d turn it up so loud you’d swear we were Unstoppable.

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“Above everyone else,” she’d say.

“Clearly,” I’d reply.

Today we’re separated by city street lines, And monotonous highway lane drivers.

But sometimes, when the moon situates Itself just right as to put me into A starless destination, I can once again feel the corn fields, and beat up Country Fair signs fading into an old beginning.

She’s putting on her Guess sunglasses again And I’m beaming like the headlights, guiding us into ecstasy.

I’ll turn up the vibrations and still smell the promises we made, about tomorrow, and the dreams, we both caught when passing the city signs.

I’ll allow the feeling of release To take hold of me, as it once did When, together, we sped parallel to those yellow lines.

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Magnum Mysterium

To Taste Milk and Honey

Goldenrod rises like the halls of Canaan, flushed and batting softly at the East wind.

The airy purple clover abase themselves in sage green angles, here, beneath bees with wings of stained glass: for all light is bronze here, for all crowns are sulfuric clusters, are where Apollo trailed his fingers bending by chariot’s incandescence on his way West.

Adrienne Champine

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Sarah Price

Marika Koch

The first time he saw it, he was not afraid.

There seemed no reason to pause before the sight, so similar to that of days before, yet changed in essence.

The very air felt different, filled with pulses, as the last echoes of a church’s bell singing over sugar-white hills.

She was white as she lay there, her hair yellow and delicate like aged paper, still settled gracefully around her cherub face.

In this, she was the same.

Preserved in her earthly beauty by something not of the world of human consciousness.

He did not pause on seeing her, because it seemed to him that this thing they called ‘Death’ had transported her, his dove of a sibling, to a place that could never be trod upon by the living.

That place was inconceivable.

It was simply the close of life.

In truth, this solemn judgment made, he would never have sung man’s lament of this world’s end had it not been for the weeping mother, who cried in-between her gasping breaths, that he was a monster for not shedding a tear.

Look up, and watch them bow, tilting like bouquets thrown.

Will you leap up and catch one, grasping stem below yellow, blue and tug it down so it dusts your nose your collar and you can feel the tension, the pull in the tall plant?

You could hold the gold there, but it would be a flower again and do you know what a flower is?

Would you prefer the goldenrod to be the halls of Canaan?

The Intersection

Overcast shadowed the land; nature killed by winter’s kiss.

White snow draped heavily on the desolate terrain.

A barren road wound through the trees; Highway pavement twisting into a bend.

The passenger lowered the radio to a mere whisper, A murmur of background noise.

The engine purred contentedly as the car sped ahead…

A perpendicular road sat hidden, Veiled amongst the forlorn trees The driver never saw the sign.

The screech of brakes only muffled the screams; The snapping and scraping sounds halted and Oil and gas fumes saturated the air.

Shards of glass and plastic were Strewn across the cold pavement.

Clouds of thick smoke rose toward the gray sky while Blood trickled profoundly down the driver’s face.

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Pearled Thorns Sarah Price

Women stare from doorways, with catches held against their ribs, with hair glossed as spider eyes to see the wych elder weep and the dimpling children, plashing muddy hands in the gloom, hail your passing from the river side, where the twisted legs of crippled frogs are shining in the water.

The sign post cannot be read shadow cloven, slipping by and pearled are the mouths of the women ’neath the whitethorn entwining with the outspread moon, long legs flitting midst pleats of moths’ silk.

Now see the trees where apples hang grow mottled with the vague shadow of owls with pale faces shut out of looming barns and the hills close and soft with heather: a stygian bride for the sooty sky, all swallowing.

You are bygone from the salt in the cattle sheds, the piled, bloody rushes, and the wan widows over vats dipping candles in seasons lackluster.

Jillian Barrile

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Untitled

You’re cloistered in the land behind where the thorn gleams, leans over your couch, and brimming foxglove are held to your lips by narrow hands.

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Weird Natalie Grospitch

50 lumen MMXI I

I woke up this morning and my brain was rearranged.

I think someone snuck in in the middle of the night And pushed all the furniture against the walls, Turned all the cups and bowls upside down, And sprinkled glitter on absolutely everything.

Have you ever tried to get glitter out of purple shag rug?

It simply doesn’t happen.

So when I woke up this morning, It was raining from the ground.

The fish were swimming backwards And the cat barked at me when I walked by.

My cereal was in the bathtub and my milk had curdled green So I needed to go to the store but My shoes were stuck to the ceiling.

I begged them to come down, But they just laughed and stuck their tongues out at me.

Those bastards.

Frustrated and lonely, I ate my Chucky Larms dry Combed my teeth and brushed my hair Watered the dog, fed the plants And danced to the colors swirling through the air Until everything felt okay.

I went to the closet to pick out an outfit, But much to my dismay the hangers were empty And nothing but nettles and crooked-tooth gnomes Hung limply in their place.

Out of sheer frustration I wept a terrible river That gathered in a basin and swallowed me whole; A suffocating tumultuous blend of everything I feared And everything I convinced myself I am.

I lost myself on the seashore And prayed for God to guide me home.

He took his time returning my message ’Cause he’s a really busy guy, But eventually I spun in enough circles That I was back where I began.

Dusk had finally risen And I needed to buy some eggs but My shoes still hung from the ceiling sticking out their defiant tongues So I just went out barefoot instead To discover that the night earth was covered in lovely stars.

I stepped on the brightest one It said, “Wish on me, I beg of you, so I can feel useful again.”

I closed my eyes tightly and wished with all I had That everything could just return to how it had always been.

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Faces

I am not wearing a disguise and Everything I am about to tell you is true.

Chad Weber

I have swum across the ocean and I have danced on the moon.

I am lying under the stars.

This is not a disguise.

I have survived a war and I have crossed the sandy desert.

I am watching the rain from a window.

This is not a disguise.

I have painted the town And I have touched a rainbow.

I am crying on the front steps.

This is not a disguise.

I have been to Egypt and California And I have spent a night on Mars.

I am safe at home.

I am in danger, too.

I am not wearing a disguise.

I am lying under the stars.

I am watching the rain from a window.

I am crying on the front steps.

I am safe at home.

I am in danger, too.

I’m tired of wearing a disguise.

Sarah Blair

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Dress Patterns lumen 53 M M XI I

Oh, this is my all-time favorite vacation Picture! Remember? St. Simon’s Island, off the coast of Georgia, 2004.

Fort Frederica, where the British defeated the Spanish, making Georgia a British colony.

We threw on the clothes. See? I didn’t even finish putting my dress on.

Little Bobby didn’t button his jacket.

Sarah’s skirt was falling down.

Oh, and we couldn’t find another “soldier prop” for you, so you held a candlestick.

It kind of looks like a plunger.

102 degrees, the air was dense and heavy, weighing down on our shoulders.

Your fingers inside the jacket? Nice touch.

The climate change from the Fort to the gift With a cannon behind me and a British soldier shop made our sweat steam off us. behind you, I think we blended in nicely.

Five minutes until the educational film.

We had some time to recuperate from the marathon tour as we perused the artifacts.

Yeah, yeah, the movie was great, but making sure I got its picture was much better.

Among the interactive stations was a basket of dress-up clothes. That was right up our alley...

I rounded up the gang and explained that if we hurried we could make the movie on time.

Could you see the Spanish troops crouching among the crepe myrtles, their moans, their final cries of mercy, punching the muggy air as they fell into the “Bloody Marsh”?

I remember thinking about my history textbook and how no one in old photographs smiled.

Hasn’t that ever bothered you?

That’s why I said to “look serious.”

And look, Sarah’s skirt was falling down.

You can’t tell, but I was bursting with enthusiasm. You, on the other hand, were probably feeling exactly how you look in this picture.

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The Girl with the Glasses

Laura Fiegelist

Southern Charm

Paige Gelsimino

I thought I knew the girl with the glasses, but the truth is no one but God knew her.

And her glasses were a wall of matchsticks burning the unsaid words away.

I thought the girl with the glasses must be clumsy.

She’d walk into class, bruised and scraped, whispering angry words I couldn’t hear.

Maybe she cried, but I couldn’t see past the glasses.

I thought the girl with the glasses was my friend.

I told her that her family wasn’t good to her.

And my head slammed against the lockers, her fingers closing around my throat.

I wondered if there was a demon in her eyes, but the glasses revealed nothing.

I thought the girl with the glasses hated me.

She yelled at me to go away, but I followed her to where the older girls pushed and clawed at her with their words.

I broke their stoning circle and took her outstretched hand.

She might’ve been happy, but the glasses only reflected the sun’s light.

The girl with the glasses came into class today blood on her fingers, glasses cracked.

“What happened?”

“I smashed them,” And she shattered and broke the glasses falling off her nose.

lumen 55 M M XI I

video content only available on cd

(2011)

lumen 57

hilda navarro

M M XI I

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luke allport-cohoon, composer ruth bacon, violin julia sherman, violin jennifer jansen, viola robin hasenpflug, cello

sonata for string quartet kuna indian from panama

Tiny Grace (To My Niece, Grace Caroline Weber)

Beauty in its purest form A light has shone upon us, Not only for us to love, But to tell again― Not all innocence is lost― And in her elegance, Hope is renewed.

A manifestation Of the past that surely has escaped us, Her untainted spirit Revitalizes our own youth, How is it we are so honored?

Endowed upon us this gift of grace, She is Grace.

Eyes―which have not cried Tears of heartbreak, of disillusionment Hands―so soft, unaltered by days of Work and months of sacrifice Feet―which have not carried the burden of Wearing shoes we were not meant to walk in Lips―that have only spoken truth and have Not scorn the words of anger, distrust, fear Spirit―that has not been broken by the wages of war And the burn of hunger for the answer To a question we all so blindly seek― Why?

Christina Mihalic

Chad Weber

Recapitulation; redemption; birth, Call it what you will― It is Grace.

She is Grace.

your hands

You told me you thought your hands were too dry, cracked, rough, and unworthy of fitting into mine.

And I thought, who are you to judge your hands as though they were fitting into themselves?

You see, our hands, when resting in each other’s, are not carrying out what they were created to do.

Your hands, my hands, each hand, was made for movement, clawing, picking, not hand holding, and yet here they rest, with perfect persistence of staying in place, stagnant, into each other’s: An un-evolutionary choice, aided by eight lumbricals.

And so I ask again, who are you to judge your hands as though they were performing an instinctive task?

Are your hands not performing, speaking, and locking into mine in an un-evolutionary manner for the sake of the soul?

Are your hands not yearning to speak for the unspeakable muscle that lies so delicately inside of you?

And so I say, to hell with unworthiness, to hell with dry, cracked, rough, and soft hands.

As long as your hands continue to speak inconsistently with evolution, then they are more than worthy of fitting perfectly into mine.

It is by the grace of a power Much greater than you and I That we should be so lucky, so blessed To be witness to the greatest gift of all, Grace itself Grace herself The spectacle of her beauty will Go unmatched Cannot be compared, construed, or denied Her beauty, indescribable Chance, destiny, fate― Call it what you will It is grace She is Grace.

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lumen 59 M M XI I

Laura Fiegelist

The Unlikely Summoning (Translitic Poetry) Demain dès l’aube

Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne, Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.

J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.

Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées, Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit, Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées, Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.

Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe, Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur, Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.

* * To a man that’s the Louvre, the little hare burrowing in a hole is not in jeopardy.

But to a Red Queen, the bushy tail can powder her face.

*

The party voices to Jesus’ cat’s tumor and attends the masquerade in a Ferrari parlor.

Meanwhile, Tom & Jerry’s Parliament meringues with the Cheshire.

Rodolfo Claros

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Restaurant Door

Ginny, please Dementor laundry toilets longitude, for the maracas are lazy and can’t fix Caesar’s pennies.

A cursed rainwater odor enters a comma, breathe.

So, with sprites in ladles, cradle the dew; no “raindrops on roses or whiskers on kittens” will cause the Tri-state to lead your promiscuous common unit.

General Gardener, antsy, orders laser-key tombs, but kneel, level Aslan; descend Aunt Marge; save war!

Eat, so you may not conjure the rage to steal my treasured totem.

Un-boogie the house of Peter Pettigrew; you’re buried in the floor.

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Emily Francis

Anti-Social Networking Look across the lane, See the features Illuminated bright By the glare.

Don’t speak a word To my friends, The ones with the Vacant stares.

Inseparable From phones, Keyboard, Touchscreen.

When they tear Their eyes away, There is a Wicked gleam.

Connect and make Relationships, Facebook, Twitter, MySpace.

Anti-social networking, Overriding The human Race.

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The point is to Contact Those at a Distance.

Not to Alienate Those close with Resistance.

Everything faster So we take Less In. How can we Finish anything, When it’s hard to Begin?

We put lives, Lives of others, And our own On the line.

For what, though?

So we know first?

Or remember That one time?

Fragmented hearing, Our future Looks so Bleak.

We don’t Communicate Anymore so…

I’ve decided I won’t speak.

Let these simple Words reveal What I’d like to shout.

We’d better Reconnect, Or power will Run out.

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Korrine Hallen

Elephant I am the wrinkled skin A young elephant Born close to the womb My great strength matches My grace, personality and size I embody an elephant An artist so true I am the elephant in the room I am the grey space in a rainbow filled world

Susan Hu

Natalie Grospitch

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freedom

Damn Regret

“You don’t understand! I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender.

I could’ve been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am.”

And even though the moment passed me by I still can’t turn away One’s real life is often the life that one does not lead And any time you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain, Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders.

“You’ll regret it.

Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.”

Forget regret, or life is yours to miss.

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I know yOu Angelina Smith

Beautiful Boy, I know you.

The way your hair is brushed back from your sight, as of someone who can’t be bothered by things like obstructions in his vision.

You are That Boy Whose syncopated rhythmic breathing turns to slow even drags like those on a cigarette when he knows he’s right.

Who remains brow-unfurrowed and voice-unshaken as he reveals to the wide-eyed twenty-somethings twenty bits of something they didn’t know.

That Boy Whose inflections peak in a restrained crescendo Noted only by a trained ear because there is an unspoken social price to pay for being too hasty in stating lofty truths.

I see You, Boy. The way you lick your lips as if to keep your morphological sea constantly smooth for the ideas that may just sail out into the open, of their own accord.

Boy,

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Who, unlike the rest of us, lowers his eyelids and sees the scrolls of Alexandria instead of the vague spectral outline of his last observation.

Whose smirk always tends toward one side because the other is holding onto his heaviest secret as a favor to his already bursting brain.

Boy, who has soul, has the blues by its twelve bars, has a coffee stop at the cornershop, and has eyes that could never just be considered eyes.

Brilliant Boy, eloquent Boy, captivated Boy Boy, whose words could build barriers or break down doors Boy, who means what he says and whose means are how he says it Boy, who takes both his coffee and his criticism black, neither cream nor sugar.

Boy, oh Boy Do I see you.

Boy, do I know you.

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james conley

karma smith

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(self portrait) the monster in the mirror

broken skateboard lumen 69 M M XI I

old creek blues Alethea Gaarden

Afternoon: We were kicking stones into the creek (crick, my grandfather called it, hard on the i with white trash tucked into the consonants) when I heard the first high groans of the trees, the whispers on the water, a quiet avalanche echoing in the distant east.

“C’mon,” I said, grabbing Boyfriend’s hand and tugging him back towards the truck, sitting silent and rusty under a dead willow.

“There’s gonna be a thunderstorm.”

I slipped in the driver’s seat, slammed the door, dragged the truck to life with garage shop prayers (“goddamn foreign piece of shit Toyota”) straight outta my dead brother’s mouth.

Boyfriend scrambled into passenger seat, designer jeans dragging through the muddy ground, flip-flops slapping against the bare metal floorboards.

Evening: Boyfriend burned popcorn while I smacked the radio into operation. Burning oil spat onto his brand new polo and a riot of corn filled with hot air slammed against the pot lid.

NPR was blaring over the thunder and I swear I heard daddy’s voice in the static. (“Bought-and-paid-for liberal trash—”) Later, Boyfriend made Tea Party jokes while I stared out the window, watching flashes of lightning split the world in two.

Funny Story: “Will your family like me?” he asked once.

I laughed until I thought I would puke.

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Jennifer McCurdy

That night, I went to sleep listening to what my momma called the tin roof rap (a loud, late night staccato of raindrops zinging against flat metal) while Duke Ellington played above the headboard.

I buried my face under a floral-print pillow and hid myself in musty blankets, but the machine guns still followed me into my dreams.

The scent is nostalgia. A dark amber stout without the gifts of alcohol, a malty good morning for you and a cupful of mettle to see you through the day— the essence of a rolling greenscape on the edge of the earth. My first taste came in a Scottish guest house among the company of vacationing students I sank into the heat, and seeing my satisfaction, the students withdrew their silent criticisms of my American stock and commented instead on the restless sea throwing mist upon the bay window. Many times have I raised a tea-cup to my lips and had to replace it on the table, conversation among friends being a precious thing and not to be neglected.

I once visited the Sisters of Mercy and discussed with them a nearby Gaeltacht school, and a nun in floral dress poured some milk in my cup and placed the saucer in my hands, as if bestowing a benediction. Three thousand miles away, I now stand alone at my window, pondering a car-lined street and a single disheveled pine shading a townhouse. With a bittersweet sip, I remember Helms Point and the glitter of the Celtic Sea at dawn, the sun bringing to life the hills of stone fences and Scottish brume.

Mornings like these I feel as though my soul were home again, and again I set my cup on the washboard, whispering a resolve to return.

Irish Breakfast Tea lumen 71 M M XI I

video content only available on cd

variations on an original theme (2010)

luke allport-cohoon, Composer erik meyer, piano

kaylyn stack

72 lumen MMXI I

send me on my way

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Sarah Price

Lurid

Miranda George

A High school Disease The dead walk amongst us Not in spirit but clad in flesh Zombies that feast from dawn to dusk― But are never sustained, nonetheless.

They’re not born from a virus Or crafted in some nuclear lab.

They’re victims of society, spineless Stagnant humans scrambling to adapt.

Forever longing for admiration These artificial fools― Sacrificing passions and desires To sit on popularity’s pedestal

Mary Nolte

Summer saw him caging lurid color, the wings that dyed the day the dusty petals of mourning cloaks, lilting, broken from the hands interlaced.

He held the hands up to the sky and leveled the gaze of one eye through dented filament, skeins of scales colliding, polka dotted thoraxes knocking at the hands’ heels and saw the sun through the color bleeding and he is young and he is old and watching a sunset that blooms heavy and low like a rotting flower: pungent and wondering if it was always like that.

Many Years from Now For an hour, we pretended.

That we were an older couple, who met years ago.

We took our dog on a walk to the old church, and laughed and held hands, like we knew each other forever.

I giggled and told the story of the first time I saw him, at nineteen, So many years ago.

And we talked about how – and when – we finally met, And how it feels like it was just yesterday.

Maybe because it was.

At some point, we had to go back, and return the dog, and go back to reality.

Go back in time many years.

But, we’ll always have that hour, that older couple, the walk along the beach, and a love that had lasted forever.

Losing their identity―now one with the horde Going forth to spread the virus, forever absorbed.

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FlOODED Out Of EDEN Chelsea Schermerhorn

You think that’s a pretty river? flowing peacefully by green trees?

Just wait. You’ll see.

Roiling water sputters and spews, desire for destruction its only view.

But wait! What tranquility exists in a drop that I could shop for in those toxic plastic bottles!

Sterilized taste eliminates the waterborne diseases that taunt children in Africa who long for a sip.

Drip… Drip….

Your faucet is leaking again.

When Robert Frost wrote “Fire and Ice,” he forgot that ice is just as deadly in a liquid state, Where the method of destruction is molecular at base.

Take away water—we all shrivel up, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.

But add a few more drops, to quench the thirsty earth— The apocalypse is here; knock, knock, Noah.

We need a few more arks; There’s no rainbow this time.

Oh, and that river— that’s really a road in Texas, near where there should have been a wedding this weekend.

Water equals Life.

Maybe not. Adam and Eve Were flooded out of Eden.

Sarah Hlusko

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NY BOtanical Garden lumen 77 M M XI I

Christina Mihalic

78 lumen MMXI I

I had a run-in with your girlfriend I had a run-in with your girlfriend, I had a run-in on the town, And she told me all your secrets, She told me over rounds.

She continued without worry, And she said, I’m fine, I’m great My boyfriend’s really nice, My boyfriend knows no hate.

So I sipped at my tequila, And I listened to her sighs, And it made me really frightened, To see she had honest eyes,

She said, he really likes you He admires you a lot, And she said you shouldn’t tell him, Cause I promised I would not.

And I thought, that’s not an answer And I thought, is this a dream?

For in secret I’ve liked her boyfriend, But this seemed like such a scheme.

As she spilled her boyfriends secrets, And her drink spilled on the floor.

And someone said “we’re leaving” And they took her out the door.

And I thought, what are you getting at?

As I said, you seem too calm, to admit he likes another girl— This all seems really wrong.

Then I panicked, she must know, And I thought, “oh may, oy vay,” As I sat in anxious worry Over the next words that she’d say.

And I thought about her boyfriend, And I thought about her words.

And I thought this is crazy, There’s no way, this is absurd!

And she said, I’m really sorry.

And she said, I’m kind of drunk.

But he really thinks you’re charming, He thinks you have some spunk.

And I thought, woman, you’re crazy, And I said, he’s yours not mine, And I said, you are his girlfriend Yet with this you seem just fine.

I thought, will she hurt me?

I thought, will she break my face?

Does she know I like her boyfriend, That I wish I was in her place?

Since then I’ve been immovable.

Since then I’ve wondered why You told her such strange secrets, When you’re supposed to be her guy.

But she continued with her praise And she continuously grinned, And I thought it’s really strange, How she’s acting as though we’re kin.

And I’ve thought, I will say something, And I’ve thought, just make a move.

But her eyes come back to haunt me, And there’s nothing I can do.

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Dockside Alethea Gaarden

Rough wood digs into the soles of her feet, a comfortable pain for a girl too impatient to bother with laces or socks.

She’s standing on the edge, staring out into the known, as lines of cold water drip from her hair, running down her legs past the tattered skin of her knees: concrete war wounds won over a reckless July.

Laughing, unafraid— it’s no great leap from the docks into the nighttime water.

The grand houses behind her are backlit by the moon, shadows cast onto the rippling surface: lakeside gargoyles guarding sleeping families behind sliding doors.

She glances back for a second at the black marble eyes of the darkened windows and sees something worth escaping for the promise of endless summer.

Then—

One great leap from the docks into the nighttime water.

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Tracy M. Howland

She grabs my hand, tugs me forward, drags us both over the edge with a shriek and a splash,

Just a dream lumen 81 M M XI I

There she was, Bliss, entirety and love In the ever blooming field Of vast green contentment, Inside my head.

Every time it takes me From dark grey to a vibrant yellow.

Euphoria, she lasts forever, If I keep imagining it from a distance.

Yet, it steals me for some time.

Then, it leaves me the palest blue.

Trudging through the streets with melancholy shoes, Until it fixes my head with stardust again.

It comes & goes shines & fades pumps pink & black & black 2 pink.

Ainslie

Living in a Dream Chris Boles

The beauty fills my mind, It opens my eyes unto the sun And shuts them in the shade.

The thoughts took me through the sky To the otherside of reason.

J.A. MacDougall

We waited at the shoreline, Our hands deep in each pocket.

Clutching, grasping at something, anything, Your mother clenched her locket.

We waited for signs of life, Signs of struggle, just one sign.

We waited as the sun sank deep, Across the glare of Ainslie’s line.

We waited for our fathers, And our fathers’ fathers, To return with good fish, not bad news.

Lake Ainslie washed and curled round my ankles, As I squashed in my boggy shoes.

How could she be so careless In taking one of our own?

A young boy aged but ten, Taken for reasons unknown.

What will we tell the others, Who wait up on the hill?

To know a mother’s lost her son, Reduces me to nil.

To see my father’s eyes, they swell, With lament our hearts employ.

Memories of Ainslie flood, With bereavement for the boy.

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lumen 83 M M XI I

(2012)

tess sinke

Lord, look down

video content only available on cd

choreography

T ess S inke In collaboration with Dr. Robert von Thaden and Gregory Baker

music

Steven Sharp nelson, The Cello Song; Adam Hurst, The Shallows; Bela Bartok, String Quartet No. 4, V; John Williams, Look Down, Lord

Nicholas Cianci, Muna Nehme, Sara Fox, William Dul

maura hunter

voices

life and death

music/voice editing

Mark Santillano, James Sinke

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dancers Amy Deer, William Dula, Rachael Gnatowski, Jacqueline Jamiel, Emily McAveney

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Counter-Cadence, a Song Angelina Smith

86 lumen MMXI I

He skirts the road Of the decadent lonely, And I Enjoy the view From the hole in the wall in my hand He sets the scene And I’ve seen it before, And I know He fits the bill Because it’s all in his Counter-Cadence He waves his hand Like he can’t be bothered, And I Follow his stare To the blank wall behind me, And know I must be stopped Lest I do something rash, because I Have every intention Of seeing this to its logical end.

Build me a box which you bought for a dollar And I’ll tuck you away Send me the signs that your love is a liar And I can jump ship today Give me that ring which you forged in the fire And I’ll be yours to take away Baby, you swing me in your own time Baby, you swing me

Good call, Good God How you twist my mind up, And All The bets are off Because I might have already won Time it ticks like bombs Going off every second, Could you Please grab my hand Before the countdown to zero Disjointed letters of late nights And balancing acts on the wire I’ll take a stand But I may need a safety net, Agreed We’ll meet in the middle Of the string that supports us, We set Ourselves up to shake hands Just know that lips are the hands of the heart Build me a box which you bought for a dollar And I’ll tuck you away Send me the signs that your love is a liar And I can jump ship today Give me that ring which you forged in the fire And I’ll be yours to take away Baby, you swing me in your own time Baby, you swing me

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Chelsea Schermerhorn

Honey Sticks and Bluebonnets The rusty, white F-150 clicked into the driveway, leaving the smell of crushed Bluebonnets painted on the tires. Squished between my parents in the blazing heat of a Texas summer, sweat melted off my skin while my limbs squirmed from the pain of sitting still so long.

The sun caused the thick black dirt to crack and compact, and dried up the Johnson grass interspersed between the Bluebonnets and Indian Paint Brushes. The smell of the flowers wafted into the air, melding with the buttery sweet scent of honey. Slamming the massive truck door shut, I ran to a stall set up in the yard, displaying plastic tubes of honey. I smiled at the honey lady with the olive-skinned face whose bushy black hair curled around her wide green eyes. I ran back to Daddy and dragged him by his finger, pointing out which tubes I wanted to take home. Mama gently picked up one of each flavor that I chose and put them in a plastic bag, while Daddy passed some coins to the lady. Wanting to enjoy the freedom of the open air, I lingered in the ditch full of Bluebonnets, picking some and watching for rattlesnakes while I crafted a bouquet. Mama and Daddy stood impatiently by the truck, threatening to leave me if I did not hurry.

Cradling my bouquet of orange and blue flowers, I ran to Mama, begging her to smell the flowers. She nodded, smiling at my innocence.

Placing the flowers on the dashboard, I climbed back into the truck, sliding across the boiling vinyl that burned my thighs. I buckled my seat belt and reached for the bouquet that I was determined to hold in my lap. Daddy stepped into the truck behind the wheel while Mama handed me the honey sticks before getting in. Translucent gold glittered in the plastic tube I pulled out of the bag, glinting in the sunlight while I gently popped it open. On the way home, I didn’t mind as much that I was sandwiched between my parents.

Durim Loshaj

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Euclidean Space lumen 89 M M XI I

MMXI I

nicole lawrence

daria laemmerhirt

90 lumen

professor burke’s office

boxing gloves lumen 91 M M XI I

Eight Legs Chad Weber

How did this happen?

All caught up in a spider web I don’t wanna see anymore.

Chew my eyes out, please.

I used to believe in something, But thankfully the creatures ate my soul, I don’t wanna feel anymore.

Take my heart now, too, please.

My skin crawls With the spider, through the knots In my stomach; Through the spaces Where my eyes And heart Used to be; I used to laugh a little, too.

Through the holes in my spirit I hear it Calling The little beast, eight mighty legs And I make my way back to the center “Eat me alive!”

“Take every last bit of me,” She replies, “I have!”

And I am satisfied,

It always ends with a broken heart.

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katelyn cecchetti

To know I will never see, feel, or hear Again.

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Matthew C. Teleha

Forever (Wrapped in Letters) This is my love note it’s just a song, it’s just a tune.

But it’s my heart wrapped in a melody, my soul disguised in music, my link to you forever, ever more.

Forever you’ll exist, a constant melody so sweet, a memory not half as sweet as you.

A beautiful idea, an enchanting hope, though never half as beautiful as you.

You’re lovely wrapped in letters, you’re wonderful in words.

But as hard as I try, I can never match the feeling I feel inside.

You’re an essence irreplaceable; your presence, unforgettable.

But every look into your eyes brings a feeling I can’t describe.

Forever you’ll exist, a constant melody so sweet, a memory not half as sweet as you.

A beautiful idea, an enchanting hope, though never half as beautiful as you.

dylan wiesner

94 lumen MMXI I

untitled

Writing from within feels so easy when I’m sitting here.

The ink falls on the page, and my jaw drops to the floor.

A thought, a memory, a sudden flood; filling up the room, I’m drowning here with you.

Forever you’ll exist in a melody, a memory so sweet, but never as sweet as you.

And if you leave, all I have are these memories to comfort me.

And if you go, I don’t even know who I’d become.

And it’s too late to wipe the ink off of this page, and it’s too late to pull your name off of my heart.

lumen 95 M M XI I

Mary Nolte

I am Wendy

Many, many years ago you took me by the hand, You pulled me high into the air and we went off to Never Land.

And there I met all of your friends friends, and enemies too.

And for a minute I wished to stay to stay, and be with you.

But then I remembered my home far away what it was like to be tucked into bed.

I started to hate your jungle abode and everything else, even the hat on your head.

So I told you that you had to take me home.

You were disappointed, to say the least.

But I couldn’t live in a tree in the forest, I couldn’t abide by the sea.

So you took my hand and you flew me home, and I kissed you goodbye on the windowsill.

I asked you to stay and live with me, I would not hold you against your will.

So you flew away, and ever since then, I’ve wanted nothing more than to have you back.

But I know that you, forever a boy, can’t fly a woman into the pitch black.

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rachel hammond

But sometimes I still stand by the window and look and think maybe you’ll return to me.

See the girl I once was, hold my hand again -And we’ll live in the jungle just feet from the sea.

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Keven Gregg

Bridge Jumping

Let’s just dive into the river, baby, Forget what they’re all screaming.

Throw away their opinions, the water won’t judge, And we’ll wade ashore, sloshing heavy-legged, Laughing, Snug in night’s envelope, wondering aloud Which of the fish we’d be In a perfect world; Where we’d have the money to go In a perfect world; Fires we’d set, people we’d hurt In a world unlike this starlit now, Pixilated in our dim night vision.

And we’ll squeeze each other, Think about all we’ve waded through Just to be here leeching the sticky heat of another And to smile about it.

But in the sand my words are lost, And yours replaced by glassy breath.

Rambling scenarios become reality in dream And we wake up entwined and wonder, Isn’t this a perfect world?

april alfieri

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leaf over time lumen 99 M M XI I

Jordana Beh

Moveable Dreams

Let’s pack our bags, Toothbrush and keys.

You got what you need ‘Cause I’m all that you need.

We head for the light, Bright light in the city.

And when the phone rings There’s no looking back.

We’re moving on, we’re moving And we never can stop.

J.A. MacDougall

shea quadri

100lumen MMXI I

toyhouse

We head for the light, Warm light of the sun.

So we sit on the shore With our fistful of sand And watch it escape Our tired wrinkled hands.

We head for the light As this world slowly dims And you say that’s the plan.

Yeah, baby, that’s the plan.

Procession in Acadia Never have I been to an Acadian Funeral, Where in the shadows of the highlands, The beloved bury their own.

With each spade, a cascade of soil over closed casket.

Their trembling hands work the land.

The faces I do not know, But their hands, Oh their hands, Unmistakable.

Hardened by their task, by the blistering finality.

Their eyes stream in the sharp wind, As it wisps the unearthed land Into the pit of the hourglass.

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It was a Forbidden Love

Emily Francis

Christina Mihalic

It was a forbidden love, a “No trespassing” zone.

The signs covered the edges of our lips, And yet we walked all over letters— our tongues acting as shoes.

A window stands between us, Intercepting communication.

We’re susceptible to interference, Its presence an abomination.

I see you, you see me, We get sidetracked by our reflections, Not seeing past our own views; Our unconscious deflections.

You can yell, I can cry, We see it wash through one another.

Risen voices, tensions high, I don’t know why we even bother.

If we’re not going to listen, And we take our own sides,

We could feel it in our principles.

That you and I were floating too close, To the ozone layer— We were eventually going to turn ultraviolet.

But it was winter, light was scarce— We remained stagnant for a time.

Finding ourselves in split rooted trees, Sitting amongst the snowy branches.

Our hands found each other’s warmth, It was the only way to survive the cold.

We were dancing amongst each others bodies, Unknowingly floating closer and closer to spring—

Paige Gelsimino

He arrived in forms of yellow light, Catching my cold arms with his lips.

He seduced me with promises of a new existence, As I watched you float directly into the sun.

Invisible Barriers

Why do we get so angry, When our ideals collide?

I see my face red and tortured, Your expression incredulous.

As our own voices bounce back, Our fights control us.

Never reaching agreement, Each not seeing through tinted glass, We give each other time To let poisonous feelings pass.

The next day we are sane, Your feelings will never match mine, But we can cohabitate, Until the inevitable next time.

me and you

I watch the stars turn, slipping away as I spin round and round, my song spiraling into the sky in puffs of icy white clouds.

Snow drifts down as my boots crunch to a stop in front of you with that gentle smile and frosted glasses.

I take your hand, my mittens warming your cold fingers, and the stars turn around us.

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rosemary moore

giovanna thompson

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bracket

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Ethan A. Bratton

carli hatfield

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dad ii

the cave

ERIN GO BRAGH, the first words seen as Green steel reveals a cave hidden from the world.

Look left, now right, now back ahead, A green cloak, a wooden staff, a place meant in the forest Now a glare from a fight scene and sounds of clay chips falling from Vegas, Warnings of shenanigans and malarkey assault the eyes, A sword of foam guards it below giving heed to those that are weary.

A slam as green steel retracts to seal the cave Rustling as the inhabitants turn to see a newcomer.

Would You Kindly questions the cave walls with promises Written in blood of a dinner in hell to be responded by a clown Wondering Why So Serious but the subtle ticking of time calms the nerves.

Stacks upon stacks of lives in boxes cover the floor Waiting to be seen by those who inhabit the cave.

A strobe, a black light, a party unlit.

Mickey the leprechaun stares at mock Vegas High from his white throne of sustenance, Giving luck to those who will acknowledge his prowess.

An intensity of red draws attention to the guardian Twisted in the knots of Celtic tradition lies a black dragon Watching the inhabitants of the cave, his eternal fire Emanating from his ever open mouth.

Fierce though the dragon may appear to newcomers, The guardian is silky, comforting, protective and omnipresent.

Pepperoni and coffee assault the nose of all those who enter Clicking, chuckles, clicking, anger, more clicking and more laughs, Variant lives are being lived and expressed on 17 inch screens.

An exhale, someone says Holy Hell and everything freezes Yawning confirms what everyone knows but wouldn’t admit, The ticking of time faded into nothingness but now returns Full swing along with the shuffling of pairs of feet searching For lost possessions swallowed by the three cushioned glutton Or lost among jackets and shoes across the floor.

Embraces are made as the sandman comes knocking.

A rush of wind is heard as the seal to the cave is broken again Followed by the familiar slam of solitude and calm.

Dull yellow suns are extinguished and tumblers are put in place As sounds of snoring and dreams fill the cave.

The calm of darkness cleanses the cave, waiting for more newcomers And regulars to return once more to usual seats when the sun returns.

lumen 107 M M XI I

The Ballad of Sweet Giselle

Her hair and eyes, so pure and true, Her lips they were too sweet, As she went dancing through the town, A fella, she did meet.

But poor Giselle, for she fell sick, Her love did fall apart, The white clouds broke and tumbled in, She died a broken heart.

Tess Sinke

To the Willis land she did go, Young maidens just like she, To mourn the loss of true, true love, And take revenge on thee.

When skies turn dark the young men come, Willis come a calling, To take back what they lost from love, And send young men drowning.

When her true love had lost his way, Willis came to claim him, But dear Giselle with sweet, sweet lips, Did cry out to save him.

They danced until the morning sun, Then to the graves they fled, Their broken hearts now satisfied, Giselle turned back to dead.

The young man stood, in love struck awe, Amidst the shadowed light, “My sweet Giselle, who loved me so And saved me from the night!”

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rachel clark

Oh poor Giselle, so pure and sweet, To die a broken heart, She saved her love from death’s cold grips, Now death, keeps them apart.

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We Found Each Other Floating Christina Mihalic

Paige Gelsimino

shane mccabe

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celestial ocean

We found each other floating into each other, carelessly.

I didn’t plan you, Or write you into me, rather, together, we stumbled accidentally into a spinning existence.

It spiraled from an unconscious, heedless deal; A suggestion, an exchange of ability and talent— (I wanted to learn from your fingertips).

To a persistent, obvious wanting.

It tapped us on the shoulder one idle Wednesday.

We turned to find a pressing need for closeness, and found radiance in each other’s breath, a magnetic pull.

Energy—we were mutually spell bound by the exchange.

It engulfed our bodies as we lay present together Under passing skies and sunset clouds— We found need out of a monotonous being.

There, we illuminated different shades of beauty, into each others essence.

We found a brilliant, new realm of reality Where fear was far less than welcome, and whispers were the only sounds, that passed through our parted lips.

Queen of the Sand The lion stays low, crouched at her Majesty’s feet.

She’s Queen of the Sand.

Queen of a place with no king.

A roar is silence out there.

lumen 111 M M XI I

The hoop Anthony Chiarappa

On the grade school playground there were three basketball hoops, two that were useable and one bent beyond use. It became a challenge to all boys in the school to tear the rim off, and it especially became a sick obsession with three boys in the sixth grade; Anthony, Austin, and Mark. For days they had disputed ideas to figure out a way to bring it down; not only did remarkable craftsmanship keep it attached regardless of its deteriorating situation, but also an evil mother monitor by the name of Mrs. Pruitt made it nearly impossible for the boys to even try to remove it.

MONDAY

“Any new ideas?” asked Mark

“I don’t know, I guess just keep trying to pull it down by hanging on it,” responded Austin

“It kind of sucks that I can’t even get a chance to hang from it, which would probably speed up the process,” stated Anthony, who was the biggest of the three; since none of the boys could jump high enough to grab the rim, Austin and Mark had to jump off of Anthony’s back to reach the rim.

“Alright we will just do what we have been doing, and hope Mrs. Pruitt doesn’t see us,” said Mark

“And exactly how are we going to keep trying without Mrs. Pruitt seeing? Our playground isn’t exactly big,” said Austin

“I have an idea!” exclaimed Anthony. “Remember a few weeks ago when Andrew and Rory had that fist fight that tied up both mother monitors for the majority of recess?”

“Oh yeah!” answered Mark.

“A distraction! Great idea!” said Austin, “but how are we going to convince Andrew and Rory to fight again and risk another detention?”

“Hear me out,” Anthony said. “Mark, you’re better friends with Rory than me and Austin so after school today tell him Andrew wouldn’t shut up about how he is a Canadian ginger and was just constantly ripping on him. Austin and I will tell Andrew that Rory was making fun of his mom again and saying how he whooped him in their last fight.”

“That’s not a bad idea, Anthony,” said Austin.

“Yeah as long as they don’t find out that we set them up,” said Mark.

“I don’t think it matters between those two. They are bound to go at it again anyways,” said Anthony.

“True,” responded Mark.

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The plan between the three is that tomorrow, Tuesday, as soon as the fight breaks out they were to try and get both Mark and Austin on the rim and have Anthony pull from their legs, this was a surefire plan in their minds.

On the bus ride home Anthony began working on Andrew.

“You should have heard what Rory was saying about you today.”

“What was that jerk saying?” asked Andrew

“He was ripping on your mom again saying how mean she was and all she did was gossip about your friends.”

“Are you kidding me?! Why won’t that kid shut up? Where does he even get these ideas from!? He’s the one with the asshole dad.”

“Yeah, he was also saying how he kicked your ass last time you fought and that you got lucky that the mother monitors got involved.”

“I’m going to beat that kid tomorrow, that ugly ginger Canadian!”

Anthony had succeeded in his mission to light a fire underneath Andrew’s butt.

Anthony could literally see the rage in Andrew’s eyes as he got off the bus. Mark was having similar success with Rory on their bus ride home.

“Can you believe what Andrew said about you today?” said Mark

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, you didn’t hear?”

“Hear what, Mark?”

“I think he wants to fight you again. He kept telling Austin and I how ‘dumb your Canadian family is,’ and that he can’t believe that they let a ginger into our school.”

“What’s wrong with red hair and being Canadian?!”

“I don’t know. I think Andrew is just trying to get you to fight again.”

“Fine, I’ll embarrass him again tomorrow.”

“I don’t know man, he says he’s the one who put the whoop on you, and how you hit like a girl.”

“WHAT!?” Rory’s face grew red, “A girl?!”

For grade school boys there was no worse dis.

“He’s done! I’m sending him to the nurse’s office for sure tomorrow.”

Mark knew he succeeded as he got off the bus because Rory was salivating at the thought of beating up Andrew tomorrow.

Later that night Andrew’s phone started ringing.

“Andrew! Pick up the phone!” Yelled Andrew’s mom up the stairs.

“Got it mom!”

“Andrew?”

“Austin?”

“Yeah it’s me. Funny story… For some reason Rory just called me and told me he is going to ‘put you in the school nurses’ office’ tomorrow”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah apparently he wants a rematch from your last fight”

“I’m going to break his nose again!”

“I don’t know, Andrew, he said his younger sister hits harder than you.”

“REALLY?! That Canadian ass! I’m going to cream him tomorrow.”

“Alright alright, I just wanted to give you a heads up for tomorrow.”

“Thanks Austin.”

lumen 113 M M XI I

TUESDAY

The buzz about the big fight fills the sixth grade class with excitement, but Anthony, Austin, and Mark couldn’t care less; they had their mission. The tension that filled the classrooms was so thick that it could have been cut with a knife. Finally, lunch time, which meant forty minutes till recess, and the silence in the lunch room was deafening; everyone but the teachers knew it was going down at recess. The three boys could barely contain their excitement, but had to pretend to be interested in the upcoming fight at recess.

THE BELL RINGS – RECESS

Anthony, Austin, and Mark run out the door and bolt toward the basketball hoop and pretend to be interested in basketball until the fight breaks out.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” the students yell and form a circle around Rory and Andrew.

“You’re going down!” screamed Andrew.

“You wish!” yelled Rory.

The boys go at it in the most violent and gruesome manner; the rumble ensues.

“We have to do it now!” shrieked Austin.

“Alright, Anthony get ready!” Mark shouted.

Mark launched himself off Anthony’s back soon followed by Austin.

The hoop resembled rubber but still would not break.

“Start pulling, Anthony!” roared Austin.

Anthony began to pull with all his might, when finally, like a tooth being ripped out of a child’s mouth at the dentist the rim snapped off. The boys were ecstatic with excitement and turned around to show everyone what they had done. No one noticed since they were all obsessed with the fight. Mark then took the rim to the top of the jungle gym, held it above his head and started screaming, “freedom” at the top of his lungs for absolutely no reason.

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The fight had gotten so bad that the mother monitors had to run inside and grab the janitors to help pull the boys off each other. What started as a harmless school ground rumble turned into a bloody mess. Andrew had lost three adult teeth and been given a fat lip and a broken nose. Rory had a bloody nose, a broken wrist, and a gash on his forehead from when Andrew slammed him on the concrete.

“Oh my God,” said Austin.

“Uhhhh, we may be responsible for this,” said Mark.

“So what?! No one is going to know it was us,” said Anthony.

“I guess so,” said Mark.

“Plus we succeeded in the taking down the rim!” said Austin.

“Oh yeah!!!” screamed Mark.

WEDNESDAY

The next day at school no one seemed to notice that the rim was missing; in fact the hallways were filled with a more somber tone.

“Why does no one care about the rim?” asked Mark

“No idea. And why is everyone so sad. Did we miss something?” asked Austin.

Anthony had listened in on a conversation between two secretaries in the office, and learned that after the fight both boys’ families were called into school and evidently the parents got involved and a verbal argument broke out between the parents and principal.

The principal ended up expelling both Andrew and Rory.

“Was this our fault?” asked Austin.

“Yep,” said Mark.

Their happiness faded and was slowly returned with guilt.

lumen 115 M M XI I

J.A. MacDougall

Paper Moons

I am awake. I am awakened to thoughts of you as the anxiety and anticipation course their way through my body. Unable to return to sleep, overcome with the sensation of slipping on an endless sheet of ice. Over and again my body jolts itself back to life, dangling me above my bed in the darkest part of the night. Dawn’s twilight has yet to rear. I am not certain if you are the ice or the arms the hook and catch me before I plummet through the cracks into oblivion, nothingness. For now, crinkled paper moons are placed between the pages of paperbacks, stacked on top of another. To unfold them is to map the distance between now and a new beginning. A new morning and a new sinking moon with an old familiar feeling.

Amanda Stafford

laura palermo

116lumen MMXI I

self portrait in florence

Peeking In My Door Lying in my tiny bed, A few pages to read.

A kiss goodnight From Mom and Dad, Ready for sweet sleep.

Are my eyes playing tricks?

What did I see?

Deep breath, eyes closed.

Don’t look again.

Just fall asleep.

Glasses off, lights out.

About to close my eyes, but I Look to my door, See the hallway just a bit.

Now eyes open wide.

A head and shoulders, Nothing more, Peeking in my door.

A head and shoulders, Nothing more.

No face, no hair, no features.

In and out, in and out – Peeking in my door.

lumen 117 M M XI I

to mike Mary Nolte

When I was born and you were six, I stole your room and you were angry but I was too little to know the difference.

When I was four and you were ten, I made you teach me to play chess.

I heard you learned when you were two, and I needed to catch up.

When I was five and you were eleven, I stole your drawing off of the fridge and traced it so Mom and Dad would think I was a good artist too.

When I was ten and you were sixteen, I bought Football for Dummies so I could talk sports with you, and so you’d think I was cool.

video content only available on cd

When I was one and you were seven, We took this picture and I made a silly face, Just like you.

(2011)

lydia struble, Composer erik meyer, piano

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five variations on a theme

When I was sixteen and you were twenty-two, I complained about you hogging the remote But secretly, I loved watching shows with you.

lumen 119 M M XI I

The Flow of Things Mark Matash

I used to think Jack London was full of shit, a fat, drunken poser whose stories were false.

Getting lost and finding oneself in the wild was a concept that ended with Thoreau’s pulse.

Even then, Thoreau wasn’t a true seeker, constantly relying on others for his quest.

Chris McCandless was more my type of explorer, though his arrogance was what laid him to rest.

On an outing to a gorge, through a veil of heavy rain, I traveled along a stream, becoming more eager to explore.

From a steep ledge, the stream resembled a vein, I understand now that life exists outside the front door.

Civilized life has its perks over nature, but there is a desire for reunion within.

Now I see those men not so much as false, but as quitters or losers to the wild’s whim.

The path of that stream, from either a river or mountain, has a definite beginning and an end.

But looking out into the wild, into the flow of life itself, I’d leave everything behind and follow the stream’s every bend.

brittany werner

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Chelsea Schermerhorn

The Horse’s Advice The goose girl’s lips quivered as she wove her tresses into one strand gazing up at the dismembered horse head, mounted on the castle’s wall.

“Poor Falada,” she said, “I am such a dolt.

You hang there because of me while I wade through thick mud.

My stomach is empty, and people laugh at my ruined dress.

The maid proposed a switch, To which I should not have agreed.”

Contemplating her plight, the goose girl remembered the words of her mother right before she left: “Be considerate of your new husband, and always be a good wife.

You owe him all your loyalty.

Falada will guide you along.

Always confide in him; he’ll see to it that you’re safe.

Trust in his advice As you would trust in mine.”

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“Falada, what should I do?”

The goose girl cried to the horse.

“I took the maid’s advice; she claimed it a life of ease.

When we changed clothes, I felt free.

No husband could say to do this or that, nor father to do the same.

I could just sit in a field all day, in the sun and in soft grass.”

The horse head gazed down at the princess he had known.

“You were very foolish to think, you could escape your natural crown by tending geese in a field.

Your poor, dear mother would be disappointed if she knew that you’ve defied your father’s word.

“Your oath to the maid not to speak of this switch binds you tightly, I know.

You did not use your brain in this endeavor, but what can I say?

You were tricked.”

lumen 123 M M XI I

John Strong

Oblivious Beauty

Sincerity rushes from her lips like an uncontrollable flood, Perpetually destroying the pains built up in inside others.

It overflows the dams that hold back grudges and revenge, It leaves only serenity to flow freely without bounds.

Her exuberant actions burn in me like a raging wildfire, They incinerate the dry and stale feelings dwelling inside.

It sparks from the love in her heart and spreads without end, When I am dark she will always leave embers to warm my soul.

Her storming personality disrupts the sea of dullness engulfing me, It brews vivacious waves to strike the shores of my uncertainty.

Lost and pessimistic her gust of hope sails me towards happiness.

The vast emotions turn the tide of my desperation, leaving tranquility.

She’s not daunted by the confines set up for her by fabricated sources, Her eyes are unaware of all the vices present in people’s lives.

Whispers of animosity don’t reach her compliant ears, In light of my incredulous mind, she is an Oblivious Beauty.

rachel playso

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Rain, Reeds, and Moses Paige Gelsimino

Now I am Moses, parting the reeds and wondering why this is so familiar, still not knowing who I am.

Maybe I’m a bird like the cardinal who still chatters and preens even with me there beside him.

Maybe you, who doesn’t see a thing, are the cardinal and I am the sparrow.

We fly through shafts of waterfalls, breathing the musty leaves.

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hannah metzger

Now we smell like the earth and the withering death of fall.

I look to the sky, mouth open, and taste it.

The clouds and rain love me more than the sun.

You taste it, too, and taste me as well.

You breathe it all in beside me until we are the rain the leaves the birds the reeds.

peanuts lumen 127 M M XI I

Paean Sarah Price

Willows are a pale drift, an up-shouldering of lapsing leaves.

The sound of water is loud.

In coppice, they lack, and know it, unknowingly desire “whole.�

So they gather red and purple willow wands off wiry moss, from susurrus grass.

One may part soughing stems to tug orange lashes from the thick of subtly edged reeds where soil is damp, wings glint and the gaze is level with the downy catkins in light and shadow motley.

Green flesh turns on the warm rock, bark minutely fracturing, so it can be bent, split and crossed arced up to form the spokes of legs, the warp and weft of long flanks, prehensile limbs: forms seemly shaded and supple, for all that their joints are delicately knobbed, their necks symmetrically ribbed.

But no one seeks the water heard, but listen and affix patterned tongues that they may make the sound of water and no longer rustle, but murmur, approaching words.

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leeann stromyer

They weave each other, having once begun, wrapping themselves in straining, earthen ripple and letting the folding over and under dipping of boughs lend structure to their grasping so that whorled feet may bestir webs shining across old roots and upward twining calves may creak in the cool winding of the grey day.

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The Dream Weaver The Letter I Wrote

Keven Gregg

Eithne Amos matthew adamczyk

130lumen MMXI I

urban decay

Sing me a sweet memory, Sit and watch the stars.

The dark surrounds the icéd moon, Blankets all the children As the earth mother puzzles the caress Of shag carpet on her soul, While her sister on winged draft Weaves constellations.

Pondering Orion Framed in the dreamcatcher’s jagged center, All that breathes sits half-awake Bathed in jar of night unfocused, Taking refrigerated moonlight In blessed ignorance for now.

And the dream weaver toils away, Racing creeping eastern glow; She shoots her brood a knowing look As they race away from the solar curtain rising.

The many worlds are exposed, infinite; They smile as they survey their work.

The letter I wrote is in the river, Words senseless doubtless now You never write, though everyone promised But I was a child, I didn’t know then At suppertime you called us in To sit still and eat Outside the swings swung empty Inside a loud voice in the hall Was strange, and we would have been afraid If everything weren’t already out of order Inside your legs took up the room Big and purple and green they stretched From window to door So big we had to stand outside And your face was too far away I’m told you’re me and I’m you and we are Alike and I look like you the most, yet You seem to me so very far away Inside they come as you go And now I think I am gone, too

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megan fellow

felicia sandino

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on women and their issues study of light

urban design lumen 133 M M XI I

audio content only available on cd

ian gayford

shane mccabe

theme and variations in d minor (2011)

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ceramic bust of shane mccabe

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Lovely Cigarette Chris Boles

A charcoal skull, stared you down the first time your eyes opened.

A dusty worn flannel as unkempt as your beard said you were broken.

A lustful grin noted nothing mattered, inside the words spoken.

Your pupils, filled with permanent ink as cellophane covers the sky….

It’ll make your head bleed, your skin turn black and your throat run dry, but you still need it resting between your lips.

You’re exhaling a melancholy grey, staining the light, our sun, which follows you like heaven.

You breathe dark soot upon those who care; all that loves you burns to ash…

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