:( inklings spring2013
inklings miami university’s undergraduate magazine of art and letters issue 16, volume 2 spring 2013
staff catherine wagner faculty advisor cecilia stelzer scarlett minnie sloane fuller emily conklin julia munro nicole smith kaan koseler eric lee katie ogle evan geist sarah kruse tara keesling taylor mcbroom
editor asst. editor & business manager art director & graphic designer writing director social media coordinator events coordinator interviews officer editorial assistants sarah vito kaitlin kaiser alexandra rice ryanaustin dennis rianne vandervoort
contents | writing soojung hur 12 k.k. 16 emily conklin 19
i’m not nice :( you should use all your fingers to type the night i pissed on president hodge’s house molars
aaron smiegieski 20 silently turning milk fell into the egg crate erin maxwell 22 meridian brian sopher 23 reticence still kaan koseler 25 how we are marigolds deathfucker a guide to understanding the universe… poem title cecilia stelzer 29 untitled (boys ask me…) sloane fuller 30 actual okcupid messages i didn’t respond to kaitlin kaiser 32 winter cold untitled (he is not alive…) julia munro 34 traveler summer heat james cox 36 back in the day courtney katzmeyer 37
a community
evan geist 38 burns’ keeping morgan o’banion 39 lead and follow max medert 40 denial laura hower 41
wind, leaves and dirty grounds visual filtrations
writing | contents the facts 43 tammy atha riding building
just a moth 46 sarah kruse vigilance angeles del toro
these parts of you 50 anna humenik
dead hostages 52 alexander cintron reigning untitled (there were…) something out of the ordinary a writer’s best friend
john/jihad 57 ryanaustin dennis karen roger lovesong
redeeming lacerations 64 dani barto are static, the curtains les yeux shaken not stirred mold burn
september lights 78 71 megan caldwell
i told you so 72 jennifer thomas
the neighbor 74 tristan ramsey
i eat men like sylvia 75 tara keesling untitled (will i grow taller…) 76 eric lee untitled (911…) my man, who is so good to me 78 sarah vito to class infected cut on left index finger
contents | art susan kosek cavalaris 82
beauty and the beast time dissolves melpomene
sloane fuller 85
untitled grain mill seine-side
yuto toyama 88
tokyo walkways colorado nightlife
lauren o’connor 90 vincent turpin 92
to the moon and back... sailing the seven seas the secret fortress night shadow eyes waiting
allison dauw 96
turquoise
leah coleman 97
hazel
blake stanford 99 carlton kutz 99
untitled marie’s 911 historic toledo
madeleine connolly 102 fish through glass the fragile wake a rose crossing mariah hines 105 untitled brian sopher 106 fences adagio for surplus value
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art | contents juxtaposition 108 maria bee flow 109 lauren kiedaisch contact cleaner earwax eradicator photobomber peek-a-boo incoming house copycat a stranger kiss friday night sink a sense of helplessness
110 michael norris 112 kellyn czajkowski 115 ben swofford 116 rianne vandervoort 117 elizabeth (biz) young 118 ashley ceroli
follet’s 120 kristen uhl me in my place 121 kirsten ledbetter figs no head city folk 124 sarah kruse cascade/vaccuum 125 colin matsumoto untitled untitled abendbrot 128 scarlett minnie
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i’m not nice :( soojung hur
1. it’s in the morning… not every morning because i don’t see him every morning but i want to say once every two weeks. i will be in the kitchen because i was little then and i would never wake up after ten. i couldn’t sleep past ten, so usually like a weekend morning because you don’t go to school. and i would go to the kitchen and there is this little tv in the kitchen and i would watch the news. well when i was little i thought the news were so interesting because there was the guy who would say ‘oh someone shot someone because they are from a bad neighborhood etc etc’ and then on the right side or left side there would be that box that would show that motion in a picture or small animation what he is talking about. and i thought that was equivalent to a cartoon. adults like you when you are watching news not cartoons so i thought i’ll watch news instead of cartoons and make everyone happy. so i’ll be watching the news and i’m pretty sure this isn’t a perfect memory…what i gather from it is too sparkly, it’s like too sunny. it’s april, like the perfect day to have a wedding, and there’s always a huge window, i don’t even remember how big the window is but it makes you want to sing ‘i’m walking on sunshine.’ so i’m sitting on the kitchen counter and he comes in and he’s wearing a grey stretch out shirt so it’s not even sexy, it’s like something you would wear when painting a house or something. and his hair is all ruffled, but i know that now i think about it he probably hadn’t showered because his hair is all messed up and his face is literally like this -__- but his hand knows where the coffee is where the honey is and he will just mix and match his perfect blend of coffee and stir it with a metal spoon and wait are you ready for it? it’s my favorite part. before he throws his spoon in the sink he lets me lick it. 2. it was always winter when i met him, because the time period was always winter. i don’t know if it was december, january, february, i can’t remember what month it was i mean the point is it was cold. and we like plays. there’s this ticket box place and it’s a small space and people can’t really wait inside so they buy tickets and wait outside and it was my 4th time. and i’m late, about 45 minutes late, because i was horrible and i was just late. and i think about that now, it’s unforgiveable like if that happened to me or it happened to somebody i know i’ll be sad and mad. but i did that because i’m horrible. i’ll just run up and say ‘i’m so sorry boo hoo i’m horrible’ and i’ll be crying and i’ll pout my lips and put my eyebrows together as much as possible. but he’ll just shrug and be like ‘oh you didn’t have to run’ or ‘oh i didn’t have to wait that long’ or something kind… but the thing is i knew he waited a long time because his face was all red like about to explode from cold and i didn’t actually
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soojung hur | i’m not nice :(
run i just ran from like 5 feet away because i wanted to make it seem like i ran. and i was sorry, i guess i wasn’t thinking. i guess i wasn’t sorry then but i’m sorry now. so that was like my fourth time, by the third time i just figured that he would never get mad. so i became this horrible person haha because he pretended as if it never happened. and i know that it’s totally my fault, i should be punished, please slap me with a wet noodle and all that stuff. but he shouldn’t have let it pass, he should’ve said something. it’s like that one story where that kid stole an egg from a seagull and his mom is like ‘oh great i’m gonna make you some eggs’ and then he thinks it’s okay and he keeps stealing more stuff and later on he goes to jail and before he gets executed he’s like ‘mom why didn’t you stop me.’ the kid is the bad kid and the mom really didn’t do anything wrong but the moral of the story is that you should tell people when they are doing wrong. i’m not saying i did anything right but i’m not saying that he was a perfect angel either, which leads to this day: it was warmer outside…i was waiting indoors and he was 15 minutes late and he ran inside sweat over his brow huffing and puffing and was like ‘omg i’m so sorry i’m horrible ahhhh’ but like i’ve mentioned so many times before i’m horrible so i never talked to him. he tried so hard but i didn’t even look at him. and he will be like ‘omg i’m so terrible i’m horrible i’m the worst person in the world i should be hit by a train, be kidnapped as a child and fall to my death like they do in temple run’ and he’ll look really sorry and pout with the eyebrow thing. and i still wouldn’t flinch because i know what that trick is i’ve played that so many times, but of course he is different because he is actually sorry. but i still didn’t say a word finally he’ll say in a really really really desperate and soft and most caring voice possible ‘is there anything i can do is there anything to make you be not like this’ and i told him ‘there’s nothing you can do’… because he did everything that he could do and i’m horrible.
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you should use all your fingers to type soojung hur
first i had a dream last night i changed my major and this was like 30 years fast forward into the future and i was a psychologist and i was consulting this little boy and he had blue hair, i just made that part up i just wanted him to have blue hair, and his name was jimmy. okay this was for real, my dream last night he told me that he sleeps with his dog and he lays his ear next to his dog’s stomach because he wants to hear his heartbeat, because he was there when his mom died and he was there, and then uhm he heard her heart beat fade out like stop and so he’s paranoid now that when he sees like a sleeping thing it’s gonna die. and i told him that’s very rare but if it happens again then you witness something very rare twice. there was this one dream that i had once but it was a couple months ago but i remember because there was this really cute guy, i can’t really remember his face or what he looked like, which is kind of defeating the purpose i guess, but i remember he was cute. and not like cute like i have a crush on someone in my english class or calculus class when i’m a freshman or something but handsome i guess like my geology teacher he was really really really really handsome. he wasn’t special looking or anything but he looked sharp like one of those guys that space out while they ride taxis and like spacing out to what is happening outside the window but inside he is thinking about something he doesn’t want anyone to think about, he’s that kind of guy. that’s the kind of guy i think is really handsome and just want to i guess in my free time imagine myself with like my geology teacher last year. anyway he was married so i didn’t pursue any actions or anything. anyway back to my dream he and i was on a bus and i was sitting in front of the bus and he was sitting more toward the back and the bus was really colorful and it was raining. and he said hey hey have you noticed nobody is driving this bus but it is moving and i said yeah that’s weird which is really in real life if it did happen it’s really weird, almost impossible. i didn’t care who was driving the bus or who wasn’t in this case because he was talking to me. haha he was cute. it’s really weird wait don’t say weird i said weird too much, it was really funny, yeah kind of funny don’t laugh at me i love it when a sharp guy over 30 talks to me. i do. like one of those handsome guys that i described earlier. not any guy over thirty, it has to be one of those guys. i don’t know when i started to think like this, when i was younger i thought it was gross but i think since my geology teacher and maybe a little before, i don’t know but i thought it was okay and i really like it, but i still can’t remember his face. there was this one dream where i woke up crying i was around maybe ten maybe before. but i feel like 10 year olds are really mature after you’re ten you’re not cute
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soojung hur | you should use all your fingers to type
anymore. the point is i was ten when i was dreaming this, really the core of it was i was watching the movie the mummy, the movie with bugs that eat people wrapped in toilet paper. and i remember it was really scary, the bad guy from the movie, i don’t really really remember, but i think that there was a guy and he loved someone that he wasn’t supposed to and someone else got mad and then killed him with the blue beetles, they were really pretty but they crawled. and so like a century or 2 later he wakes up and he does scary stuff that scares everyone but really like that bad guy was trying to get the girl was what i was understanding from it, because he really missed his lover so much. i mean he is evil for trying to kill the main character and take his girl but it’s not his fault, he’s cursed and i really wish that the girl that kept screaming ‘ah help me he’s gunna eat my face’ to just chill out because he’s not going to eat your face he just wants to love you. because he misses his first love who he was happy with but they couldn’t be together because someone more evil than him separated them. maybe at that point he just needs someone to hear him out instead of like screaming your face off. i mean that actress is pretty but she’s not that pretty when she’s screaming. however that evil mummy loves you just the same. uhm, i don’t really remember how they defeated that mummy guy but if think that basically they killed them is what happened. if the main character just put himself in the mummies’ shoes or bandaids and realize how much pain that this guy went through for one girl where nowadays there isn’t a guy that would go through that pain for one girl. you know that all bad characters in stories are really just perfect romantics i guess. i guess somebody could say they have a really bad life there’s more to like than just a girl. but i think that all he needed was just someone to listen to him and say ‘man i thought that you were evil but the person that did this to you is even more evil. so you shouldn’t be hated the most.’ so back to my dream, those bugs kept crawling on my legs and made me wake up i guess and when i opened my eyes my room was dark and i didn’t want to move because i thought the mummy was in my room and if i move he’ll know i’m here and he’ll eat me. and i swear there was something under all the furnitures. so i would like run to my uncle’s room wait don’t say run because i would like climb there, like go up on my desk because i didn’t want to touch the floor. i would go on my chairs and dresser, i would run to my uncles room and he would be like ‘oh, you can’t sleep to you’re too scared from the movie ooo’ and make fun of me and i would say ‘no i can’t sleep cause it’s too hot.’ but i really was scared, i really was.
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the night i pissed on president hodge’s house k.k.
There are four young men on their haunches on a small lawn next to the road. It is night. The darkness is coarse and beautiful and sweet. They are all staring at the house across the street. The men are silent as a police cruiser drives by. The rather rotund cop in its driver’s seat is listening to Garth Brooks and hoping that his wife will give him head when he goes home. When the cruiser has passed out of sight the men scan the road once more. In either direction there is only silence and the looming task. As they cross the road one of them exclaims “yeah buddy” and one of the men slaps him on the back of the head and tells him to shut the fuck up. All of them are tittering and anxious. When the four are all over the road they are met by a fence of a white picket disposition. This fence is short enough for the men to hop it with ease. One naturally questions this fence’s purpose. The lawn is wet and sharp, a byproduct of careful maintenance and an automatic watering system. The men make their way across and to the side of the house. They position themselves underneath a dark window as previously planned. The sound of zippers can be heard.
* *
You are a young man and you find yourself pissing on the house purportedly belonging to the president of your university. His name is David Hodge. Your name is not. You are looking at your stream of urine and proud of its remarkable force. You shiver and realize how cold it is. It reminds you of waking up in the morning and how cold the toilet seat feels on your ass. You look to your sides and your friends are there with their dicks in their hands and their breath comes out in a half-hearted fog and reminds you of the fine mist that comes from a bottle of windex and this reminds you of your mother cleaning the house and this reminds you how proud she is of her son. You wonder how you got here. Your stomach growls slightly and you think about ordering pizza when/if you get back to your room. You think about that girl you met at the party on saturday and how her eyebrows would raise themselves slightly whenever she took a drink. You think about having sex with her and your probable inability to contain your laughter or sustain
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k.k. | the night i pissed on president hodge’s house
your erection if she raises her eyebrows in this manner when you first enter her. You think about your roommate and his aversion to taking out the trash as well as his inability to sing or play guitar well. You remember that you have an assignment due tomorrow in your statistics class. You sigh in relief when you are done pissing.
* *
DAVID: fuck yeah. that was awesome. THOM: i’m surprised we didn’t get caught. K.K.: nah dude no chance. THOM: the fuck are you talking about? K.K.: i mean, we took precautions and shit. DAVID: yeah word. that’s why we wore black clothes. THOM: that’s true. K.K.: yo david lemme see the map? DAVID: i got you, give me a sec. BRIAN: am I the only one with a racing heart right now? what the fuck, like, how did we just do that? THOM: we just went over this dude we’re pro as fuck. DAVID: yeah K.K. here’s the map. [David gives K.K. a folded and well-used map. It displays buildings on and around the campus of Miami University, with various x’s drawn over some of the buildings] K.K.: good looks. BRIAN: what have we hit so far? K.K.: well we got farmer last night. other than that, uhh, pearson shriver king dennison from the roof of erickson bell tower pulley tower goggin and the rec. BRIAN: sounds pretty good. you guys wanna go pack a bowl? i just picked up an eighth. THOM: aighttttttttt. that’s what’s up.
* *
We pass the bowl around a few times. David, Brian, Thom, and I are in peffer park. Once again we are on a lawn looking at the road and checking for police. But there’s no house to piss on this time which does make me a little sad
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the night i pissed on president hodge’s house | k.k.
because that was honestly really fun. If you’re ever bored on a wednesday night at like 3 in the morning I suggest you call your friends, drink a lot of Arizona Iced Tea, and see where the night takes you. The edges of my vision are corrupting now sorta like how youtube gets really pixelated sometimes. but it’s a good feeling. pretty soon i’ll be hungry and order some papa johns. the pizza though, not a bunch of guys named papa john lol like hey guys come on in. it’s bullshit pizza though because the guy is not even italian and he’s not old either so like what qualifications do you have to be a papa. i think his name is john though so that’s good. just looked up where he’s from on my phone and he’s from fucking indiana since when is indiana a place where italian guys nicknamed papa live who make great pizza maybe if he lives near chicago though hold on a sec.........god he’s from south indiana like seriously dude what a fucking premise for your billion-dollar business but I still love pizza so whatevs. what is love. baby don’t hurt me what a profound song man it’s all about freedom and we are so free here in these woods and I can see the great expanse of america in this river and the waves look like little creases oh my god and they are partitioned like great rivulets what a tapestry it’s like woven into the water and each segment is us you me us americans at this juncture we are stooping david brian thom and me we are stooping on the edge of the river and cupping this water in our hands this precious mixture we are cupping and our throats are parched we must slake our only desire my brothers i love them
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molars
emily conklin
By the time the waitress brings the ice water I’ve forgotten the name of the restaurant. The menu says Mexican-American. But how much of each? I want percentages, I might say, half-joking, and is that an authentic calculation? You order red meat and pull out a cigarette, tuck it behind your ear like an exit strategy. Meanwhile, the baby by the bar begins to cry– gnashing her gums over the din of house techno and tongues sweating sympathetically with the pool of melting glasses. Looking down, it’s then that I notice how almost-perfectly spherical the ice is, like teeth. Like floating molars. I tell you this, but the music stifles the words. There’s always some kind of music. You lean in, but not by intrigue. “How morbid!” I shout.
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silently turning aaron smiegieski
Lightning crashed like an ember on fire. I watched it burn out as our evening retired. Those dark rain clouds rolling like shivers down my spine, I like to think that’s why my bones are all rattled and my eyes are dry. Raindrops falling and hitting my shins, sometimes I think about what teardrops might bring. Lightning crashed and my eardrums exploded, the sadness in my teeth quickly eroded. This porch makes me think about old age and marriage. I look forward mostly to silently staring into my wife’s eyes as lightning is burning, night turns to day and the seasons are turning. I need a woman who likes to eat bread crust, I need a car that is entirely red rust, I’ll fix it up new when my wife is down sleeping, I’ll start up a life of labor turned reaping. All this I thought as lightning was burning, I remembered the seasons silently turning.
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milk fell into the egg crate aaron smiegieski
Milk’s in the kitchen and the jury’s still out on Pilate and his fate, arguing it ain’t changing the fact that I need a new stabilizer bar in my jeep. so let’s forget about it for a second and just count our blessings. Well I found half a zippo at work today, maybe if I had the other half I’d get it all shined up and working again, but then again probably not. I prefer eggs to milk in all honesty I’d probably have a poultry farm instead of a dairy. I’m bored. This poem sucks but I’ll keep writing it to hold up my spirits like the sun was rising over Middletown today and I got to see it, I rose up and fell into the champagne thoughts of a young man on the verge, uh huh sounds like something I would a’ said to old Whitsell, he’s in St. Louis now and I’m sitting here contemplating radiohead through the speakers of my computer. Hello hairy hiplers, hallelujah jalepenos or however it’s spelled. Leave me be I’m tired, sometimes I don’t care much for speaking, sometimes I make calls to put bread on the table, sometimes I study things I don’t like to impress my father. Sometimes I overcomplicate the simple matters of carving out a living. Sometimes I miss being little, sometimes I can’t wait to be older. Sometimes I get scared of the dark, sometimes I get very nervous and throw up a little in my mouth. Sometimes I say things I don’t mean and make plans I don’t keep. Sometimes I am overdramatic. Sometimes I lose heart, but I always try to get over that real quick and pick back up. Always I get back up. At least so far anyways. Did you learn anything new?
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meridian
erin maxwell
Alabaster sandwiches Purred Softly in the breeze Stray cats Abandoned Filling the boardwalk Like cake batter, the heat Thick Her perfume lingering Modestly Tissue paper, of the sky Its notes Whispering gasps Upon his face Lingering Sweat beads Caught In a dream Burying Milky thoughts.
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reticence
brian sopher
The reticence of time, if a lie, is a lighter feather than most; trembling at every pulse that in its gray sky falls to its feet. And where we stand, between two skies that through their teeth have given every truth to the trees that tear them, what light we hold is the farce of a building folding inward – the last lights of voices throbbing, coarse brays dissolved in smog, shrill loss congealed in a thick, gray haze that only in streetlamps is the hum of hopeless time – lifeless and red – which cannot escape the gaze of the jar in which it sleeps.
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still
brian sopher
Each grain of each hour is lost in a hall of its own desire. And in each moon, to which sleep comes, only there it is most lost, looking from each window at a row of trees through which the hazel sun has not yet set – which, in its calm, has not yet held all that each hours grants. And so the hour sulks back to a minute, to the shaking breath that holds itself still in a corner room, two windows holding the auburn light which, in every pulse of dust, must hold the thirst it loathes.
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how we are marigolds kaan koseler
We are beside ourselves and in tact though buxom faces frankly don’t titillate you anymore And the drawers are frowning at the sight of you running a razor blade over the mirror hoping to catch its glass shavings for your sunday stew even though they are not ideal and do not smell like what you thought glass would smell like the clean quartzy fact of it and instead it is somewhat close to the smell of the freshly polished speculum from which the gyno ascertained you will never fulfill what is expected of you And this is something new you are you and can never be anything but solitary you frantically dabbing at the ben and jerrys when it slides onto your new blouse from walmart and you cry because this was the expensive ice cream while you spend the rest of the night rubbing deodorant on the floor muttering to yourself that these are both useful things that you have rendered useless through your feeble hands and that this is all you will ever do
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deathfucker kaan koseler
Sweetheart you are a velvet confection maraschino cherry A kind like the milkshake mom bought me when I turned 13 and told me that my father is cloying and overrated. So naturally we are on the pier tickling each other’s bellies and staring at fat people’s legs when we get bored. These are my favorite times when our arms are pretzels they are preferable anyway to trying to stop my brother from masturbating when The Voice comes on. Your loins, under my purview.
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a guide to understanding the universe wherein our protagonist is tossed fore and aft by churlish characters much to his consternation: a 21st century metaphysical exploration of post-modernism, new sincerity, and the ironic comeback; or stop trying to make fetch happen: a feminist critique of dadaism and the wholly quixotic patriarchal notion of supplication in the fields of epistemology and psychophysics, with a framework for the discussion of the increasing celerity of the contemporaneous world kaan koseler
Just remember the three key questions: What is your name? Where are you from? Do you even lift?
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poem title kaan koseler
Let us take and take we are stirring the pulpit with venerable words we sift through caches with green blinders on and immolate all other states we scoop our eyes with a rusty teaspoon and nourish ourselves with the silly putty filling left resting on the rust we are sad that fine window mesh friendship is straining to shield itself from the cauliflower dandruff drifting drifting from the sky we are reading shitty poems with images that leave us wan and unsatisfied with sand in our hearts we are thinking this isn’t much better we are pulling our hair back so sleek and sharp in voluminous ponytails that make our lovers happy though we are altogether unsettled on both matters we are plying our trade by the coast with ardor carved in our jowls and a child’s crying in the space between our holy sinew we are brewing tea in cemeteries waiting for the sun to go down
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untitled
cecilia stelzer
boys ask me to write poems in the bathtub they want poems to be sexual and i think we both want to disgust them i want to smell their bellybuttons until they hate me we have to pick the people we want to feel the ends of our hair let’s go online shopping together let’s google our bmi
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actual okcupid messages i didn’t respond to sloane fuller
JustTrey3: Hey, I came across your profile and thought you had a great set of pics. Amazing smile, and those eyes flat out pop off the screen. Plus I am a sucker for an outgoing woman. Drop me a line if you ever want to chat. I hope you and yours had a great weekend Jdm08: Hey! :-) wanna have fun? :-) ledheadmbf: What happened when the two peanuts walked down the dark alley? One was assaulted (a salted). Lol nadler20: Would you like to have sex? I’ll get you so wet and eat you out real good Tenebrio: You know evolutionary theory is supported by a mountain of evidence and creationism is just a hamfisted critique of that theory based on theology and contains nothing of rigor or fact and therefore has no place in public science classrooms, right? gratefulman25: hi im jon. think you are really cute. would love to talk with you and get to know you intimately. take a look at my profile and let me know if your interested 8stewie8: Hey hey pretty lady Woryk: Youre so tall!! Im only 9 inches tall :( justforfun8485: i would love to make u moan with my big thick cock sexy Batmans_Parents: I’m not interesting and I’m not intelligent. Can we still talk? Its_Lou: hey theree, so if i had a nickel for everytime i saw someone as beautiful as you, i’d have five cents (: haha, i’m done being lame though, i’m lou, whats up? houstonb12: Ur rlly cute
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sloane fuller | actual okcupid messages i didn’t respond to
mbrandon84: Hey how’s it goin? I checked out your profile and you seem like someone I’d like to get to know so message me back if your interested dwaine20: Hey i know u dont know me but my name is dwaine and im new to all this and but i just wanted to say believe it or not but your the most beautiful girl i have ever seen but i just wanted u to know that and given the opportunity i would come half across the city to tell u that in person but yea sorry to bother u MrMaffew: so…. ;] im looking for an extremly kinky girl ;] hopefully that = you <3 im ur bitch ;] *gets on my knees* SexyFunHamilton: Hey gorgous zimm4487: umm sit in my face maybe? TDFLYERasaurus: Animal Collective is amazing when you hang out with Lucy smurfettengrumpy: Hey there Jaime and David here just seeing if u would like to chat with a couple and see were it could go if so check us out and let us no atlas13721: You know I’m so interesting that I once drank a Dos Equis. As for intelligent I graduated from the prestigious institution you are attending so you decide! lol
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winter cold kaitlin kaiser
His lips, perpetually sticky from menthol cough drops he ate like candy. His breath, the sweet stench of rotting flesh, and the insides of his cheeks felt withered and wrinkly and she ran her tongue over them. The corners of his mouth cradled the grime that comes when you put on too much chapstick and his fingers fumbled over belt loops and buttons and breasts.
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untitled
kaitlin kaiser
He is not alive, he is not well. And the make-up on his face did not cover the swelling, only his mustache. And the old cotton sweatshirt could not hide that his chest was caved in. â&#x20AC;&#x153;He always had the most beautiful eyelashes. So long.â&#x20AC;?
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traveler
julia munro
The train brakes echoed the way a cold soul whistles, to warm the gap in his teeth. The thirteen cars, each with eight wheels and sixteen windows, turned echo into song. Even the birds stopped and listened.
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summer heat julia munro
Your smile is fuzzy. Blurred, like the way letters in old books smear around when you touch them with hot finger tips and blend the ink with paper. Or maybe itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the temperature. You never really smile unless itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cold.
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back in the day james cox
When the kids were 7, the tiny grown-ups inside of them took over. When Jacob and Johnny and Susi were out back playing house. And Jacob put on a black felt mustache, and Susi put a mud pie in the plastic oven, and Johnny connected dots near the porch, scolding the cat for meowing too much. Something shifted in the air; maybe the wind changed directions or the grass became a little too dry. Yet, faster than the oven’s timer or even a dropped pencil to the wooden floor, it happened. Susi withdrew her pie, and Jacob couldn’t take his mustache off, and his cell phone buzzed while he fumbled in the kitchen. But he couldn’t hear Johnny’s “you’re late” call over the screeching secretary in the background. And Susi turned to Jacob and told him he better head out if he hoped to beat the traffic, so he scratched his belly saying, “I’m too old for this.”
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a community
courtney katzmeyer
The groupâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pseudo-logical existence of indispensable togetherness Created a horizon of possibilities that transgresses the rules With treacherous smoothness and the tone of a fairy tale. They show its darkest side with implicit condemnation, Creating phantasms of sentimental participation as contradictory forces coalesce. They set up their tents on porous partitions, With occasional longing for the usual, the ordinary. And, dancing in a ring, they rose to heaven, The colors they had shown pointing inward and outward, Revealing the cruel mechanism behind this seemingly natural cohesion.
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burnsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; keeping evan geist
â&#x20AC;&#x153;i am the amalgamation of an infinite number of universes.â&#x20AC;? billions of bees moving in golem unison. the hive-mind of cells makes a monstrous fist. scatters. keep scarab-time, sentry for the centuries, with colossal cogs of immense density condensed to the modicum. your irrevocable buzz unravels the infinitesimal into a myriad of deviation, and even a single tear betrays the intricate genocide. better to let sleeping giants lie. i was stung by a dream bee; it hurt in reality.
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lead and follow morgan o’banion
She wasn’t one for knitting. Give her a needle and thread and she would probably poke your eyes and tangle the thread around your throat. Her hair is short and the color of your grandmother’s coffee table. She sits in the corner of the classroom and stares at the ceiling as she eats the peels off oranges. She is not the kind of girl you think about living with because you know she’ll end up leaving unexpectedly one afternoon. But she was someone you couldn’t forget and someone you often found yourself staying up until 3:27 in the morning writing about. And while you’re well aware that she will lead you straight to Hell, you will still follow her anyways.
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denial
max medert
Â
Subject: A Young Girl Seated on a Ledge (1899) by W. Bouguereau Despite her daft speech, Margot was skilled with her hands and knew exactly how to bounce the yellow orb her father had given her. It had been a year since he had gone abroad, watched a war, and come home with a noose wrapped tightly around his thoughts â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and later his neck. But this didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop Margot. She ran around the house bouncing her ball. Up the stairs, down the hallway, and through the parlor she lurched. Each bounce seemed to pull from her a breathless murmur, a plea for his soul. In June the maid left the window open in the parlor, letting the air in and the ball out. It endured gravity for a few paces and then relented to the force. Margot snatched it from the earth and paused. Then, realizing it had given up, she did so too.
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wind, leaves and dirty grounds laura hower
Women stare out of their windows. Wind? Oh. It slaps me in the face with a stick and I realize just how bad this storm is going to get. [You trade company for sleep] The wind heaves leaves the sky, a black smear of ink and to think, I’m going to sink this low. [You trade lust for love] The pace quickens, the sky thickens and I am almost there. Lungs begin to strain— for breath, bereft [You trade sex for sanity] SHUT UP It’s up to me what I do with my life! Escape the wind, reach behind my bag for an inhaler. It’s not there.
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visual filtrations laura hower
The ground is gathered and waves of it crest and flow into a hill The trees stand, awkwardly naked against the bold Red stone of their backdrop They are truly, irrevocably unsightly. Or perhaps the brown film before my lonely blues Filters them ugly, filters them stripped, despaired, Alone For one can see that even at their homeliest The squirrels still hug at them with clingy claws And thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s something, no?
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the facts
tammy atha
The facts : A house is gusted to bits The front side blown out the back Power lines down houses submerged in ocean knobs of dead animals resting the new shoreline (re)geography.
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riding
tammy atha
Luck was rid of his clover Heat from leather seats pressed on skin & knees spinning wheels driversâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; seat The old buick Windows down breeze in yelling at a passer-by. Remember the old mingus records played until the needle broke? I called the sound inferior But Luck didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t mind That scratch it kind of grew a fly following buzzing a hum in ear.
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She placed herself down on the ground &looked up. It’s hard not feeling like you’re being Smashed.
As she focused upwards& saw the sky scrapers flirting with the clouds. It’s hard not feeling small you know? I know what you mean I replied
She said
they build buildings so tall these days
buildings
tammy atha
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just a moth sarah kruse
The tea pot was placed on the table as precariously as one tosses unclaimed boots, simultaneously clammy and sloppy next to the front door. The mat says “Welcome” but I am careful not to step on it with wet socks to avoid getting yelled at. I am hugged with one stiff arm as I passed through the door but I did not feel truly welcome until I was greeted with these words, “So dear, how’s the poultry?” She passed steaming hot yet still freezer-burnt muffins into my hands. I set them on the table next to the puddled tea pot and a large red candle. I never felt welcome in this house until Auntie started yelling imploringly about my life. “Umm, I’m suffering from a bit of writer’s block right now and I’m struggling with my verse.” I noticed a moth batting itself against the ceiling. Auntie had yet to notice it otherwise she would be screaming. “Well, have some cantaloop. I was just talking with Aida down at the Lamosa and I told her, Aida-whenever I’m constipated I eat cantaloop and it passes” “But” “And she tried it and now she swears by it you know there is nothing better you can naturally do to get rid of a blockturation” The fact she mistook my mental block for constipation fell into the category of a common misconception. It isn’t that she is dumb; she just does not hear what anyone says because she would rather listen to herself. I did not respond but continued to be distracted by the plight of the moth, now plinking against a light bulb. It was now announcing itself in flickers alternating between faint and grandiose on the off white walls. I fear that in a matter of moments Auntie is bound to notice it but for now she is distracted by pulling apart her blueberry muffin with her fingers. “The problem with my poetry is that I am having trouble conveying the emotions that I want in an honest manner. It seems that the more effort I put into being sincere the cornier my verse sounds” “Corny! God, I will go cut up a melon right now. It will pass dear,” with a flourish she turned and in her preoccupation did not see the shadow of the moth looming in the corner. “Don’t think I would ever turn my hair to anyone’s problems.” Impaled on the end of my fork was the soon to be first bite of my muffin. The blueberries were still frozen and the thought of thawing them out over the red scented candle in the center of the table briefly crossed my mind.
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sarah kruse | just a moth
I glanced up to witness Auntie cutting the cantaloupe with a butter knife. She took a skewed opinion to every sort of situation, whether social or in her cutlery decisions. I knew there was a sharper knife in the drawer but attention to detail was not her strong suite. “Do you want me to help with that?” I ventured, “I am taller so I might have better leverage”. She didn’t hear me over her strained grunts of effort. The sounds were small and needy in the way that a child might exasperate right before throwing a temper tantrum. Without further inquiry I returned my muffin laden fork on the table and lay my napkin over it- unnecessary protection from the still looming moth. My fingers were deft enough to force their way into the butter knifed incision in the rind and crack the melon in half. Once that was achieved, I saw that the melon was ripe enough that the flesh would off easily and without the battle of convincing Auntie that I needed a sharper knife. Having been saved from hard labor Auntie could continue her spiels, “Did you know I turned on the television the other day to see Oprah but instead it was some Lolly Dama. I almost didn’t watch it but god, what a funny little man!” This caught my interest and I stopped cutting to look up at her, “Auntie, did he say anything about the self-immolations?” She grabbed a piece of melon from the bowl that I had set aside for myself, “What, immunization? No, the doctor show that I watch comes on Wednesday mornings. Arthritis was the topic this week. God, wait til you develop that” “No, Auntie, did the Dali Lama talk about the self-immolations and about Tibet?” “Tibet?” She smiled condescendingly at me and she grabbed a piece of melon out of the serving bowl, “Oh honey, don’t you know the Lolly Dolly is the Chinese Pope? With all the internet you kids watch I thought you would know that.” I looked past her towards our quiet little table set with the spilled tea pot and the scented candle. The room settled into a momentary silence as my eye caught the motion of the moth plunging into the flame. Its wings went up in a flurry of momentary incandescence of ill found splendor before its body fell into the red liquid wax coagulating below. The clock in the front entry way chimed and Auntie suddenly screamed, “Oh my god! My talk show is on!” and she hurried over to watch the world through her TV.
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vigilance sarah kruse
She replaces the venom of her thoughts with gulps of ginthe olive watches; anticipation, deceived by the glamour of adorning a crystalline cup wet with the driest release, a quiet hour, and a saline thought. A vain trivial vacuum watching for the face of dawn.
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angeles del toro sarah kruse
On the back of the chair directly across from me, vacated, sits a seat maintained by a red jacket, scarlet, with a black flower memory- on the lapel. It glistens with a sighlent message of laughter; the poetry of what is no longer there cannot help itself, but spew out of a lapel, clogged, with the words of tomorrow and sashay with the white scarf of yesterday. In the kitchen repeats a Spanish ballad, stained, obscured, with the running bullâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s echo, crying loveoff key mumblings into the cross beam balcony; blooming-velveteen lips of geranium faces, reciting black poetry into a scarlet night.
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these parts of you anna humenik
Your parents asked me to give a speech about you. I knew what everyone would want to hear: you were sweet, you were smart, you left us too soon, we love you, I miss you. I hate talking about you in the past tense. Your family and friends wanted me to talk about your love for life, your free spirit, your need for adventure. They wanted me to say things like you were a good man, a strong man, a dependable man. They wanted me to share the parts of you that only I knew, like how you cried at the end of the movie “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.” I know you remember the part. Steve Martin’s character figures out that John Candy’s wife has passed away, even though he talks about her as if she were still alive. Or how when we snuggled on the couch, you’d somehow manage to hold me so tight, yet give me the personal space that I always claimed I’d needed. Or that whenever you lost a case at work, which wasn’t often, I’d ask you to remember our second date when I’d fallen on my ass while we were ice skating and you laughed. I pulled you down with me. I shared these parts of you with them, if you were wondering. There were other parts I kept hidden, like how when I heard about the accident, my first thought was, “How will I afford the payments on our new apartment by myself ?” Or that I hate crying because it makes me feel as if I’m breaking from the inside out. Not to mention, I’m an ugly crier, my face gets all scrunched up. You told me I looked like a bulldog when I cried. I’m so bitter at you for making me cry and leaving me here to do this on my own. I didn’t tell them how you had the worst temper of anyone I’ve ever met, and you used your words to hurt me. I never told them about the time you kissed Becky. Yes, I fucking knew. I never told them how even though you made me extremely miserable sometimes, I also found some strange kind of comfort in that misery. I didn’t tell them how after being with you for five years, and living with you for three, I still didn’t know you. I think the problem was I knew my idea of you, and that clouded the reality of who you were. You let me believe in that dangerous daydream. Or maybe I believe because I was so addicted to you and staying was easier than leaving. I didn’t tell them how after you left, I became a lip biter. Just the sound of that disgusts me, but it’s true. I bite my lips now. No matter what I do, my lips are always swollen and bright red. Not to mention every time I eat my favorite sea salt chips, my lips burn and I curse you under my breath. I also didn’t tell them that my last words to you were, “Don’t forget the skim milk.” There was no “I love you” or “Drive safe.” I didn’t tell them these things, if you were wondering.
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anna humenik | these parts of you
I stare at our ceiling and question if maybe I had shown you all of my heart and not just the parts I thought you would like, if things would have ended differently. Maybe you wouldn’t have been with me and the accident would have never happened. There were so many secrets I kept from you, I don’t think I lied, but I wasn’t exactly honest either. I just wanted to keep you. So I never told you that pasta is my favorite food, but I cannot eat spaghetti noodles. They look like worms. I don’t like worms and their ability to grow a new head when one is cut off. I was fifteen when I lost my virginity to some college guy whose name I didn’t bother to ask. It was in a bathroom at a crowded house party my friends and I had snuck into. He thought I was nineteen. I never told you that I hated your sister. I mean, I loathed her. Whenever we visited your family, she constantly gave me the stink-eye and undermined me in front of your parents. She made it a point to always bring up my shortcomings as a person, but most of all as your girlfriend. I despised the way in which she looked down on me for not going to college. Or how whenever she introduced me to your family, she said I was in the “business of hoarding”, which just made me sound crazy instead of the owner of an antique store. Which maybe is crazy, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t hate her so much as the way she made me feel. Like I was weighing you down, holding you back, and like you could do so much better. She made me feel worthless. I never told you that you snored, but you did. I liked it though. It was steady, calm, and soft. I never told you that when you’d get out of bed in the morning, I’d roll onto your side and smell your pillow. I just wanted to breathe you in, to remember how you smelled. But now, your pillow smells more like me and less like you. I’m scared I’ll forget how you smell, your voice is already losing its resonance in my mind. I didn’t tell you that I loved you enough and I’m sorry for that. I can’t bring myself to move any of your things either. Your toothbrush still lies on the sink, stained blue, and fraying at the ends. No one will ever use that toothbrush again, but I can’t throw it away. I know you won’t come back for it, but it allows me to live in a sweet delusion that you’re still here. The same goes for your clothes. I cannot bring myself to pack up your shirts, your pants, your sweaters, and put them into some dusty old storage box or give them to family and friends. This part of you is mine and I can’t share it. Sometimes, when I’m all alone, I’ll wear your shirts and your boxers. They help me feel close to you, as if your clothing touching my skin is the same as your skin touching mine. Anyways, I didn’t tell them about any of the messy parts of us. What I did tell them was simple: I told them the version of you that I knew they wanted to hear. I told them about your successes. I told them you were taken too soon. I told them I missed you. And even if I didn’t mean some of the things they wanted to hear, I told them I love you, and that’s the honest truth.
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dead hostages alexander cintron
As led by Virgil into innocent perception, Neglected flame, a tub birth of rose buds, Down the great laundry chute of Hell’s affection, She lay silent, calm and waiting, with no protection. A pearl that lay armored—non-existent, It is stone, a blinking statue of her façade I see, Open like Blake’s eyes, her limbs—persistent On becoming nothing more, than my apparition. Her corpse beckons with a quiver, her finger—my arrow, I am to reach her, my red one, my voiceless vowel, Slither in, a basilisk beside her, my prey—the sparrow, Liquid mystery swims through both of us, crimson marrow. A pawn in step, her eyes seethe me, Together, we drown in black lust’s cauldron, One eye, air shutters only white darkness can see, Loose nerve hair, her cheek, my chin, we melt in atrophy. Scolded ghouls, we were each other’s dead hostages.
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reigning
alexander cintron
hope leaving the veins like an IV drip they’re taking our money our hearts/unfortunately universally speaking fast zephyrs picking our pockets/ a village of fingerless hands failing to feed themselves, but what fault creates earthquakes/ who helps the helpful? more direct acceptance flailing stale fish w/bad/ideas for the republic THE REPUBLIC— fuck them and their show, right? Mahatma draining trees and folly in the foreskin of population stairs that don’t go up or down/ morally going through the canvas ‘they’ paint of us, in our homes, the ovens, classrooms, greenhouses, parks, jails/ even in the maelstroms of our own FUCKING BRAINS
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untitled
alexander cintron
there were 1000 soldiers, wielding guitars as knives . and words like guillotines.
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something out of the ordinary alexander cintron
silk like snake skin repeating the wolves in their mischief and the turned inside out willingness ofâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; relieve the aspirin and the morphine like syndrome we all wish love was.
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a writer’s best friend alexander cintron
The next page —this page seems dry and confused. An allegory of will, a cave of purpose perhaps. It can’t read, I’m not buying it glasses or a pen. Yet, I feel like I should at least buy it a drink.
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john/jihad
ryanaustin dennis
My son was born in the light of a mediocre Monday Four generations are sealed in his umbilical cord Miraculous stems cells grow in his cherub folds My son’s new born eyes blink with anticipation I cup him in my arms 10 toes—small soft metatarsals I will be his father and mother him into this world My strange little warrior child Opens a gummy pink mouth Giving us his first yawl of victory His rippled forehead and fleshy fingers render his anatomy sacred He squirms under my kisses I guess I’ll have to earn your love. And when he sleeps I wonder How the chrysanthemums feel this fall.
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roger
ryanaustin dennis
The dried apricots my mother gave me aren’t fresh anymore. She puts them in the cupboard Loose hinges make the plywood plank clank There’s a glass of wine, Shiraz With cheese from Sardinia I place the dried apricot on my Lips and suck its insides Then I sip the wine, I have such poor taste. My necktie is held in place by an ebony tiebar Its lacquered surface shines, no…it shimmers as I turn to face my mother. Her blood, stains the cuffs of my shirt I like how her eyes; shocked open stare back at me I nestle on her bloodied lap and Nurse her tepid breast Her skin leaks of sweat. I take the vermillion envelope opener and prod her womb My instrument was too dull so I go to the kitchen and grab a paring knife I etched myself into her genitalia. Laying the strips I cut in parallel fashion on the saffron coffee table I look at my black leather watch, a gift from her: Its 3:15 and I notice the raindrops sliding down the window. I look back at the coffee table
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ryanaustin dennis | roger
“I guess I won’t have enough time.” So, I wash my hands and place my tools on the coffee table Taking the strips and placing them in a brown bag for later I leave my mother’s naked body there on the coach next to the window with the TV on And put my yellow rain coat on, and as I depart I slither a kiss upon her forehead and walk Out into the rain.
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karen
ryanaustin dennis
Karen wakes up at 5:15 am Her husband still dead in sleep. She pinches her forehead skin and Sighs. “Why did I marry you?” In the morning night she checks her Emails; spam…spam…spam Yesterday’s spreadsheet needs revision Today’s budget needs tweaking and John needs to find a job. All of this is done by 6:30 am The water bill sits there begging for attention But instead she takes a shower The warm water floods her back She looks in the steamed over mirror naked Sagging breast and crow’s feet look back 20 years as a Secretary No kids, no family, just John. All of this is done by 7:05 am
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lovesong
ryanaustin dennis
“Sir, do you have enough change, sir?” The devil rides on the handlebars of tomorrow And you my dear, are too slow the glitter in your eye keeps the lights from going out (Still I paint flowers cause, the real ones won’t ever sooth me) “Sir, do you have enough change, sir?” Your such a brown bumbling rabbit all you want to do is Fuck with your glittery eyes “Don’t you ever marry me for the money” Peach covered peace chimes as the railroads pass You’re my Freudian Slip And all I need to be is adored…Just like everybody else “Sir, do you have enough change, sir?” Bald sunken chests like Peeled tree bark curl Fetal-style Haystacks chew bubble gum “The ROAD IS CLOSED!” Sings the Siren come sail come travel This way Lion’s with thorns in their side still cry It’s just we can’t hear them You won’t ever have to hear them When the last Cigarette burns (Still I paint flowers cause, the real ones won’t ever sooth me)
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lovesong | ryanaustin dennis
Lets run like bears across the fertilized farmlands of your psyche! I know were your crows nest Right behind the willow tree Far off in the distance We will think grand thoughts “Who is God? and Where does he live?” God doesn’t live in heaven Heavens for dead people. I know where He lives & I’ll tell you if you give me a nickel and 2 pennies “Sir, do you have enough change, sir?” Who Who Who Je suis… I am T-T-Trumpet T-T-Trumpet Uh-Uh Na-Na Wha-Wha Ki-Ki Huh-Huh-Huh-Huh Klow nawaa ekk ti browm nu tuh nek nawaa reek The obelisk grows The REAL is dead (Still I paint flowers cause, the real ones won’t ever sooth me) Ko newaa cu ka reh (Ko newaa cu ka reh) Can the gods give me peace The waste lands speak And the chess game goes “Rook!” “Pawn!” “Knight!” “Rook!” “Pawn!” “Knight!” “Sir, do you have enough change, sir?” Shall I dare disturb this flesh that sleeps beside me? Or will the universe shiver? Come to the flatlands
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ryanaustin dennis | lovesong
Come taste the guilty earth “A wet tongue rabbles.” my mother said My mustache is too thick I think I will cut it Thursday Maybe no one will notice The Foolish Poet believes Black Swans read poetry No one reads Poetry The letters aren’t there The Poet doesn’t exist Who told Poets they were useful Fools always fall for such lies (So stop painting those damn flowers and find some real ones!) “Sir, I think you’re a dollar short, Sir?!”
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redeeming lacerations dani barto
pickaxe, pick your axel of direction— sink icy metal to my chest. leave no drop unspent. make me new, a dry flake— bodied but empty in the house of sand we kept so clean, sweeping in and out the dirt— chapters of history and camouflaged rocks— sharp now, let them color my skin to ribbons before the blades are brought to faces, eyes too bright and lips— the wrong shape. mold my muscles to your fingertips, hardening as harder ground is reached, your footing improved. my feet, stumps, in the fall— towers turned to weapons when all I did was let my hair
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dani barto | redeeming lacerations
discolor, brown to red, a muddled rust flooding the cavern once my scalp. the remaining flesh Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll keep as Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m scattered to the grass and bleeding refreshed in baptism of your true colors.
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are static, the curtains dani barto
There is a static cling between us as we, slowly, conquer the world. We do not talk about itâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; we do not speak at all. We sit in bed and wonder about the marvels of the curtains, the bedspread, the bathâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; the area rug has a stain and we are satisfied with wondering how it got there. Sitting in bed, we are strangers to the long-lost sensation of the rug beneath bare feet felt two minutes ago. We are sitting, knees touching, contemplating the meaning of our lives, together, apart, twisted into an ironic sculpture of needing vs. wanting and everything in between. You tell me to put the pen down,
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dani barto | are static, the curtains
to hold your hand and forget about this need to write it all down. You say this with your eyebrows. But I look back to the page before you can say anything else. And we are sitting. In bed and our knees are touching and I am wondering how much ink I have left and you are wondering how many years and everything is turning out great and we keep sittingâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; sitting on the bed with our knees touching, and so much more. We are sitting in bed, wondering which parts of us arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t touching as we paint the walls with our thoughts. Your thoughts again turn to my writing, and you will for me to put it down, to just breathe with you a while longer. There is time. There is always time to write. But not to be. Be with me. My hand trembles with the weight of your demand, said with a finger running sleepy circles
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are static, the curtains | dani barto
around my knee. The one you werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t touching. I glance once more at the rug. The bedspread, the bath. I glance and they glance back. They tell me that they will wait. They tell me to touch back. So I set aside the notebook, the pen, my hands. I turn to you as you tell me I am beautiful. You tell me I am perfect, and you tell me, with fingertips over my peach-fuzz hair, that the curtains have to go.
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les yeux shaken not stirred dani barto
Remember eyes born to my sight — remember meeting beauty with brute strength and loving it when lids are weightless through morning except watery from the string of too much looking just looking — touching images made by light refracted there is contact of particles, not even tickling — the touch goes unnoticed like scent is partially tasting, are we drinking pieces of ourselves in the mirror, and consuming the unlimited image, reproduced there — your brown reflection pool sweet to breathe – beauty to the quick. Looking, are we seen
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mold burn dani barto
Those stairs never looked so daunting— they trip me every time I try to stand up straight, every slip sends me straight to hell where wanting you builds bars to keep me there — the staples in the stairs— let me rip these feelings out like the carpet, stained and shredded. The only thing that grows in me is mold. Different bed every night until I find the one that fits, counterfeit the feeling that I’m not alone with body pillows — or just bodies, faceless in the dark, meaningless lips against my neck. Burning bridges like they’re cigarettes, one after the other until I’m numb. The carpet creeps into my dreams. I set that on fire too.
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september lights 78 dani barto
Maybe what really matters in the end isn’t what we’ve been taught all these years. It’s not about love and it’s not about following your heart and doing the right thing. It’s about comfort. That’s what they’ve got me drinking now, anyways.
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i told you so jennifer thomas
I told you so I am sticky I am weak searching your fridge for negative caloric foods like celery, brussel sprouts, and hate your failures. your hate. It’s that sterile hate that solemnly begs your pardon and dysmorphically agonizes what I attempt to wrench clean. Even back then I attempted to wrench clean.. I would write special notes in your journal like, like “cheer up so i can kill your happy” I feel dangerously close and it is effortlessly clear I was not much of a wrencher to you. You, you you are red stained charismatic and terminally brilliant You are stages beyond true self actualization oh how Maslow couldn’t be more stunned. You would turn to crowds and preach on moral identity without even a lick of mascara and they would
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jennifer thomas | i told you so
hear and they would listen and of course I would hate and attempt to incept invariable thoughts of inferiority and unabortive self-doubt to no avail. But you, you still turn to me and whisper “Oh, the potential. You must find your identity and soar steadfast.” And oh how I want to ship you back to the darkest place in your cosmic brilliance. My problems are far too cumbersome, far too cumbersome for my own futile identity to claim so I make up for it by throwing curarized daggers at anyone who seems to have it all put together. ..I told you so.
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the neighbor tristan ramsey
His eyes Never sto pped Mov ing You cra
It
Made zy
Nev er kno wing ju st Wh ere h is eyes Wou
ld go Next. Just when you thought you had things under control
They Wou ld move to the
n Place.
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ext
i eat men like sylvia tara keesling
I am too pure for you or anyone— Inward hot desire, Unbearable repetition Does not my heat astound you? I am too pure for you or anyone— I’m stone. I’m flesh. I’m more. Now, you are my skin Does not my heat astound you? I do it so it feels real I do it until it feels right Your brackish taste Lingers
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untitled eric lee
Will I grow taller I’m a 14.5year old girl? In Other – Health – 1 answer – 5 days ago – Resolved What date is today???? In Other – Cultures & Groups – 3 answers – 15 minutes ago – Resolved If a hen swallows a condom full of sperm infected with HIV AIDS and if somebody eats that her meat, does the ?? In Other – Health – 3 answers – 23 days ago - Resolved I’m getting depprased? In Diet & Fitness – 2 answers -30 minutes ago – Open My friend is drunk so bad??help? In Friends – 6 answers – 55 minutes ago – Resolved I ALMOST had sex with a girl and I have a girlfriend (was really drunk)? In Singles & Dating – 1 answer – 5 days ago - Open I’m so scared Plz help!? In Other – Health – 8 answers – 6 days ago – Open How do I tell my boyfriend that I’m dying? In Family & Relationships – 10 answers – 30 days ago – Resolved
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untitled eric lee
911. What’s your emergency? My sister is shot in the head. What’s the location of your emergency? Pineview apartments, 5560 Main street. Hurry Okay let me put you through to Jeffersonville Police Department, okay? Okay Stay on the line Okay Okay, we’re sending an ambulance now, how old are you? 10. we don’t got money to get her stitches. I’m sorry? We don’t have money to get her stitches. Okay… okay
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my man, who is so good to me sarah vito
My man, when he cuddles up from behind me, presses his pelvic plate predatorily into the tenderness of my relaxed glute. He then kisses me three times on the rough papery cotton of my shoulder. My man takes care of me. He bathes me and feeds me. He takes me to the cleaners three times a month. He puts me in a garment bag stinking from oak or pine air-freshener: that natal, sterile wilderness smell. Affectionately he will smooth out the tangled wrinkles in my hair before zip locking me tight into this polyester body bag. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m first shipped to the steam room, where he has sent me to be sweated out. In the steamer I am laid with my abdomen exposed to a hose blowing a dense stream of hydrated subtropical fumes. It is my umbilical cord, and it breathes nutrient bathwater into my stomach. He licks the insides of my neck, behind the ears and then slicks the jelly fat melted from my hair off of my back. He then waits until I marinate for three hours before hanging me to dry. For a strategically thorough dry, he always folds my body inside out. This method keeps my epidermal layer moist, while simultaneously maintaining my desiccated insides. He is careful to let the spokes of my spine gear over each bamboo rod of the drying rack. Therefore, when my nervous system dehydrates, I am left elastic and dexterous like silly putty or chewed up bubble gum. Meanwhile, as my cells strain to respirate, my man kneads my muscles into a mushy pulp. Each is chewed slowly by both the sensuous chipping of famished nails, and the grinding of callous elbows. Each fold of my intestinal track that hugs snug along the sloping arcs of my kidneys, is stretched and tenderized by the gentle squeezing of fists, and then reassembled into their prospective niches. My man wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let anyone else wash me. He believes in pre-marital celibacy. Monogamy. My man then reverses my layers of skin in tide-like ripples: a suave gyration of tendons snapping bones back into frame. While my epidermis is still moist, my man takes the extra time to pluck and arrange the pleats surrounding each wilting crevice and hole, like my mother does the balled fists of thirsty summer peonies in her garden. He then prepares my body for vacuuming. To avoid premature rigor mortis he stretches my neck, each finger and toe, then my legs and arms. My man loves me so much: he even tugs at the lumpy tips
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sarah vito | my man, who is so good to me
of my ears and the plump lips of my mouth. Down my throat he slides the tube of the vacuum. He molded a special attachment to glide specifically to the contours of my esophagus. My man is very talented. The vacuum ejects and swallows any remaining bacteria that may have festered in the damp, cavernous creases between pillowed fleshes. First in my gastric and then to my pulmonary system. He is so skilled, that he has never allowed my vomit to enter the tube. This could potentially cause blockage or even permanent damage in the vacuum hose. His artisan timing is so precise, that the second my freeze-dried organs are thawed enough to feel the quivering electric impulses of freshly massaged nerves, he is able to remove the vacuum with one swift outward thrust. Without fail he catches every last drop of my acidic venom into a sterile bucket, which he then seals with a thick, heavy plastic lid. He places the container into an icebox to be tested later for parasitic viruses and/or psychological abnormalities. Finally my cleanse is complete. I am just about ready to be hung and resealed into my forest-pine, polyester body bag. My man, as a last touch of adoration, waxes my skin until it shines like linoleum, because he claims it reminds him of pre pubescence. I love him for this: his careful touches are like the protective petroleum caresses of an OBGYN. I am then driven home at a cautious cruising speed down the Garden State Parkway. He parks the car with the spirituality of a falling dancer, and romantically lifts my still-limp corpse against his rippling pectorals. He lays me on the kitchen table while he stands to eat his hard-earned meal: normally a dry bowl of cereal or fried bologna. In my final moments of comatose he breathes over the sensitive places behind my ears, beneath the pucker of my fingernails, around the hairline on my scalp and below the rings my nostrils. Normally it takes only one round of warm oral breeze to slide me out of sleep, but often he must also lick the contours of my belly button and the rigid furrows outlining my kneecaps before I am jolted out of hypnosis. When I awake he is always smiling. My man has the most gorgeous teeth. He does not hesitate to pull out his vile of pills, “take two baby” and I do and I my delirium is transitioned into an encompassing euphoria. My man makes sure I can resolve my lost hours, dousing me in showers of Adderall. Because they’re slow release, I can work through three days in one. I have the time to repair my missing jewelry and mend the refrigerator door back to its hinge. That is why I love my man. I love my man because he loves me. He takes care of me. My man, who is so good to me.
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to class
sarah vito
On the way to class there is always a girl with her face down. Lying face down. Face lying down, ground on face down lying sleeping breathing inhaling leaves face down dirt leaves grass dead breathing smelling face lying. And there are students swarming like ants about her like a mound or a hive, but they are certainly not bees because she is not honey. No one is attracted to her. She has no matronly characteristics. She lies there with her face down on the ground. I think she inhales. Perhaps she’s a smoker. She is there for two weeks. She lies with her face inhaling. Breathing dirt, perhaps wishing it were water and that she will drown. Sometimes I wish that she were lying not on the grass beside the sidewalk but in a lake or stagnant puddle. Whatever body of I don’t care, I only wish that she would sink into it. Her musty shoes drinking her heels to the bottom, breasts shivering afloat. Dead weight, inhaling fish or algae instead. On the third week I wonder if she has a face at all, or if like a canyon the wind and rain has eroded it. I wish I can roll her over and see the marble patterned canyons I imagine are sprawled across the topography of her face. Perhaps the earth left impressions like the veins of leaves. Thin, flat and spindling. As if the leaves she breaths are being absorbed into her skin. Or maybe the rot from her eyes have left pots for rooting seedlings—it’s almost March. Leaf stuffed eggcups. Like a pair children’s hands; two palm-size mounds of decomposition.
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infected cut on left index finger sarah vito
No more Neosporin clean out – use vodka. suckling scabs well ooze that tongue-tips the rim of my nails like chapstick for my cuticles. moisturizer or organic custard-curdled toothpaste. Mucus kisses on chapped lips. greasy platelet fluid: Drool on glass Gummy bears Half bitten worms Lubed rubber Period blots on the shower floor Wet acne
like*
The cut is actually on my ring finger I just don’t want anyone to think I’m trying to make a scene of myself. Trying to say it’s romantic. Or symbolic. Because it’s not. My finger is secreting alien, staphinfected goop. Fuck romantic. Because it’s not.
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beauty and the beast mixed media on paper susan kosek cavalaris
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time dissolves
polyester lithography on paper susan kosek cavalaris
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melpomene
toner ink on mylar susan kosek cavalaris
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untitled
digital photograph sloane fuller
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seine-side
digital photograph sloane fuller
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grain mill
digital photograph sloane fuller
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tokyo walkways digital photograph yuto toyama
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colorado nightlife
digital photograph yuto toyama
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to the moon and back... graphite on paper lauren oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;connor
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sailing the seven seas graphite on paper lauren oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;connor
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the secret fortress graphite on paper lauren oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;connor
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night shadow
digital photograph vincent turpin
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eyes
digital photograph vincent turpin
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waiting
digital photograph vincent turpin
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turquoise
digital painting, 12â&#x20AC;?x13â&#x20AC;? allison dauw
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hazel
digital painting leah coleman
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untitled
digital photograph blake stanford
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marie’s
graphite on paper, 8” x 5” carlton kutz
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911
graphite on paper, 10” x 16” carlton kutz
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historic toledo
graphite on paper, 7â&#x20AC;? x 9â&#x20AC;? carlton kutz
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fish through glass digital photograph madeleine connolly
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the fragile wake
digital photograph madeleine connolly
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a rose crossing digital photograph madeleine connolly
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untitled
digital photograph mariah hines
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fences
digital photograph brian sopher
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adagio for surplus value
digital photograph brian sopher
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juxtaposition
zinc etching/drypoint with chin collé, 6”x9” maria bee
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flow
cut paper, 19â&#x20AC;?x25 lauren kiedaisch
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digital and hand illustration michael norris
contact cleaner
digital and hand illustration michael norris
earwax eradicator
photobomber
digital photograph kellyn czajkowski
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peek-a-boo
digital photograph kellyn czajkowski
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incoming
digital photograph kellyn czajkowski
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house
200mm film ben swofford
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copycat
digital photograph, post processing (as3 bitmapdata glitch) rianne vandervoort
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a stranger kiss
xerox machine elizabeth (biz) young
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friday night sink oil on canvas, 3’x4’ ashley ceroli
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a sense of helplessness
oil paints, insect fragments, chalk on canvas, 4â&#x20AC;&#x2122;x3â&#x20AC;&#x2122; ashley ceroli
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follet’s
oil on canvas, 36”x28” kristen uhl
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me in my place oil pastel, 22â&#x20AC;?x30â&#x20AC;? kirsten ledbetter
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figs
oil on paper, 22â&#x20AC;?x30â&#x20AC;? kirsten ledbetter
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no head
oil pastel, 18â&#x20AC;?x24â&#x20AC;? kirsten ledbetter
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city folk
digital photograph sarah kruse
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cascade/vacuum
oil on canvas, 54”x30” colin matsumoto
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untitled
etching, 15â&#x20AC;?x11â&#x20AC;? colin matsumoto
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woodcut on folded paper, 7â&#x20AC;?x18â&#x20AC;? colin matsumoto
untitled
abendbrot
digital photograph scarlett minnie
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:)
inklings spring2013