Cake 2015 v1 by Jay Snodgrass

CA K E

A JOURNAL OF POETRY AND ART

VOLUME 9

CAKE 9

Faculty Editor Kristine Snodgrass

Managing Editor LeVander Thomas

Poetry Editor Miciotto Johnson II

Readers Clare Mobley Robyn Mowatt

CaKe is produced by the students and faculty of Florida A&M Univeristyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Department of English and Modern Languages. We invite submissions of poetry, fiction, drama, art, nonfiction, and reviews year round. All submissions must be sent via email attachment to cakepoetryandart@gmail.com Our online component is Slices. Please visit us at haveasliceofcakepoetry.blogspot.com All submissions are considered for both print and online publication. All future rights belong to the individual authors or artists. Copyright ÂŠ 2015 by Florida A&M University. All rights returned to the author upon publication. ISBN 1499295391 Cover Art: ****** ISSN 1935-4991

Special thanks to Dr. Yakini B. Kemp, Chair and the Department of English and Modern Languages

Contents POETRY BODHISATTVAS HAVE NUMINOUS EYES 10

Milton P. Ehrlich

Leave These Songs 11

Claire Roof

XXVII 13

Evelyn Franquiz de Trujillo

Translation XXVII 14 Fast Enough 15

Claire Roof

Kelli Allen

Claire Roof

Holly Day

J.M. Green

Deep Into the Theory of the Origins of the Universe 16 Calendar Sex 17 History Lesson 18 Early 20

night skies 21

Blue Chapel, Blue Cemetery 22

Jonathan Travelstead 22 Ecdemomania 23

Holly Day

Thumbelina 24 Dreams 25

LeArtrice Blatch

Kevina Fullwood

Art 26

Where Somewhere Still Exists 27

Joshua Thomas 27 The Light 28

Joshua Thomas 28

Stockholders in the Company of Heaven 29

Thomas Sabel 29

EDU 700: Education Seminar 31

Thomas Sabel 31

The Vampire 35

Holly Day

Crack Over Me 36

Kevina Fullwood

When We Live in the Arms of Love 38

Claire Roof

Cat Dixon

Don’t 39

Patience 40 Monster 41

Jonathan Travelstead 41 Disney princesses 43

J.M. Green

Holly Day

with water 44 From the Garden 46 Aimless 47

LeArtrice Blatch

A Painful Rain 48

Thomas Sabel 48

FIRE IN THE HOLE 49

Milton P. Ehrlich

Tendai Mwanaka

Paul David Adkins

MY FIRST WIFE 50

WEAVER THE WEATHERMAN, WTVJ-MIAMI, GIVES THE FORECAST FOR SEPTEMBER 13TH, 1971 52 SAMUEL JOSEPH MELVILLE, KIA, ATTICA REBELLION, SEPTEMBER 13TH, 1971 53 Paul David Adkins 53 ELLIOT JAMES BARKLEY, KIA, ATTICA REBELLION, 54 SEPTEMBER 13TH, 1971 54

ART Paul David Adkins

Blue Factories 1973 55

Ira Joel Haber 55

California Drawing 1982 56

Ira Joel Haber 56 Doodle 57

Ira Joel Haber 57

from February Collage 58

Ira Joel Haber 58

from July Collage 2007 59

Ira Joel Haber 59

from Midsummer Collage 2012 60

Ira Joel Haber 60 Tijuana 61

Ira Joel Haber 61 FICTION REGENERATION 65 James Cihlar

EVIL’S RECKONING Joshua Thomas 67

SHE’S MY BABY

Donna D. Vitucci

WRITING CONTEST WINNERS TIGER LILY 75 Jamie A.G. Hamilton

BIRD WITHOUT A NEST 76 Dee Ora Simon 76

A WAR FOR WORDS

Anita Aickareth 77

LOVER’S BALLAD 79 Zorn Wyche

TALLAHASSEE ROUTE 82 Danielle Francis 82

POETRY

CAKE

BODHISATTVAS HAVE NUMINOUS EYES Milton P. Ehrlich There’s light in their black eyes, the glow of a 5-carat diamond. Radiant, a carnival of falling stars. Everybody wants to be a friend. Voices sing. They don’t walk, they dance. They see past, present, and future. Snow melts when they are near. Living flowers, their presence brings delight as if nothing else matters, but it always does somehow.

CAKE

Leave These Songs Claire Roof Leave these songs on the red silk fabric of our memory As no one knows the time we hold Close to the violet linen of our hearts… Journey men and women cry…war begins in the outlands Takes us all to childhood, and as children, we play in the palace ruins Children skateboarding on the rubble glass broken sacred streets. Songs sung from the back of dream rooms transgress these merchants at sea Men being pirates, explorers being brave to the tips of the polar poles, Nobody is watching humans playing marbles with planets, Tossing the orbs like silent victim goddesses… Sew together the dreams of children watching Dexter, Whose struggles in the battle of the hungry dark, and the light of day. Miss not the sign, you, and I and the others, we will have but one chance To be in the running, not with the bulls of Spain, But into the fresh air and towards the taste of honey… This will not be the quiet road of monks, but the busy streets of trucks, Carrying their heavy loads of dreams…

CAKE

Deep Into the Theory of the Origins of the Universe Stars forming faster than first thought; As I go out to warm up the stove at dawn I think of the day when you two children were three and four, star struck â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Dusk closing up the street onto our Boulevard lawn. When Venus, first star attaching itself to the crescent moon, appeared I took those silly neon bedroom stick-on planetary toys And pretended one fell into my palm from the sky stream One girl, one boy I adored your daddy one moment that I still see in your eyes As all my markings of motherhood are ungluing the skies What is left at the beginning of this bright blue-green planet we call home? What meteor, comet, white dwarf, red giant, binary system, makeshift moon Will outdo these small human sacrifices? Electrons, swirling, what will God entice us? â&#x20AC;&#x192;

CAKE

XXVII Evelyn Franquiz de Trujillo Rezaré por el amor sin nombre por ese amor que nunca tuvo un suspiro, una lágrima, un beso, una dulce mirada ni una carta de amor. Rezaré por el amor sin nombre el amor que nunca sintió la pena ni el dolor ese amor nunca perfumado por una rosa de pasión. Rezaré por el amor sin nombre al amor que nunca conocí ese amor que posa sobre las alas del viento y siempre está escapándose de mí.

CAKE

Translation XXVII Evelyn Franquiz de Trujillo I will pray for the love without name For that love that never had a sigh, a tear, a kiss, a lovingly look, not a love letter. I will pray for the love without a name the love that have never felt the sorrow nor the pain that love never perfumed by a rose of passion. I will pray for the love without a name to the love that I never met that love that rests on the wings of the wind and is always avoided me. â&#x20AC;&#x192;

CAKE

Fast Enough Claire Roof I cannot get there fast enough for my lungs… We have all waited so long for the blooms on the trees To spread like petal lush lips onto another’s space We cannot keep up with our desire for these miracles We cannot get away from the marathon marauders fast enough The news just replays their madness and we run the races everywhere in the winds Of hope like lung filling wall of weeping don’t forget the names of all who were But we do not stop the spring cherry blossoms from bombarding us with a kind of heaven Take me into your arms that exist across the continent of continents and let us be like astronauts Who float in their space ships and ponder the ship we call earth as it spins like a slow gorgeous Top in the silent black space except where the Milky Way strews forth the unending universe of life … Take all the revolutions of the planet earth and put those colors on our tongues, And can we love again? Walk on the earth; embrace the swiftly coming of dawn, Walk on the spinning earth as if you are an angel fell to earth on a mission. See us as we are; exhale some hope our way…

CAKE

Deep Into the Theory of the Origins of the Universe Claire Roof Stars forming faster than first thought; As I go out to warm up the stove at dawn I think of the day when you two children were three and four, star struck â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Dusk closing up the street onto our Boulevard lawn. When Venus, first star attaching itself to the crescent moon, appeared I took those silly neon bedroom stick-on planetary toys And pretended one fell into my palm from the sky stream One girl, one boy I adored your daddy one moment that I still see in your eyes As all my markings of motherhood are ungluing the skies What is left at the beginning of this bright blue-green planet we call home? What meteor, comet, white dwarf, red giant, binary system, makeshift moon Will outdo these small human sacrifices? Electrons, swirling, what will God entice us? â&#x20AC;&#x192;

CAKE CAKE

Calendar Sex Kelli Allen Cellos make little nicks in the dark and we are breathing together. The afternoon was a failure, to be sure, but this plain gesture of togetherness makes quick use of industrious forgetfulness. I may not be able to keep you behind this gate beyond the third movement, but we mean to create more than one monologue to accompany the flutist. The children are upstairs, our occupancy is momentarily set. What happens next is that I will quickly calculate how to use the position of your fingers behind my neck as talisman for strings. The tent is down and the igloo explodes into every shard of routine that has, before this moment, set what stands for you and for me, aflame, sparks falling into pockets, to the ground. â&#x20AC;&#x192;

CAKE

History Lesson Claire Roof There exists in the histories of ink and voice all thoughts of human expense We wind our ways through the books of ordinary pain, Desiring immortality of blameless choice. Jefferson with his children, his wives, his slaves, his holidays of destiny and truths Antigone, Hamlet, Caesar, Kennedy, kings, and queens and foibles of peasants Drunk in history’s lair, walking the dog through the galaxies of star-studded musicals, We are the human condition. Lasting between the armies, running between politics, Basking in the sun between atrocities, We are all teenagers in the dark of winter, the twilight of spring equinox, The dawning of time… The lost tribes of everywhere, the arctic glaciers shift in the greenhouse of our exhale The plow horses of the rich black earth of the Mississippi, lolling overnight in Mark Twain tortures of childhood mercies and nightmares We, timeless undermining miracle distraught humans composing Poetics to our own voices; We rise from the rock demanding to be hear, wanting one another in the loneliness, I want you so much it hurts… I want you so much it makes my heart pound in a kind of simplistic agony. God and the angels and saints listen to my prayers to rise me up in my sleep And fly me disembodied to your bed, where I could hover sweetly And un-disturbing to the universe we seemed forever trapped in.

CAKE

Science did not bring us all to this deep abiding him of common destiny Perhaps as of not yet, but I love you. Cannot two people who are not perfect, who are punctured with complications Be together and not ruin the world? I ask this, now, as the stars of autumn sound the call of winter upon us I believe in our destiny. Body of mine, body of yours, we have mingledâ&#x20AC;Ś Perhaps foolishly, ignorant of our own unquenchable intent. We are mingled. You and I love one another. That must mean something in these days of random attacks. We are clay, wet and formed with taste; it matters We are no small matter anymore. Denial does not stop the stars from shining.

CAKE

Early Holly Day if I lie still enough long enough will my body melt the snow will tulips and daffodils race up expecting an early arrival of spring? will our combined heat convince the rest of the plants that it’s spring? if we lie here together will we wake crocuses, make snowdrops unfurl open bright crowns to herald the sun shake Christmas roses awake? if you make love to me, here, in the snow on the hard-packed snow, on the frozen mud and ice will the roots of this tree feel us move will it unfurl tiny nubs of budded leaves thinking that it’s spring?

CAKE

night skies J.M. Green How the night sky’s ceanothus not the black crayon we used in grade school art class thirty some years ago. Finally, I find peace with midnight blue the tuxedo color my friend Chris wore at our senior prom because midnight blue was cheaper than black because his parents found “A Night in (insert that year’s European city)” not worth the money and the guys around the table gave Chris such a hard time but he smiled anyway danced all night on the gym floor under the mirror ball silver screen handsome.

CAKE

Blue Chapel, Blue Cemetery Jonathan Travelstead From your train car you only glimpse the monochrome scene blinking by in the Ukrainian countryside. You note the blue walkway, each flagstone set even, cambering toward the thickly-painted doors ten feet high and the fat, blue dome, its teardrop tapered to a needle’s point. Who doesn’t think the strange means something if only because he is there to see it? The fence’s cobalt perimeter. Throb of cornflower headstones, painted and muffled in snow and moon. How tempting it is to ruin the picture by possessing it. Attach allegory to blue’s tired convention, and let the scene’s shading indicate murder’s approximate hue, Seasonal Affective Disorder, or Nature’s melancholia. You know nothing of this country, little more of yourselfAnd just like that presence trawls hopelessly away from the simple strangeness of a blue church in a blue graveyard. A glowing copse of trees smear ethereal light alongside the speeding train. Look again at the snow. Blue. Let a tiding of magpies remain a tiding of magpies. Let your absence be a window. Sometimes it is enough. 22

CAKE

Ecdemomania Holly Day the leaves fall from the trees and I find that my shoes won’t come off. I go out to get the newspaper, feel the chill on my face and I don’t know where I am. Overheard, birds forge ahead with such determination that I feel inspired to follow them south. traffic snarls at me as I stumble after the birds, newspaper clutched in my hand, bathrobe barely knotted closed. I would tell them if they’d only roll down their windows and turn off their noisy car heaters that I have learned something new this morning, that there is no reason to stay here in a place that will soon be covered with snow, that we can follow the paths laid out by buffalo and deer to safety, that being able to sleep beneath the stars in the middle of December without fear of frostbite or death is worth losing all the ridiculous things our real lives have to offer.

CAKE

Thumbelina Holly Day I once was a woman who prayed and prayed for just one little baby maybe a girl but when the baby finally came it came much too soon she was only two inches long and so quiet I held my daughter curled tiny in my palm begged her to breathe begged her to move said Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d make her a cradle out of a walnut shell and a goose feather for a quilt if she would just give me a sign some sign that we could be I spent all night by the window, sang lullabies murmured half-remembered nursery rhymes my daughter cupped in the palm of my hand too small to be anything but a dream. â&#x20AC;&#x192;

CAKE

Dreams LeArtrice Blatch Oh, the dreams I dream, if I only had the time thoughts that canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be imagined, far beyond fairytales and magical genies; dreams that scare the hell out of me. The crazy part about it is, these dreams, come true. How, I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know? See we fail to understand that dreams start with a thought which turn into belief, which become a confession that many of us run from but why run from dreams, when you can live to find out what they really mean.

CAKE

Art Kevina Fullwood Many colors on a paper brushed stroked into a canvas. Or could it be the way she sashay and plea, with technique and strength across the stage. But you know it could be that brothers moves, that’s full of exaggerated expressions of energy, flowing from his head-though his chest-ending in his legs. The words that float on the melody that escapes the lips of the vocally talented “wooh, wooh, wooh, wooh” The dramatic work of directors and actors capturing the minds and spirits of the ongoing watchers and seekers. Or the lyrically intelligent spitting from their souls on beats, speaking on what his world beholds. The greatest art exhibit is human kind itself. Much credit due to the man above. The product of human creativity The key To free Their spirits from the everyday criticisms of this world The simplicity of it all Expressing ourselves through, what we love to do.

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Where Somewhere Still Exists Joshua Thomas Where the sun warms my being Giving me energy and guidance Where the birds hum their pompous songs Each attempting to out sing the other Where the wind blows ever so lightly Carrying distinct scents and sounds from the vicinity Where the shadows cast by giant Joshua Trees cools my spirit Blocking harsh beams of the radiant star above Where is this place of tranquility? A Where that is somewhere, but is nowhere to society It is the where of origin Where all the places of now importance accumulated Where language started being spoken Where history was written Where wars began Where love first grew A location of hope, peace, and unlimited time Where something can only be what you make it This place is Eden A divine territory of God Now, due to our corruption from our Adam nature Eden is now dismayed The where became the where of hatred, mistrust, destruction, and mayhem The purity, once so rich with joy is now rich with sorrow But there is a chance to be good again, for we are not alone There is help for those who seek it Nothing can be made a where with only humans alone No matter how we try But if we live our lives divinely and in reference to God Then the Hell we die in shall be the Heaven we awake This is our where, the true somewhere â&#x20AC;&#x192; 27

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The Light Joshua Thomas The evil Darkness flows in all around you shrouding away your Holy Light. It slowly devours the energy you still possess. No one can hear your screams of plight. In a room clouded by Darkness, you may only have one end. It doesn’t matter how you try to defend what is left of your dignity, for the key part is already gone. All that remains is your will to fight on, perhaps in vain only to suffer more terrible pain or give in and let go of everything around you. To remember what was and what can still be if you focus on the Light that still remains. For the Lightest memory can cast away the Darkest thought. For when it’s all over and done, that Light will be your only comfort.

CAKE

Stockholders in the Company of Heaven Thomas Sabel I We weave cocoons and always have, in church, or school, or home, or bathroom. Anyplace you hang your silk hat and spin around and around. The world would turn around you and you create your center. We can’t both be centers, unless we are loci, an ellipse of life, like the planets around the sun. Give thanks to Johannes Kepler for the insight we needed in the darkest hour, and now I can lie peacefully asleep and not let spiders bite. II I can’t recall two minutes ago, let alone a week or a week of weeks, which is the time of Easter, that came from Aster, the pagan celebration of the morning star giving a confusing hymn— How Lovely Shines the Morning Star. Put a Jesus spin on anything and it will be okay; even the family you never had and only dreamed of. We all dream of families that no longer are, if they ever were. I duly pronounce you wed and pray God will be kind in the end and give a place in his heaven, if that is where you want to go with all the angels, archangels, and company of heaven. Are you a shareholder where Jesus is CEO, and the Father is the Chairman of the Board, like Sinatra, and the Spirit makes up the rest? Take a place at the right hand of the Father. you were dipped into the stocks of holy baptism.

CAKE

III God is full of wrath and is eager to dump on us. Look what he did to his own kid—like father, like son, and we suppose that doesn’t apply in heaven, or eternity, or any other place in the shade. Shade’s a good place to be unless you’re dead then it’s Shades. It’s all orthography. Not the words but the capitals, big letters, not small, upper case like the upper crust. You get your share because you hold stock in the company of heaven where we listen to Kepler’s Music of the Spheres.

CAKE

EDU 700: Education Seminar Thomas Sabel Howl and screech as cat and owl discourse on science as a mechanism of exclusion. James Wright Pilfered words of discourse, textbook stilted, weave a programmed way before the bell can sound. To the victor goes the tale; write it how it’s supposed to be regardless of felicity. “I write the songs” that no one sings— mouths taped shut. Earbuds mask the noise. Unnoticed and uncounted dance the angels on the pin heads, dance the angels around the room. To the victor goes the tale, tell it well before the next edition rises from the slough of scattered intelligencia. The bright ones wrestle words to the ground of being and leave the hollow men to walk. Sticks propped in frozen mud. 31

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XLVIII. Evelyn Franquiz de Trujillo Oh, tarde gris… soñolienta, fría y distante. ¿Qué Ninfa se cruzó en tu camino y besó tu alma?... dejándote en ese estado anímico de tristeza, de vacío y de quebranto. Translation XLVIII. Evelyn Franquiz de Trujillo Oh, gray evening… Sleepy, cold and distant. What Nymph crossed in your way and did it kiss your soul?... leaving you in this mental state of sadness, of gap and of decay.

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WOMAN LOOKING IN A MIRROR Milton P. Ehrlich For a woman of thirty nine, not bad, I say to myself, turning this way and that to get a better look at my butt and the contours of my profile. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sturdy, but not rotund like my bow-legged Asian friend. My legs are shapely and strong and could walk around the world. My arms do an Australian crawl from Canarsie to Brighton Beach. My obsidian fortune-telling eyes reveal my psychic powers. Clairvoyant, I know how to please, with the help of my luscious lips and patchouli-scented Kegel induced pelvic squeeze. I can awaken any humdrum guy with languid lovemaking, using the finely tuned music of my body. My mouth and hands sing of love with a wild hunger that delights more than a slam-bang ever does. Leaping lovers would jump through a ring of fire to tear off a piece with me.

CAKE

I embrace men with a tender touch, only found among the deaf, dumb, and blind. More than once I’ve been nominated for the Nobel of lovemaking. I decline jewelry and accommodations on luxury yachts. I’m not a whore, just a messenger from God, the only one who knows why I do what I do. The very best part of my body, hidden in the ventricles of my oversized heart, is my soul. But I’m so lonely, I could cry.

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The Vampire Holly Day The vampire comes in through my window and sees I have written more poems about him. He thumbs through the stacks of loose-leaf paper, leaves bloody fingerprints on the crumpled edges. I watch him from my bed, eyes half-closed, pretending to be asleep, watch him as he shakes his head, snorts derisively, scribbles something nasty in the corner of one sheet, crosses out all the words Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve used improperly with a bright red pen.

CAKE

Crack Over Me Kevina Fullwood “Don’t you go out that door,” my grandma yells at me But the even louder cries from dad made my heart beat excessively In my head I wasn’t sure to listen to my grandma or my day But in my heart, what I was about to do was going to make my grandma mad I dashed pass my grandma and out of the front door And nearly tripped on the rain soaked floor I was now starring in the face of a man I thought I knew A man I never thought would break my heart in two In that moment my body was paralyzed while starring in his swollen red eyes There was no sign of emotion in his face And the way the day was going I knew it would be more than I could take “He’s high on that crack,” my grandma yells from behind me My daddy yells back, “Just give me my money” Now I was yelling, “Daddy please don’t go,” he told me to go in the house “Daddy please, no!” were the only words I could get out of my mouth He takes his money and leaves And what he did next I could not believe I ran behind him face covered in tears, shoes covered in mud and pulling on his shirt And I could barely hold on because I was drained from all the hurt

CAKE

He grabbed me and told me that I was too young to understand But I understood quite well that my father wasn’t being a man His car pulled off and I was left standing in the rain My heart felt like it would burst from the hurt and pain And at that moment I vowed to never again cry for my dad I wouldn’t live another day for him sad What hurt the worst? He chose drugs and he told me he would always put me first But I guess that’s what happens when you’re trapped in a cage of crack Sounds kind of harsh but I won’t take that back Just remember to be grateful for everyone you got Because some marijuana, a needle, or crack can take that spot.

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When We Live in the Arms of Love Claire Roof When we live in the arms of love, Blood courses through its roadways, Singing oxygen, recanting the bluish tinged. And when we arrive in the arms of love, We finger the hairs on the skin resting there. We crinkle the thin skin, freckle to freckle, Scar to rings, fingertips to shoulder. We look out to danger, past the circle of apparent Emotionsâ&#x20AC;Śto the ocean of danger, And the salt of impossible dreams. You are no other than that round-eyed baby, Take on to rocking, humming, crooning That bullet at your door. Teach your arms to embrace this matter. Teach your body to buffet the attacks, Shield up under that overpass, Embrace the pleasures of sweet guarding. Move your body successfully in the wreckage. You are not alone in your wanting, Or in your fear. In the arms of these loves, There will be the fingertips of tomorrow.

CAKE

Don’t Cat Dixon Don’t ski. It’s too dangerous. Don’t dive. You could break your neck. I am tired of the don’ts and so I do despite your protests. Why live if I cannot live? You allow the dogs to roam. If you release this leash, I won’t run away. Down to the lake, down to the trees, I will head, but I always come back. I suffocate all day inside this house. Shuffling from room to room, you lecture and everyone hangs on your words, but I only pretend to hear and eventually I call out, “Isn’t that enough? It’s late.” You agree and go to bed. Don’t come to my room when they’re here. Don’t touch me like that in front of them. Don’t. You want me to steal affection in secret as if you’re ashamed to be human. Are you not a man? Let me kiss your brow. When you nuzzle my neck, your moustache tickles like the soft wings of a moth. This kiss is for the balcony overlooking the trees. This kiss is for your voice that eases me to sleep. This kiss is for the wink you gave me that first visit. This kiss is for your sore back, your sour stomach, your bloodied coat. See, you like my kisses. So don’t tell me don’t. 39

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Patience Cat Dixon my heart is a nervous flightless bird that flaps her wings, steps up to sing but cannot make a sound for her beak is filled with worms and dirt--gifts she intended to give to you. my mind is a wilted rose painted red again by the promise of your return. â&#x20AC;&#x192;

CAKE

Monster Jonathan Travelstead Blame the furies your natures divide into for how life saws in always one of two directions. Blame the sociopath glassed on pills, The Mothman, or a cryptid not found in the genus of homo. One gibbous moon, and you split like a quince. Halves fall, exposing a lycanthrope’s anatomy. Canine kidney beside human spleen sprouting fur. Pin the blood you found greased on the brass doorknob to his hirsute ass, and feel the tip of a lawn dart piercing your own. Culpability. Take the orange pill and give Big Pharma credit for the column of checks beside the maintenance sheets for your truck, motorbike. Your color-coded spreadsheets. Alphabetized, dated. Take nothing, and spend the day tracing patterns in the stucco while Mr. Hyde bludgeons your character with laziness’ ballpeen. You’re the archetypal drill sergeant who trafficks in fungible time, measuring progress against a ticking clock. Stay out late and rubberstamp yourself deficient. Ground-pound an extra mile. Say it wrong, hit the books. Truth is, haters gonna hate, but every day it’s the same with you- Hand to lying mouth, then mouth to fool mind. Alibis. Eye witness sketch of a baddie everyone

CAKE CAKE

you swear’s just an aspect but everyone knows it’s you. You’ve got this under control. A man, divided, stitched together. Man with one face that’s made handsome only by the boils on the other. Man, you really have it in for yourself. Dualities you separate, then try herding back in the private room, thinking they should do anything other than fight like cats with their tails tied. In the age of fire codes and more resistive materials your fireman still needs an arsonist. Winnow all the dark out of the night and something in the lighthouse is gonna break.

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Disney princesses J.M. Green 1. An odd snapshot Hangs as we enter My quiet bedroom. The princess smiling Wraps arms around the Girl sitting on her lap. They are dressed as Each other though one Sops wet from log flumes. The other is perfect. 2. One smiles for camera The other fixed on Princess eyes. Little is known About each other But each one knows she Wears the finest wig. Each a human prop For the other â&#x20AC;&#x201C; These two Rapunzels.

CAKE

with water J.M. Green Hands to mouth makeshift megaphone style we’d yell the name Johnny which was short for John Henry but became Mr. Henry, Mister, Mister Mister, Misty Misty because new nicknames always wax again. His Christian name was Big JH the Steel Drivin Pug because there were only so many available blocks on the AKC registration form. Though he was black, the name was ironic because he was the runt and a momma’s boy and a 15 1/2-year-old cancer survivor and a “rubber toy in the intestine” survivor. Actually, there was no irony. Still, there seemed to be a bit the morning Mother cleaned the mess off the linoleum floor. She filled the bucket twice with water, steaming hot water and Mr. Clean soap leaving sick to dissolve, soaking up water with towels and throwing them away. Filling the bucket a third time to scrub the stubborn. Brush and water and mommy muscles.

CAKE

Hours before Daddy placed him on a stainless steel table, he placed him in a stationary tub massaged him with lukewarm water and doctor recommended shampoo. Used daddy fingers to push the water past the fur and into his skin hoping he could force the water through it. Just penetrate it. Just will the water to flush through the body and polish his tiny organs. After The Trip, my eyes burned. The bodyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s message: this is Hell. Hell comes after the ability to weep, to gnash the teeth like the burning eyes and burning cheeks standing under hot shower hoping that with water, everything washes new again. Is that the way with hurricanes, tsunamis, flooded basements, and life? â&#x20AC;&#x192;

CAKE

From the Garden Holly Day I come in from the garden and I’m covered in slugs. Tiny slabs of snot with antennae waving slowly moving over my sandaled feet, pausing in confusion at trying to pass a particularly thick black ankle hair navigating the rough etched surface of a heavy Tibetan silver bracelet. I don’t touch my hair because I don’t want to know they’re there, wrapped in tangles dreadlocks with chewy centers. I pull my clothes off by the washing machine and start the hot rinse cycle immediately, reconciling my guilt at running the washing machine with only two items of clothing in it with images of hordes of horrible soft bodies tumbling through the soapy water with my clothes hopefully boiled alive.

CAKE

Aimless LeArtrice Blatch Fear sets in and thoughts wander, As pigeons scatter, hurriedly Time drags as ice bergs melt When death beats alone, Straying away hope Endless waves beat pass the sky Like open windows breathing light Watching Eyes shut moving images away, Flashes of green mutter through, While amber petals ravel on to bring memories â&#x20AC;&#x192;

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A Painful Rain Thomas Sabel Caustic waves roll off—toxic in amplitude and I’d find another day to join, given the option. Some different morning with the difficulties of the infection of your mood. I’d join the hawk that flew into the neighbor’s tree, ignoring rain that puddles despair. How desperate can the clouds be that they overflow grief which consumes the last dry spot on tomorrow’s river bank? The flood should drown your sullen waste, diluting it with tears of clouds bearing agony from the Gulf of Mexico, swept up by the currents of drudgery that pull out of habit like ancient dairy horses clamped to milk wagons of someone else’s century. The habit of the hawk denies the rain, and we bear out moods in the flood of yesterday.

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FIRE IN THE HOLE Milton P. Ehrlich Missed target color of malice turns blood black spilled on the ground like victims of Gallipoli drop the white flag always a war somewhere with a cataract of tears for a hiccup of battle it’s collateral damage no more sweet dreams Mr. 5 star General

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MY FIRST WIFE Tendai Mwanaka That sweet little girl, my first friend. My wife through years of innocence. When we used to home our homesA stone’s throw from our parent’s home. So much love was in those dwellings. With sweet funny laughter and smiles. A husband’s well respected positionFathering dolls and funny huts. Looking after all, wife and children. Going to the surrounding woodsTo hunt for the family’s livelihood. Bringing locust, chicks and fruits. With the other young wives of our villageShe went to the fields to farm crops. Which we harvested together in autumn. Storing some waiting the coming winter. We rarely suffered from draughtsAnd our families died not of hunger. Then later on we started drifting apartFate and opportunity had us parting. She went to further her studies, farther. And I was left alone with a family to look after. Divorced from those sweet innocent times. And orphaned to this cheat insecure dream.

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Years later she came back home. Not like that sweet wife anymore. But a grown-up blooming flower. No longer believing in our childhood. She was now poised for adulthood. Enjoying hot times and heat of maturity With young man cowering behindJust for her rare gazes and smiles. Young man who cared little about my loss. Never affording me the chance to haveAnd built back that home we had. And look after our children together. I am in the same position strangeAs those heartbroken, weeping, driftingFrom each others, couples estranged. But our separation is not of our doing, Not even of Mariaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s liking butThat of the circulating circle of change.

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WEAVER THE WEATHERMAN, WTVJ-MIAMI, GIVES THE FORECAST FOR SEPTEMBER 13TH, 1971 Paul David Adkins We are watching four hurricanes tonight, but none threaten you. There are ridges, you see, right here, and troughs dug deep to drive them north, to keep you safe. We expect a little rain, but not from them, not from any system we can see. The showers will build as always on the midday heat and unstable ocean air. The barometric pressure is perfect for smaller storms to flare and migrate east our way. But nothing big. It’s nothing fair skies can’t muscle through after that quick and thunderous hour. A great start to your week. The sun will reassume its rightful place, position itself, a godly hand, to stifle the screams of his hysterical children.

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SAMUEL JOSEPH MELVILLE, KIA, ATTICA REBELLION, SEPTEMBER 13TH, 1971 Paul David Adkins This is what surrender brings. It was no mistake my raised arms formed a crosshair. “We did the best we could.” Couldn’t those be anybody’s last words? They said they saw a bomb, a jar of gasoline, a wick crammed down its wide throat. Any excuse to shoot. We did the best, then raised our hands. They held the guns. Not another word. We cried. We did.

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ELLIOT JAMES BARKLEY, KIA, ATTICA REBELLION, SEPTEMBER 13TH, 1971 Paul David Adkins “We are men, we are not beasts.” But they shot that man, tethered like a rabid coon hound hours after the prisoners broke, china cups under the shunt of shotguns, billy clubs, “beaten as such.” Such bullshit, but who cares? Such lies, but that man stood singly tall. It’s true, “the sound before the fury.” Right lung sliced by a sniper pig-like in a mask.

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Blue Factories 1973 Ira Joel Haber 55

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California Drawing 1982 Ira Joel Haber 56

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Doodle Ira Joel Haber 57

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from February Collage Ira Joel Haber 58

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from July Collage 2007 Ira Joel Haber 59

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from Midsummer Collage 2012 Ira Joel Haber 60

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Tijuana Ira Joel Haber

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FICTION

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REGENERATION James Cihlar

Driving one summer in another neighborhood when I was not well, I parked in front of a barbershop on a busy thoroughfare; the stripes on the pole in front were streaming their inexorable slide upward. Behind wavy plate glass, an old barber stood, dressed in white, holding shears open in an accidental victory sign. Nothing made me scream more as a kid than going to the barber. The clipper’s buzz in my ear was a roar violating my shell. I twisted and cried in the chair until the buzz-cut ended. As I walked into this barbershop, the old man said to me, “Well, you’re back. Do you want the same cut as last time?” “I’ve never been here before,” I said. “Sure you were, I cut your hair just a month ago.” “That wasn’t me,” I said. I wondered what he saw when he looked at my body. I pictured someone tall and rangy, with a distracted air, perhaps in dungarees and plaid shirt, wearing horn rims, even though that’s nothing that I think I am. The old barber took some convincing, but eventually he conceded that I was not the man who looked like me. “How’s business?” I asked. “We’re at a crossroads,” he said. “So many things are changing.” He told me about the local boondoggle, the city council permitting developers to buy up old buildings like his, raze them, and put in new constructions that stayed vacant. “Are you sure you’re not you?” he asked again. “I see you around the neighborhood.”James Cihlar 805 Hague Avenue Saint Paul, MN 55104 jcihlar@earthlink.net 612-210-2656 An image can take the place of a name, I thought. How would I know what I look like from the outside when I have always been on the inside? For all intents and purposes, my head is the same shape as my house. I used to tap on my forehead and think of the bone beneath as permanent, then remembered it is fragile and thin, as if with force my fingers could dip right in and loosen up the pain of a headache or dislodge a worry. I didn’t want to see my image in the mirror. The old barber clipped away with assurance, the quiet click of scissors almost a comfort. When he was done, I ran my hand from back to front. It felt good. I looked, then, and my hair was different—gold and bristly like an aura. It was the best cut I’d 65

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ever gotten. He had given me what I did not know I wanted. He had made me look like someone else who looks like me. One cold winter years later, now recovered, I drove down that thoroughfare again and saw skeletons of condominium complexes and rentals arising from the grave. I thought then of the old barber and his barbershop, replaced by something else that will someday be replaced by something else.

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EVIL’S RECKONING (Excerpt from Ellevian’s Exodus) Joshua Thomas

A young timid prince ran to his mother’s quarters panting frantically. The hallway was dark and ghastly, but he knew the way. The stone floor he trampled on was cold and his bare feet made a slapping noise that reverberated off the stony walls as he went. He hated that he was afraid and worried his mother with his problems, but he had always felt insecure since the murder of his father, King Norad. The boy pushed aside two tall double doors unveiling a magnificent bedchamber. The walls were mahogany adorned with several scenic portraits of Allégema’s capital cities. A crystal chandelier glistened as it overlooked the room. An oval embroidered purple rug lie in front of the bedpost. Across from the bed hung a dazzling diamond framed mirror which reflected the silhouette of a woman shrouded in candlelight. “Mother something horrific is going to happen!” The boy panted; his eyes full of fear. The Queen regrettably tossed the sheets aside and rotated her small petite frame to the edge of the bed. She slid the canopy aside revealing her sleepless body. Her eyes were puffy and a little red from the lack of rest. She was in a purple sequin nightgown, which complemented the fine bed linen. Her hair was plaited in a series of braids that merged into one long ponytail. She lazily clasped her palms on Ellarion, more so to balance herself than to comfort him. “Relax my child,” she reasoned. “What upsets you so?” “I have had another dream mother…the very same one in fact. You know about the” “Yes, the one about our kingdom being overcome by a powerful sinister man,” she finished. It was the fifth time this week he had troubled her to what she thought to be nothing more than a factitious delusion. The Queen sighed, “My dear prince, how many times have I assured you that you should not pay any heed to this dream? It is nothing and I promise you it shall never come to pass. Do you understand?” “Yes, mother, I do,” replied the prince. “Are you sure?” she pressed. Her strained eyes looked deep into her son’s. “Yes mother,” he repeated. Ellarion inclined his head towards the ebony floor

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while the Queen continued to chide him, but his mind was not there. She had lost his attention to his own thoughts. His mother never believed him and it was times like these that he wished his father were still alive. He would have feigned interest at the very least, something his mother refused to do. She was straightforward and direct. The truth of the matter was this dream was not like any he’d ever had before. It was life like. A vision perhaps? He awoke from his trance to find his mother shaking him, “Ellarion do you hear me?” She admonished. “Nay, mother. May you repeat it?” he asked, coming back to reality. “I was saying you should retire back to your chambers,” she replied lowering her voice. “You have a busy day ahead and you will need your rest…as will I.” “May I perhaps retire here with you tonight mother?” Ellarion asked. He didn’t want to sleep alone with the prospect of the dream returning to hunt his vulnerability. “Nay, you are growing into a man now and it is time you embrace that. I will not allow the future king of Allégema to always run to his mother whenever he is afraid,” she lectured. Ellarion gazed into her droopy eyes for a small moment. She showed no sign of sympathy in the least. He had a system for her where he’d separate her two major titles; queen and mother. Whenever she was strict or nonchalant, he would view that as her sovereign role and not that of his mother. By doing this he could always assume or hope that his mother was sensitive and caring to his feelings. He kissed her hand, bowed, and advanced towards the door. Before exiting, Ellarion paused facing his mother once gain. “Good night, Majesty” he said before shutting the doors. Meanwhile, on the other side of the shadowed realm, a war was beginning to erupt. Darkness flowed throughout the skies, covering a legion of interlopers as they prepared to breach through the Capital, Doréme’s outer gate. Their leader, an intimidating man on a black stallion stood in their midst wearing a menacing grin.

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SHE’S MY BABY Donna D. Vitucci

Arise now. Everything you know has been erased. The third floor with its drafty hallway and its leaky window panes has been rented. The faces you drew with chalk in the closet under the eaves mourn your passing, grins flipped to frowns, their eyes x-ed out like the hammerdinged heads of cartoons. Your bike went at the last garage sale under the power of some other child’s pedaling, a child with a future, her gold egg still to be split. The tattoo-ed boys who lived next door, who humored you pestering them and who even painted a butterfly and pitchfork on your back side when you begged, have scored a new apartment. Their artistry lives on while your canvas cools. And those who loved you best? Your mother, certainly, grayed at forty, your fractured high school years launching so much of her sorrow. Each morning she walks the alley before dawn, a back way she knows like sleep. Sometimes she dreams her way to work, is surprised to find her full apron tied over the sweats she wears as pajamas, unlocks the supply door to Econo Foods and enters, flipping on the lights, tastes the vegetables and fruits in their bins just by breathing. Their spoilage and their done-by-dates pass through her teeth. Fruit flies dig in to the bananas, even fruit flies know when to hide, but you, you have always advertised your glory. First a toe-headed child, blond braids and Dutch girl embroidered dresses, then spangle skirts and jellie shoes, purple tights, eye shadow at ten. Maybe you were school smart; we don’t know. You missed a father, what guidance a dad might give, but a father could just as well shatter his girl, so maybe she saved you after all when she split with you. She accepts the blame but doesn’t know how she’d have done it any differently through her own weak times, debt, the drift-through lovers, the nightly pipe in the back courtyard shade. You have cupped her chin in your hands and drew her monkey-mug close when she raged over the poor bit of inherited jewelry and antiquated silver dollars you stole. With no remorse, because when would she ever get it unless you turned mean?, you spoke your toughest line into her grooved face: “It’s not for you to save me.” The doll you long ago named Patience, the one you told

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your secrets, observed from among the bed pillows without blinking. Patience never blinked. She housed your private thoughts and wishes inside her plastic head with your latest score. Your mother let you breathe jail’s consequences, and other times she took you right to rehab’s doorstep and signed you over, spent money she borrowed on therapy and lawyers, no bottom to the cellar of her love and your ornery pledges to behave. You drove her hope and her car hop-scotching into the junk heap, your last hysteria witnessed by the Jaws of Life. Your mother whispers, “She’s my baby,” and look, it’s your child she cradles, you, but not you, a likeness of you and that boy you shared needles with in Helentown under the train trestle, a steep gravely ash heap where you two leaned into slow easy breathing, taking it, and then barely breathing, revived to taste the street cocktail, like mouthwash tossed to the back of your throat, until no fight left in you, your utter lack of care even for him. Arise now. Bid good luck to the homeless lining in the alley for the Shelter’s opening, the wind tunneling to Sixth Street and you with it, you as you shed gravity, your stalled fireworks wrecking the constellations others look up at and admire as you bleed out among the streaks that define the Milky Way. How you tarry, now time’s run out, with lust for your daughter you never

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WRITING CONTEST WINNERS

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TIGER LILY Jamie A.G. Hamilton She was kissed by Helios Angel dust across the petals A fragrance of joy incarnate Planted beneath the tears of God A gift to all is the Tiger Lily â&#x20AC;&#x192;

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BIRD WITHOUT A NEST Dee Ora Simon Brave at heart and strong in soul She was determined to complete her goal Full of confidence, she never doubted While many around her protest and shouted Ninety-nine was her favorite number Though women’s rights continued to blunder AAS Boston was her white house She was a general in the war some are still fighting now She was a local celebrity in the town newspaper But there were a few locals who wanted to change her In 1928, she took flight with Schultz Accompanied by the sound of her racing pulse She received several awards for all she accomplished While sitting in her nice, comfortable cock-pit Across the Atlantic, she flew to Ireland Though she missed her target, she flew back to her home land During her attempt to fly around the world There was a slight problem when the propeller wouldn’t twirl When the plane was fixed she tried again And for 7,000 miles the ocean was her only friend What happened that day is still unclear But there were so many who lived in fear Presumed dead in 1940 Amelia Earhart’s life is an unfinished story.

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A WAR FOR WORDS Anita Aickareth In regards to the Zenger trial of 1734, the infamous Alexander Hamilton once said “truth ¬cannot be libel”. This idea of the freedom of speech in the first amendment should be no different in an educational setting. Educational institutions should take initiative to abide by such policies. With the empowerment of social media in student’s lives, students experience the widening ability to express their mindsets usually without a hassle. Restrictions on freedom of speech are central issues that cannot be avoided as students are constantly punished for their speech. The importance of protecting both verbal and symbolic freedom of speech must be brought to light. Free speech is essential for the advancement of higher education in both colleges and universities. Censorship of student speech stifles the use of creativity and the expansion of new ideas. Both in the classrooms and the university community, censorship will eliminate discussion and will serve as an impediment to the students trying to broaden their mindsets and become more open minded. For example, the scientific theories that many of us adhere to today began as a simple hypothesis. Among the student population is brilliant minds, some that may possibly even grow to become the next Einstein or the next Pascal. Among our student population can lay a mind intelligent enough to find the next cure to a disease. Therefore, it is the university’s responsibility to allow for such students to develop their talents by voicing their ideas. In accord with science, such future discoveries, such as a cure that can go on to aid millions, must start as a simple hypothesis that will proceed to be complemented by experimentation and statistics. However, for such hypothesis to even be revealed and developed there must be the simple freedom of speech and expression. Furthermore, as a college student’s level of knowledge increases, the student becomes more aware of their coming of age and begins to discover their identity and role in society. During this time of higher studies is the time where many students will begin to apply their understandings to develop and justify their ideologies and personal beliefs. One’s university learning is usually applied to one’s own philosophies. The lack of freedom of speech will hinder debate and the students’ ability to reach their own conclusions about life’s meaning. Such a freedom is crucial as it allows students to make a point. It also gives them space to be wrong without taking away the potential to redeem themselves afterwards. Students should be able to discuss on a global scale rather than only in the vicinity of a confined classroom setting. 77

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Freedom of speech will also allow students to easily express their ideas, both the good and the bad ones. With the free circulation of parallel ideas, we are able to trust that the right ideas will overshadow the bad on its own merits. With a suppressive government trying to remove the ideas they deem as improper, a false impression that the right ideas will only flourish under tyranny is created. Rather than attempting to squelch the expression of bad ideas into obscurity, we should prove the bad wrong and give more power to the right thoughts. In the words of the historical Thomas Jefferson, “error of opinion may be tolerated where reason is left free to combat it.” Moreover, the expansion of censorship in higher education can also go on to become an invasive threat to society. For example, censorship in higher education could possibly lead to a fascist monoculture. This is because students cannot express themselves, inhibiting any areas of growth. If they do however express themselves, they are forced to express only certain ideas that then could lead to a society in which some ideas are no longer allowed, while certain others are allowed. This is essentially fascism, a homogenous culture. Considering we fear a controlled society, by creating a fascist society and promoting censorship, we are creating a sense of suppressive government that can constantly have their prying eyes monitoring all our actions and words. Preventing freedom of speech in higher studies can serve as the basic stepping stone for the creation of a form of government that can acquire control to eliminate thought and even turn into “big brother”, the repressive government George Orwell warned us about in his legendary novel 1984. Intense censorship will mean we can’t warn the campus about the potential of the rise of a fascist culture. For centuries, the first amendment has upheld some basic principles, allowing for both the freedom of thought and freedom of speech. As decades go by, advancements in technology is increasing exponentially. However, along with this increased platform for communication also come new avenues for censorship. Thus, it is of high importance that both students and the faculty gain awareness of their rights to words and ensure their voice is heard on campus. Limitations to freedom of speech must be established only in the presence of obscenity or a clear and present danger. We must follow in the footsteps of certain individuals and ensure that the path that our founding fathers paved for us is not tainted by establishments infringing upon our right to words. Without being able to question ideas, display critical thinking skills, and expand one’s vision, one’s college experience will not be an intellectual victory. Freedom of speech is more than a blessing; it’s a right. And without this right, higher education simply fails to flourish. 78

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LOVER’S BALLAD Zorn Wyche Eternity—In perpetuum et unum diem In the depths of you, I have found Eternity resting. As I drench my soul in the drink of your wine, I search for the baptism of sunrise in your eyes And discover love among the chrysanthemums of your soul. The mountains lay their head upon a cloud, Bellowing the ballads of intimacy; Then, she parts her legs ajar, Giving birth to the sound of Eternity. In the great elevation of love, My heart desired to discover you; Graciously, you slept with Eternity in Sharon, And I developed the brightness of you in my hands. Upon seeing your face, I became Eternity. This skin is not an unfulfillment any longer, But I have forgotten meaningless promiscuity, For in you I am a flower blown into perpetuity. From the Depths— Ab imo pectore Sunrise vaulted throughout bliss, Running into the soul of Sunrise. From their bodily infusion Came the existence of nightfall. Incredulity sparked you into doubt. In apprehension, you lost Eternity in my eyes. The divergence of fate and destiny occurred As they separated from each other in Cimmerian day. Aloud, I cried the sentiment of my heart: The roots of love are planted deeply In the corridor of my deepest layer.

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If I open the door to my mind, Thoughts of you would amble outward. Until Eternity fades into nothingness, My love for you reigns supreme. Until Death and Life converge, You shall never escape my depths. I am a cloud blown mightily by your emancipation. Your skin and my soul are an inextricable force. If ever you leave, I will carry you physically in my embrace. For me to depart from your love is the greatest impossibility. Take a key and open the chamber to my soul; There, you will be bathing in Panglossian dreams. From the core of the earth to the core of my existence, You are the beauty being birthed from wombs of Sisyphean glow. In the invulnerable, unreachable depths, I place your debonair among the Sun of our blessedness. Your value, Utopian Phlox, extends into the galaxies, And in return you, they praise you from my core. Epiphany— Nunc scio quid sit amor A fool says in his heart, “Love is a withering lily of the valley.” I once believed in that oppression of thought, But because Love has shown me plentiful wonder, I have become like the glutton of Babylon, Quenched in my desire of thirst and hunger. A sage says in his heart, “Love is the uplift of the soul.” Because Love has offered me wine, I drink from its source and drown invariably In the imperial awe and wisdom it offers. To understand the knowledge of love’s uplift Is the greatest power the mind can fathom. 80

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You are that fathomable joy Resuscitating me into rivers of life. Once I was a captive wren, singing for latitude in love, For in my youth I had the heart of promiscuity. Now in my latter night, my body contains light In the form of love that you have generously offered. A Dedication—Tuus perdite sodalis amans When night becomes lonely and cold, I’ll fill your heart with the warmth of love. I’ll open the corridor to my soul and grasp You in the caress of a most tender forever and always. If your wings began to break amid sadness, I will escape heaven to exalt you above myself. Call upon my strength in the midnight hour And I will deliver you through solace. If your voice fails to sing out to the robins, I will open my throat and sing for you. My hands will sacrifice you to the god of Uplift And then you shall be elevated by my hand. For you, I will bring death to Luna and the Sun If ever they covet as so much the glow of your spirit. Let the melody of my presence grace you into ethereal passion, As I play for you the songs of my lover’s ballad.

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TALLAHASSEE ROUTE Danielle Francis It never occurred to me how messy I can look. It’s almost finals week. I’ve been wearing my friend’s navy hoodie with noticeable white writing reading, “Aeropostale” on the front for the past three days. I have on rainbow colored striped flats that guarantee no support and a pair of blue jeans that do not smell dirty. I am following the black college girl trend and have decided to go natural, so my hair is slicked back with gel into a ponytail with a poof at the end. My face is currently being attacked by acne, and although I am black, my skin is fair so the redness is excessively noticeable. I look slightly approachable because amongst all the other college students scampering to their 11:15’s, I’m not in a rush. Outside the air is muggy. The vibrant green wet grass and puddles of gray water sit still as I sift through the crowd of young adults cradling textbooks while texting on their way to class. Their pace twice as fast, in hopes to make it to their vehicles, across campus and in a free parking spot in the next fifteen minutes. But not me, because at 11:00 my Fridays are over, and my next destination is in the cafeteria upstairs. So I head there. With a possible glum look on my face, I head there. In my repetitive nature of walking past the people going uphill as I go downhill, I head there. Their faces disappointed as if they expected something to be different today. As if their Tallahassee route to class would change or their majors would suddenly be promising. As if tuition would be free or the weekend parties we all look forward to would be any different from the ones last week. As if anything would suddenly be different. But we only have one destination so we head there. And as my journey downhill comes to an end to start another down the stairs, I see you. It was then it occurred to me how messy I can look. I had been wearing the same musty old hoody for the past three days, dirty faded blue jeans and worn out striped flats that were now soaked from the wet grass. Up until then, no one was my friend because they chose not to inform me that my face was drowning in bright red spots in efforts to compliment my bushy, black ponytail. It did not occur to me that I looked disgusting. I know I’m not too easy on the eyes, but I could make an effort. And as you catch me staring, know that I can honestly do better. Two weeks ago when the sun was out, I wore a short dress with brown sandals. I had washed my hair and it was nicely pressed, lying down like the shampoo said it would. Two weeks ago I had a smile on my face and perhaps everyone 82

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else did too. For the air smelled like ripened spring, the ground warm like sweaters and dry like bread. Students leaned on railings as they spoke to friends. Professors rolled their papers to their classrooms. 11:15ers took their time to bask in the still morning light as I sifted. As I always do, I combed through the crowd only with intentions to arrive at my destination. I went past the girl with the army fatigue backpack leaned against the post, past the couple that looked like brother and sister, and around the boy slowly walking in front of me. But when I see you, it becomes a fact that you are not amongst the people in my routine. When I stare at you, I know that you do not belong on this path. On my path. And the way you stare at me gives me reason to believe that I do not belong here either. The way you blankly gaze, head tilted to the side to capture the entirety of little ol’ me. Brows furrowed, hair wild, mouth slightly parted as warm breath escapes from your lips into the day creating a small cloud of fog that slowly subsides into nothing. And just like that, you’re gone. And I would look back to see if you are real, but I simply don’t. I continue down the hill, to later go down the stairs, and back up a hill. I order the same pizza and sit by the same table with the same group of friends to have the same conversation and laugh at the same jokes. We go to the same house, with the same people who throw the same party every Friday and I later crawl into the same bed with the same thoughts on my mind. When Monday comes and I see you, I say it’s a coincidence. As we stare blankly at each other I am sure we can both only assume that this is some sort of accident. Everyone going up the hill has seen everyone going down, I’m sure of it. Everyone has went around the kid slowly walking with no purpose, past the lonely girl by the post and has witnessed the couple that could pass as siblings, I’m sure of it. But as we slowly glide past each other, eyes locked, head turned, and brows furrowed, the unknown bothers me. Who are you? With eyes so still, hair thick with coils, skin so fair and lips so parched protruding from a face full of scruff I ask, who are you? Much like Columbus, I have accidentally stumbled upon the America that is you. A discovery that confuses and fascinates me at the same time. A presence that has entered my path in what seems so suddenly. A placement so perfect though it does not follow my routine. And as Wednesday sails around I decide to ask you, but my words become muffled with a simple, “Hello,” only to receive one in return. You’re a boy in the south with no southern accent. Soft spoken, yet firm. Clear, yet uncertain. All of this conceived from a simple hello. 83

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It was enough to satisfy my wondering soul. A tune to replay over and over again for the remaining school years. I could have stopped there, and after you moved I should have, because two years later we’ve said more than hello. We’ve said our ‘til thens, and we’ve asked our ‘til whens? We’ve said our forgive mes and silently our forget mes. And we’ve said our goodbyes. We’ve wanted more and have wanted less, but finally came to a conclusion that a four hour drive to Tallahassee will not bring us closer. No matter how much I try to convince you that this could work, the distance is in your favor. So now we only argue simply because there is nothing left to do. I delete your number but respond when you want me because I want you too. And now every face I see that resembles yours leaves me with the guilt of losing someone I could never call mine. Moments like those bring me back to our only memory that Friday. I swallowed my routine and stepped off my track before you could get away with staring me down. I stopped you. And as I held your hand for those few seconds and welcomed your everlasting smile into my loosely woven memory, I never would have guessed that today I would be going down that same hill, eating with the same people, going to the same parties and crawling into bed with the same thoughts of you on my mind.

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CONTRIBUTORS

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FLORIDA A&M UNIVERSITY CAKE A JOURNAL OF POETRY AND ART VOL 9 2015