LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

STAFF

TABLE OF CONTENTS

GRANT’S ODE TO HIPSTERSOTH. NOTES:-Check if jenna’s story is in correct order-Need to fix some of the pictures-Let’s try to get some submissions from members of YW/Coffeehouse such as Elise, Anne...-Need coffeehouse posters-Find out title of poem by Pricilla-Letter from editor-Staff list & staff bios-Table of contents page-Page list

ONE LIFEJenna Casciano

He could feel her. All around him, the very current of life was al-tered where she stood. He felt her supple fingers tracing his brow as she brushed a thick shock of hair from his face. He felt small tingles of elec-tricity run down his scalp where her nails graced his skin; she always did have a funny way of setting off his circuits. Involuntarily, his back arched as he leaned into her touch and his eyelids fluttered feverishly, shudder-ing and twitching with every pulse of his racing heart. But yet as soon as he took a breath, flared his nostrils to drink the arid scent she carried, she was gone; replaced by the wind as it tugged cruelly at his jacket-collar. He could hear it, annoyingly quiet as it pitched forward and back again, pushed and pulled by the halting currents that whistled through the night sky. It occurred to him as being similar to a liquid-filled basin that had been stirred in one direction, and then suddenly thrust in the opposite direction, creating small spirals and twisting channels of confused water chutes. Even now, as he stood motionless and firm, the wind tore at him. His silhouette seemed statuesque; a pack of wandering teens meandering past him on the bridge barely gave him a passing glance. Whether it was the way he inanimately blended in with his harsh steel surroundings that deferred their interest or the sickly sweet aroma that was carried to him on the breeze, he did not know. He smelled it on their breath, saw it on their gait. Mary Jane was what she had called it; ironic, she jested, how she shared a first name with that intoxicating substance. He remembered her tinkling laughter through the smoke induced euphoria they had shared so many times. She had gripped him like a savage addiction and he had been powerless to resist. And just as withdrawal from a drug drives addicts to madness, every-thing began to turn rotten when she left. Mary was the sugar that coated Dom’s life, and without her, he began to see things as they truly were. It’s a harsh, cold world out there and without her there to push him forward, Dom fell further and further back. In fact, he mused, it could almost be assumed that she caused the crippling depression that wracked his body day after day. But even as he locked his arms, blunt nails pressing into his calloused palms, he knew he could never blame her. Mary was his precious china-doll; the keepsake he kept tucked away from the world, high on a shelf. But she had pitched forward, fallen, fallen, and shattered, her por-celain face cracked and jagged, her flawless beauty forever marred by her careless decisions. Dominic Johansen. What did that name mean to him anyway? Did a few characters typed onto a sheet of paper really determine his identity?

If he decided to call himself Jon Dominicson, would he suddenly grow six inches and sprout a head of flowing, shimmering bronze tresses? “What’s in a name,” what it Shakespeare who had said that? It was true. Dominic Johansen was Nobody, and no matter what he called himself, he would always be just a name. Invisible to the world, no one would notice if he were rubbed out, brushed out of existence without any fuss or commo-tion. It would be so easy; one day he would be there, and one day he would be gone. The space in the unemployment line he once occupied would be empty, soon to be filled by some other bum looking for a quick buck. He ran over the plan again and again in his mind, it was as if his train of thought had shifted tracks and was surging forward in a massive circle around the base of a glittering Christmas tree. It seemed so easy. All he had to do was swing his right foot forward into the ominous, impenetra-ble void, and fall. It had to be at least a 100-foot drop. At least it looked like it from where Dom stood. So simple. He didn’t even have to jump. But why were his feet so heavy? And why, despite the chill of the night-time air, was sweat beading at his hairline? So this was what it all came down to; him standing on the edge of a bridge with nothing to live for, and too afraid to jump. Too much of a pansy to continue living, yet too scared to accept death and end it all. Why was it so dark, didn’t they bother to light the bridges anymore? Dom had hardly noticed his eyes were closed. It didn’t matter. Visions of Mary danced behind his lids, teasing him with their wistful charm and nostalgic beauty. There was the time they went walking in the park that day and he had bought her an ice cream. She had dropped it, they had laughed. Another flash of a memory; the sound of her bell-like laugh-ter echoing in his ears as she whizzed past on a bicycle. The time she climbed a tree and asked him to join her, the time he joined even though he was afraid. When did that innocence shift to the noxious haze he was all too familiar with? When did her piano-key teeth begin to yellow with the nicotine she inhaled, or her cascade of shimmering golden locks turn thin and brittle? When exactly did he avert his eyes from the burns on her arms because the thought of her pressing a searing hot needle into her vein made him want to vomit? When did she being to repulse him? And why was he so surprised when she left? The tears were coming, why should he bother to swallow the lump in his throat and squeeze his eyelids shut? Dom felt them streaming down his face, lingering over the stubble that haunted his jaw line before trac-ing the length of his chin and dropping soundlessly into the chasm that spanned before his vision. Leaning heavily over the guardrail, he stared, eyes wide open, into the darkness. Why did people everywhere find it so hard to die? There are people in Africa starving, living for weeks without a scrap of food, and they persevere.

They don’t jump off bridges because their girlfriends find more solace in a hypodermic needle than they ever will in their lovers. But even though the thought should have given him strength, Dom could feel his soul being pulled into the swirling abyss where his mind had already fallen. As his fists clenched firmly down on the bitterly cold guardrail, some-thing caught his eye. A glimmer, a small twinkle in the black, endless night that was eagerly enveloping him. A thin fiber swayed in the gentle breeze, twisting and soaring as it yearned to break free of its anchors, catching the streetlights in its futile dance. A wisp of a spider’s web, long aban-doned and left to the elements. Yet as Dom’s curious eyes traveled up the length of the thread, they faltered, then locked on an almost comical sight: a small spider clutching the base of the string. Defiantly, its small legs curled around the runaway, tying it back to the metal pole it had been attached to. “Determined little thing,” Dom mused. He wanted to crush it, to take its tiny body in between his fingers and feel the exoskeleton crack, but he found he barely had the energy to breathe, let alone kill. And as he watched, the spider began to create. Inspiration, creativity, and even beauty flowed from its fingertips as it danced along tightrope wires, cir-cling and circling in a fluid spiral. Dom didn’t know how long he stood mesmerized by the spider’s dance, but by the time he shook himself from his stupor, it had stopped moving. The spider hovered, halfway between the two guardrails. The thought that it had given up briefly crossed Dom’s mind, but as he shifted his weight off his aching knees, something caught the dull glow of the streetlamp. A myriad of fibers, a cacophony of lights presented themselves before his disbelieving eyes. An intricate design of circles and lines of light and dew spanned the length of the guardrail where air had been before. It stood in sharp contrast with its dull surroundings, glimmering warmly in a nest of cold steel. And in the middle of it all sat the humble spider, happy to rest in the comfort of its new creation. What it was that gave Dom his first hint of inspiration he never knew, but the origin didn’t matter. A cloud, although small, had flitted away from its spot in front of the moon casting a small veil of light. There was an effervescence waiting behind the gloom, and Dom felt a sudden, grip-ping urge to find it. Even though it was still the dead of night and the only thing close to a moon or a sun was the streetlight a few yards away, he had unconsciously come to a startling conclusion. Even by existing, he was important. If he had decided to crush the spider outright, it would never have completed its web. And if the web had never been completed, in the future, a mosquito might not die trapped in it. And if mosquito doesn’t die trapped in that web, a small child won’t contract malaria from its infectious bite. That child won’t die, her mother won’t grieve, and a family won’t suffer. All for the sake of one small action, one small life. Just one life. His life.

Who knows how many people he could affect by dying? For all Dom knew, his death could start wars. In a few years, he could find the cure for cancer! He could be the president! With a rush of passion, he burst from his stu-por, leaping from his stationary state with a sudden jolt. Dashing down the street in a heated frenzy, he screamed to the skies, “I’m Dominic Johansen, you hear?!?” For the first time in a long while, Dom felt important. The wind tore at his face as he ran, tears trickling into his ears, blown back by the force of the gale as he ran. His sneaker-clad feet pounded the concrete in a steady rhythm. One-two-one-two, the peat of his heart, the beat of the world. Ev-erything was connected, he finally understood. A glimmer of light snagged his line of vision, tugging it to the lone street lamp that illuminated the bridge. With a mighty leap, Dom thrust his body from the ground and land-ed heavily on the guardrail, one hand grasped firmly around the rusting neck of the street lamp, the other clawing the air in blissful hysteria. Was he screaming or smiling? Dom hardly knew. All that mattered was he was im-portant. He was worth something. He had a purpose. Dominic Johansen. Not Dom and Mary, just Dom. But it was cold. Nights are cold in November. Dom hardly felt the cold, but the bridge felt cold. The bridge had no feelings against Dom, but it was in its nature to freeze its steel frames when the air was chilled. Likewise, the night didn’t hold a grudge. It put down dew when the air grew damp. Per-haps the dew didn’t like Dom very much, it crept under his sneakers as he stood tall, tasting the night air atop the guardrails. And, as he lurched to the right to return to the ground, he fell.

Simply.Fell.One moment he was there, one moment he wasn’t. Rubbed out. Erased. For a moment, a stinging wave of panic swept through Dom’s body, but as the wind pushed at his back and he watched the street light retreat into the heavens, his eyes closed, and he laughed. A girl passing by on the bridge one night would later recall how the wind blew up rather forcefully. It sounded to her like tinkling laugher, almost like bells.

IF THE DESCENT IS THUS SOMETIMES PERFORMED IN SORROW, IT CAN ALSO TAKE PLACE IN JOY.

- Albert Camus

MACBETH, REINCARNATED AS A PIOUS KOIBY JOIE MEIER

The tricklinglike a babbling brook withthe volume turned downI’ve only known him fora week maybeand yethis lying on the bottom of his tankon his backgulping at the waterI appear calmas I weep internallyhe kicks his tailstruggling to get upto swim againto feel the water stroke his gillsand the sun on his scaleshe blinks,his eyes a murky greylooking at me, glazedI know I won’t see him tomorrowhis little translucent fin waves,good-bye! goodbye! and good-bye!

UNTITLED BY GERALDINE RIVERA

If someone should everHand me some gold deed

That read as such a dreamy thing asYou shall never lift a finger

All handmaidens shall lift them for you

You shall never make a stepYoung men will carry you to and fromYou need not worry of the latest cloth

You shall always start the newest thought You need not worry of others better than

theeYou shall always sit atop the stars

I would smile amorouslyEagerly agree to all of its rules

ThenBy some poor excuse of what I am

Forget to place my pen upon itSlumber on the day it’s to be called

Or to be heavy footed to place it back in turnAnd then live life as ever I have before.

SOLITUDEBY HANNAH BUCCHIN

I feel itas I tread softly on a battlefield of years gone by

and know that here, people havelived

and here, people havefought

and here, people havedied

and the frosty blades of grass crackle under my feetas the whispers of the voices of yesterday scatter in the wind

and I know that I am not the first to walk here,and I will not be the last,but for now, I am alone.

I feel itwith my shoes off

on a spring day in Central ParkLaying on a smooth, warm rock in the pale morning sunlight.

Chatter and music and beeping and shouts careen throughout the airand in this bustling crowd of thousands,

I find a quiet peace in my anonymityand in this grassy, sunlit haven amongst the cement and steel of the city.

I feel itat the top of mountains:

at the tip of a craggy red peak in Coloradowhere I can practically touch the clouds as they lazily drift by

and in the chilled and snowy glacier mist at the pinnacle of a Montana mountainfar above the glassy blue crater lakes, higher than even the mountain goats venture

and at the crest of a huge grassy hill in Scotlandwhere the salty wind whips my hair around my face,

and perfectly untouched green hills and valleys stretch for miles.At the peak of these mountains I can touch the sky

and I am sure that I am higher than anyone else in the world

has ever been.I feel it

in the water:

in the salty waves of the Atlantic,in the warm, lapping waters of Floridian shores,

in the rushing, wild currents of the frigid Colorado River,in the rough and rocky waters off the untamed coast of Maine.

When I take a deep gulp of air and dive underwaterand wriggle and kick until I am skimming along the sandy bottom

eyes closed, breath heldfloating, suspended in infinity

time freezes, sound ceasesand I could stay under forever

invincible.I feel it

at the moments where the immense and colossal beauty around m emakes me feel infinitesimal

and at the moments when the unchanging stillness and sheer stability of the earthmake me feel infinite

and at the moments when the endless past and everlasting history of this worldmake me feel fleeting.

I feel it.

INSIDE AND OUTSAMUEL PRESTON SWANSON

To be in the earth and not of the earth is to close your eyes. It’s to peer into a mirror and see nothing.

The high quality of emotion we each have must be separate from what is seen.

These clothes I wear hide nothing but essential organs that uphold what-ever unseen ghost my body either holds captive or supports. This, along

with such organs used to reproduce.

I’ve added to this body over the years, however. I see it as an earthly rec-reation; along with lust haircuts, illness, and broken bones, these are just things that are nothing more than “of the earth”. They have no bearing on what may potentially move on from this body, or maybe even this world.

Sometimes there’s a lot to grasp and far too much to understand.

Luckily this world gives us some time to ponder.

LIPSTICKPRISCILLA HUERTAS

The arch of her back,The confidence in her stance,

The gleam in her eyes;I wanted it all.

I watched her apply her lipstickAnd wondered

What secrets, what lies, what storyHid behind the long lost color

Of those beautiful lips.They were always stretched

In a smile that made everything seem brighter, wonderful,Until suddenly there weren’t any shadows.

But I was just small,No burden upon my shoulders

Or even knowing the shadows were cruel.One thing I did know

Was that I would be waiting for that dayWhen I can dress my lips with my very own lipstick

Hiding my secrets, my lies, and my story.Even stretching themTo hide my shadowsAnd hopefully yours.

MY TOESby Vrinda Jagota

Grow ten clawsI trim in my buttercream bathroom

As I rememberI’m a part of nature, too.

Flail and kick my motherAs she desperately tries to calm

The unruly curlsAnd her unruly toddler.

Shrivel into golden raisinsRipened by an Indian sun.

I was afraid to jumpBut the water was too enticing.

Are perfectly paintedShoved into too-small, too-high, too pink heels

At my first real dance.I hope they play Justin Timberlake

And I don’t fall.

Are too longToo narrow

Too darkAs I become a self-absorbed teenager.

SnapOn the fourth hill repeat

But I keep going… A fracture or two never hurt anyone,

Right?

Tap as I glance at the clockOnly four minutes

And I can’t remember what Vicissitude means

Even though it was on the list Of 1000 most common SAT words.

The kid next to me finished 5 minutes agoI’m not getting into college.

Are laced into purple spikesPoised on an infinite starting lineLike Pavlov’s dogsWaiting for a gunTo run like hell.

Submerged in a bathtubFilled with the remains of the day:Sweat, hairspray, perfumeA 2010 radio hit buzzing through my headMy best friends planning our senior trip to Harry Potter World.

Tentatively tap the gasMy dad’s reassuring hand grips the emergency brake.You know- “Just in case”.

But today they are made of leadAs I cruise down the highway My parents said to be home by darkBut I’m going to be an hour latePaul McCartney sings a song of teen rebellion over the speakers.

Scramble down a steep ravingI should have worn my Birkenstocks Too much mudBut I made it! I place an old medal on a tree branch“Man immersed in nature” and all thatWhen I get too stressed, I remember that it’s still hanging there.

Always face forwardThe direction I have to walkTomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

SOLITUDEby Joey Mathias

There exists a simple joy in solitudehidden among its complexitiesoften it is only silencesilence of the mind andsilence of the fingersoften it is the silence of companybut never is it the silence of emotionit is in solitude that the emotions are untaintedwhere every emotion can be feltangrilypassionately

loneliness is often felt when one is alonebut real loneliness is only had when onefeels alonein the midst of the crowdI feel alonein my own householdI feel alone in solitude rarely do I feel aloneand rarely do I wish for the companyof othersthere is a time and place for solitudea time to feel what could not be felt with othersa time to think what could not bethought with othersa time to be alonebut to be immersed in your own mind

in solitude there lives solacethe solace of controlto wake up and existautonomouslysynthetic relations glue the weakto the strong individualsthose bound out of custom to their dependentsand those dependents bound out of custom to theirguardiansfor every day we rest on the false crutches of societywe become less realwe forget how to livethat all you need is a body

contemplation lives not in discussionbut in thoughtin thought lives true emotion and true designin thought lives the dilapidation of relationshipsthe contemplation of faults and follyand the modern dissatisfaction with lifein thought we perceive our false livesand we grasp for thembut they fall through our fingersas the wispy smoke of the magician slidesacross our handsIt is no surprise that we abhor contemplationit is all that we avoidignorance is the greatest justification of our actionsand through ignorance we need only to justify them to ourselveswhy think when we can decide not to

but after every solitude there is speechthere are peoplepeople who do not understand those that live in solitudethose whose fingers never fall silentwill never know soundthose whose mouths never cease, will neverknow speechthose whose minds never stop thinking, will neverunderstand how the other half liveshow the other half eats and breathswithout flinching without thinkingwithout livingWith arbitrary passion they float alongbobbing at the mercy of their own synthetic livesthat they cannot see or understandfloundering in the abyss of their own…

THE ANCIENTby Joie Meier

I,who have kept watchfor these long centuriesof love and strife,cannot force those who havesat beneath my leavesand carved hearts into myancient umber trunkof anything with my rustling,my voice is carried by the windand only understood by the birds.I have seen battlesand weddingsand still,the children of this green earth warinternally,convinced of somethinggreater than the warmth of the sunon their eyelidsor the beauty of a virgin snowbut I,in my years knowthat there is nothing beyondthe coo of the mourning doves in themorningand the sweet feeling of the love of those around them.

I HAVE LOVED TO THE POINT OF MADNESS; THAT WHICH IS CALLED MADNESS, THAT WHICH TO ME, IS THE ONLY SENSIBLE WAY TO LOVE.

- FRANCOIS SAGON

POETRYMeg Mello

The sun risesreflecting rays ofgold onto thewaking smiling world.The multicolored petalslazily begin stretching,shaking off theirhazy morning drowsiness.Peeling back theirdew-matted shields,their faces appearkissing the sun.Out of theircenters flow magic:thoughts, feelings, words, rhymes,lines, stanzas, metaphors, similes, imagery.The flowers dancealong breezes, wavingoff each wordinto the sky.To be suckedup by manyand be moldedinto beautiful structures.The poet writesfrom the flower’swords, works ofpeace, happiness, emotion:poetry.

A LIFE IN MUSICBy Jenne Mante

Soft notesTwinkle from above my crib

In sync withThe stars twirling round

Ashes, ashesWe sing

Circles spinWe all fall down

Silly tunes, laughsGiggles

Nonsense words

Smooth tones of the saxSwirl around my books

A final is looming

A journey completeThe caps fly in the air

To the tune of our successIn the form of a simple melody

SunglassesWind blowing in my hair

Carefree songs flowing fromThe open top

Of my convertibleFreedom at last

The dignified strainsOf that timeless melody

Fill my earsAs my future walks towards me

Dressed all in white

Another lullabyThis one sungLooking down

At a precious new face

The harsh beats pulseThrough the floor

Cursing and screamingMakes my head pound

Teenagers are a mystery

Slow sad hymnsThe ending of an eraThe ending of a life

My life

Above the cloudsWhere the sun shines from

I hear the sound of the harpThe flute

The musicOf the heavens

END OF THE BEGINNING by Jesmira Bonoan

Here’s to the end of the beginningTo the final act

in our little play we call “childhood”From the moments we’ll not want to remember

To the memories we’ll never live downAnd the adventures we’ll never re-live

With the people we’ll never forget

Here’s to the codenamesAnd the creepy obsessions

And the car chasesAnd getting stuck in the snow

In front of the wrong houseAnd yelling his name

In front of the wrong house

To the internetAnd the facebook threads

And the failed blogsAnd the cyberstalking

Which translates to I love youIn my head

Here;s to the cliche poetryAnd not caring about an English poem

Due in four hoursAnd instead doing whatever a soul desires

Because that’s more poetic

Here’s to dancing on top of HummersAnd doing it “slattily”

And falling in love at first grindand unbrushed teeth

To front-of-the-house driveway confessionsResulting in dead batteries

And Burger King runs at odd hoursAnd 8th grade dances

And parking lot dancesAnd surprise parties

And lame Christmas partiesFollowed by revealing sleepover conversations

And lame post-Christmas party fights

Here’s to “Salv Arm Wednesdays”And blowing Christmas money

And Bible cluband blogging

And boysAnd being hated

by absolutely everyone

And loving every single minute

Here’s a toastTo ~SeNiOr yEaR~

Inspired by Laguna Beachand Disney Channel original movies

And attempting to capture every moment of itAnd never regretting a single second

SHAPELESS by Vrinda Jagota

Infinite yet unexplainable in solitudeIncomprehensible without external definitionGrades presuppose intelligenceLaughter presupposes humorMoney presupposes success.Alone my Self seems to ebb beyond tangible limits.Beyond my fingertips and toesBeyond the glow of my computerBeyond the hum of my phospheresent light bulbAnd into the air and universe around meBut the DING of the cookie timer reminds meThere is a world outside myselfThat I needFor definitionFor explanationI am too small, too singular, too isolated to comprehendTo appreciate, to love, to createWithout inspiration.I am not isolatedNothing I say is originalThank God (another societal imposition?)Because every beautiful word, thoughtSaid before meIs a splash of color and definitionOn an otherwise shapeless existence.

I.Too far behind

to catch up in time.Forward rushes the tide

erasing my footprints.My past.

II.A vast nothingness lies

ahead of me.Mile after mile.

Only me and the sea.

III.An attraction for life,

you please me.A pull towards death,

you tease me.

IV.With each crashing wave

captive voices ring outfrom deep down.

Apart from this earth.

V.Escape in not an option.

In the sea is wherea fish should be.

VI.He took her heart

and promised to keep it safe.That was a decade ago.

Yet prayers still reach the heavensfrom the widow’s peak.

VII.Her lantern’s light crosses my path.The sea must be hunting tonight.

VIII.Brother moon,guide me awayfrom temptations face.

IX.Could one look truly kill?Could one kiss be fatal?

X.Wind whipped hair,shield me from the reflectionI know all too well.For what is seen,is not always real.

XI.The captain offers mehis hand.My savior.

XII.Our fingers touch,ever so slightly.The lantern extinguished.The moon shining bright.

XIII.Reflections of lightshimmer along the sea’s surface.My footprints illuminated bythe sun of the dark.I am not alone tonight.

FOOTPRINTS by Kaitlin Soriano

FACE YOURSELFBy Jenne Mante

Solitude is the chance to be aloneWith your thoughts and feelingsIt is those times when you must

Face the reality of your own mind,And the things you have hidden there.

It is the discovery of love,And the remembrance of pain.

One never knows what will be foundWhen you take the time to be yourself,

By yourself.Many are afraid to face themselves

Without the mask they wear to hide their doubts,Because they are afraid of what they

Will see in themselves.But those who seek, find.

Find happiness.Find healing.Find closure.

Find patience.Find love.

Find their true selves.And that is why we must face it.

The beauty of solitude is that it looks however you want it to.

A WINTERY MUSINGFOR ANA WHO MAKES MY HEART BEAT STRONGERBY TERRY HAHN

It is afternoonI sit in my roomreading my poetry

what love lost andwhat grief borne can Ifind?

souls do seek some sanction in the seasons

I stare outside my windowat palsied limbs of the evergreenthrowing off the remainingcrumbs of snow

like old men shaking offthe bitter, deciduous cold

the wind lippingits misery

I, in my scarfYou, far away

13 WAYS OF LOOKING AT DREAMSby Natalie Riess

I.Random neurons firing

when you sleep at night-timeNothing special.

How you interpret them Is a matter of psychology.

II.I Think I had a particularly interesting one

Last nightBut I can’t really remember it

III.eating a sandwich

It’s a very good sandwichBut purely fictional

IV.Terrifying

Hands in the darkTeeth grinding against our feet

We can’t find the kittensWe can’t find the door

V.Where did you come from?

I don’t understand what you are trying to tell meSpeak up

I can’t understand

VI.Pulled through the dark by my arm

By the Bone WifeShe wants to poison me with

Her perfumes and teasI have to be clever!

VII. Let’s run away together!

Oh waitYou’re not there?

What am I doing in this dress

VIII.If we just believe, we can build a tower to the stars!

All our wishes can come true!We only have to trust in the strength of our hearts!

IX.I’m sitting on a chair.

Just sitting there.Goldfish are on the table.

This is a boring dream.

X.Maybe this is a stress dream?

That would explain whyI am in a car that is being driven

By the children that lived across the streetWhen I was 6 years old.

XI.Not again

I don’t want to be eaten by Sock puppets!

But waitTheir button eyes try to tell me something else

I don’t know what they are trying to tell meI just want to get out of here

Where is the doorWhere are the kittens

XII.It was fabulous!

There were rainbows everywhere!And magic!

I flew in circles and saved the worldReal life disappoints me when I wake up

XIII.

Dreams are stupidand weird

I always forget mine

SADNESSBY CARRIE WEISS

Like rolling blackouts

It comes at

Unexpected times

Turning my well-lit life

Into a pool of darkness

Turning the bright room

Into dancing shadows

Coming and going

Constantly

Under the FloodPhaedra Davis-Foell

I live underwater now. It’s only when it rains that I escape to the air. Just before the flood that put me under, I saw the waves coming

and watched them cover up the sun. And everything was swept away by the sheer might of the ocean and I held to the rocks, longing for a

forgotten shore. The current slowed and I saw the people I had known once. They floated on their backs, their drowned eyes staring at my life

and the way I knew how to breathe.

I live underwater now, where my home is a coral cave and I am learning to be alone. The brilliant rays that shoot down to my depths remind me of the bright boy who went with the flood; the boy with a swimmer’s jaw and brass laughter and bones lighter than air. He knew how to float, but he only floated away from me. The boy I loved before

the flood, slowly becoming my anchor, holding me below the sea. I live underwater now. I have watched a ship quietly sink to the

ocean floor. I pondered who to save, and I chose a man with hair like the sun and stormy eyes that opened far too wide. I dragged him

sweetly to my secret place and he spoke in wavering tones, only say-ing, “Why”. My smile helped him to swim and breathe. Eventually, ‘I’

became ‘we’.

We lived underwater then, until the taste of oxygen and sky dragged him away. He swam to the surface to drink in the air. He had always spoken of clouds, and when he found them, I was once more a ‘me’.

I live underwater now, and will for eternity. I am alone with just thoughts and budding gills that let me breathe. I do not ever see the

sun, nor do I speak. This is my life, beneath the sea.

THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT THE SKYBenjamin Jones

ILook into the air.Let its ights remind you ofAl that will be andAll that you will soon forget

IISuch arcane beauty,Yet only to be rememberedAs a time of day.

IIIThis feeling of helplesness, ofInsignificane, suffocates him as heDesperately pleads for anUnderstanding from above.

IV.We are all theStuff of the stars.

V.How can I carry myselfSlowly enough to remember theBirth and death of the day?

VI.As the clouds wander only toDiminish into nothing,So must life.Forever forgotten.

VII.To be one with the skyCan only ever be enough.

VIII.As he passed through this starry night,He realized that Everything worth searching for

IX.He trembles With a fear of the unknownAs the sky trembles alongWith him.

X.The answers lie withinThe glittering blackness.

XI.The world is endingAnd the sky just stands still.

XII.To be without the sightOf the sky is to beWithout realization--Without purpose.

XIII.In its perpetual moments of peaceIs the assurance that In the end,Everything will be all right.

A WORLD IN SOLITUDEby Isabelle Bradford

Like an extension of my fingertipsThe room begins to fill with brilliant colorsWith my commandBlue, green and gold swell and take overLeaving only faint memories of drab reality grey.With thick, smooth brush strokes the painting unfoldsBut it is not so much if a landscapeNot a portraitOr a still-lifeBut a background for a stageAnd play is perfectionThe deceitful are sincere,The stubborn are apologeticEven people with no personality,Are bursting with lifeThe curtains openThe lines beginThere is a magnificence in the dialogueThe brilliance of one voiceStories are told of events that have yet to happenOf love and happinessof beauty, grace and justiceApologies are given,And they are accepted.However, all this perfection is mundane.I am the foil.I am the oppositionAnd then the door opensAnd nothing has happened.

Pricilla’s other poem <insert here>

DRIVINGBY AVANI PISAPATI

I.I am 16,

I have a sheepskin-fur wheel-cover,What could possibly go wrong?

II.Next in line, pull up to the speakers,

Warmed by a neon light that split the night,While a soundtrack drones in the background.

A delicious culmination to the day,(All for our very hard-earned three quarter and two

dimes)Hand fed to me as I steer these passengers’ lives.

III.A heart-to-heart is coming on,

After making the ascent to the house.The rain lulls us in this

Remote vessel alienated from the rest.Engines turned off, asses must be frozen,

I say,As we talk for the next two hours,

Parked with our seats reclined to the moon roomAnd our toes pointing to the house in front of us.

IV.Winter.

The car becomes the humble abode,As we race to its doors.

A hybrid of conquest and shelter,It becomes,

As windows are cracked,Heat blasted.

V.Stomach-dropping turns and passed speed-bumps,

Mix with adrenaline for a faux high,All to follow a car with Tennessee license plate.

Hoods are up,Dignity sacriviced.

VI.An infant dot on the dashboard arrests

Your entire freedom.

VII.Dad throws away the skull mounted on

My dashboard,Empties the glove compartment of receipts,

Adjusts volume level without consent.Thou that interferes with the car,

Shall never be forgiven.

VIII.Old CDs reemerged from the depths of the trunk

Are inserted,As nostalgia,

Unlike any other breed,Penetrates our free souls.

IX.Contemplating the intricacies of life,

At one traffic light after the other,Feeling the nauseating impact,

Of one mental fender-bender after another.

X.Racing against the clock,

Forging the laws of physics.On time.

Best day ever.

XI.Parents drive.Late to school.

Everyone sucks.

XII.Switch lanes,

Hear an alarming honk,That perpetuates in your brain for hours.Maybe you’re not so grown up after all.

XIII.The acceleration,

The braking,The steering,

Become a chore,Manacles from one place to the next

Destinations are more important Than the ho-hum detour between them.

Bored.Even with my own thoughts.

Give NPR a chance.

PRISCILLA HUERTAS

EMOTIONSFLOATING, AIMLESSLY,NEEDING TO BE CONTAINED.A SWARM OF COLORSBOUNCING AROUND INSIDE.RAGING RED, BODACIOUS BLUE,GUSHING GREEN, WELTERING WHITE,GLOWERING GRAY AND WORST OF ALLBULGING BLACK.THEY NEED TO GO SOMEWHERE,SOMEWHERE THEY’RE NOT ABANDONED.SO THEY’RE INKED ON PAPERWHERE THEY ARE MOST EASILY EXPLAINED AND EASILY REMEMBERED.EACH LINE, LIKE A SCAR EMBEDDED IN THE WEB OF MEMORIES,AND YOU’RE THE TRAPPED FLY.TH ESPIDER WILL NEVER DIE,BUT THE INK MIGHT.

ON FRIDAYS AND SENIOR YEARJESMIRA BONOAN(Written as a response to Vrinda’s dissertation on Rebecca Black’s Friday)

There is no more perfect paradigm for senior year than Ms.Black’s Friday.

At a stage in life when you find yourself at the brink of an era, facing the monster that is maturity and the unknown, all one can really do is retire to the reassurance brought by those three carefree days of the week; the reassurance that the friends, the adventures, the sleepless nights and un-brushed teeth and boy-crazy lifestyle will never end. That is why we are so compelled to recite and relive those glorious days that are the week-ends like it’s an anthem.

But in a more general scheme of things, the song’s blunt recounting of one’s daily routines and the universal sentiments felt on that one holy day of the week so honestly equates to the absurdity of life and the hurricane of emotions that comes with it, it’s uncanny.

Really, how often do we find ourselves with that over-eager “we got this, you got this” attitude? As teenagers, how often do we feel immortal and infinite with our friends to our right? How often do we find ourselves de-feated, attempting to decide which seat in life we are to take? Don’t even get me started on the rap verse.

When you allow yourself to listen to loud music with the car windows down and dye your hair green and party because nothing really matters in life but fun and thinking about it, you’ll find that there’s poetry in all things and you’ll realize that you are suddenly more human because of it.

SELF-PORTRAITS BY KEVIN CHEN, SENIOR

HIPSTER BOYJESMIRA BONOAN

Turning heads, you’re a show-stopperWith that indie-boy swagger

Plaid and cardigans what a sightYour right jeans make my jeans tight

Sea of chocolate mane so tenderTo your neckbeard I surrenderCuz out of ten, you’re eleven

Sent by god from hipster heavenYou even blog, what a score

I’ll show you mine if you show me yoursStraight out of a UO catalogYou look so good in analog

You’ve got that 500 days flowWith a mix of Wes Anderson though

Got that Bill Murray steezeCuz you’re chill but not sleazyYou’re a dream that’s my point

Take me to your favorite vintage jointAnd we can listen to Animal Collective together

And go on roadtrips and quirky endeavors While we search for triangles in the sky

Reblog each other until we die

Dear Anonymous,

I hope you die and rotYou already smell like you didI’m sure you get this a lotBut you’re a tramp of a kid

“Horse man” you say?You’re hardly a ponyThough you down drugs like it’s hayYou’re still a pretty big phony

You’re a barely functioning stonerHope you fall off that boothYou’re forever a lonerI’m just telling the truth

Odd Future’s getting old, dudeYou like Skins? That’s kinda gayStatus: Not Told [ ] Told [X]And Wavves sucks anyway

Why didn’t I notice beforeThat you’re a monkey faced fat lardGuess I should have known betterThank to fall for a b-tard

I’m mostly ashamed thoughOf the entire five seconds that I liked youYou just lost the game, broYou’re forever banned from MY pool

And you’re not the sharpest knifeBut my god, you’re a toolSo good luck in lifePlease don’t blow up my school

Sincerely,Anonymous

THE SLOW WALKERBY COOPER LEARDI

Let us examine another human of the hallsOne who seems to bother us all.The one known as the Slow Walker is here to stayClogging the overpass Monday through Friday.He or she is not hard to pick out,But truly frustrating they are, no doubt.As most are trying to not be late for their 1st block class,The Slow Walker makes it difficult to bypass.Rarely seen with an actual backpack or books,They see you coming and give you bad looks.Their shuffling feet couldn’t beat a snail in a race,While kids behind them have that telling “pissed-off” face.High top sneakers adorn their feetWhile they stride side-to-side clearly off beat.The Slow Walker is a thorn in every real student’s side,Roaming the hall aimlessly and glassy-eyed.A soon to be victim of the fashion police,The Slow Walker is often subject to being obese.So next time this nuisance is blocking your journey to learn,Study the telling slow walk patternAnd soon you’ll be passing their face of disgust,Leaving the Slow Walker in your dust.

THOUGHTS ON A BIRD OF THE MORNINGGRANT HAINES And so she dances. Over the beaded morning dew, as too do her colors flit and waltz through the cool air. More vibrant than any Monet lying under scrutinizing gazes, the iridescent reds andgreens and blues of the hummingbird’s back shine as does the sun; as do the sky’s bands after amidsummer shower; as do the eyes of a loon on a misty Mousam morning. But she differs fromthese things, for none can tell for whom the loon sings her sombre tune, for rainbows coverliberally the skies for any who care to delight in her colors, for Helios throws his arms ‘cross themountains and glens, warming the earth for all who tread upon it. No, the hummingbird is notlike these things, though they be the envy of all nature’s branches, all her twigs and leaves. She dances for me The pomp of the redwood’s fanfare calls out, so too do the strings of the river and thesymphony of the high peaks beyond. But I do not hear them. Their crescendoes ring out amagnificent melody to the skies, to the sea, to each other. But they fall empty on my ears,because the hummingbird is a soloist. As am I. And there is nothing more beautiful to anaudience of one than a chorus of one. Though the orchestra can produce a sound beyondcompare, can create landscapes and textures that may only otherwise appear in the most fantasticvisions of sleep, it may also deceive. While the trumpets climb and call out from atop the world,the cellos or horns may hide in the clouds. While the bass or bassoon descends to ChallengerDeep and lifts the ensemble on its shoulders, an oboe may resist. But for the soloist, for thehummingbird playing for an audience of one, there is no respite, no hiding, and this is what pullsat the soul of the other. Her whole and all her parts down to her smallest feathers call out in harmony far beyondtheir stature. Even as each to function needs its fellows, it takes but one chromatic feather, nay,but one pearly thread of a chromatic feather to bring a man to his knees. For that man knows, asno other man can know any fact of math or science, any theorem or formula or equation orpostulate, that for his eyes only does this single thread of dark and heavenly pearl exist. Even thebird herself, supported by tens of thousands of others could do without its light touch over thewind. But were a blundering crowd to approach, with much noise and commotion, to gaze uponthe tiny and beautiful spectacle, and were that crowd not a crowd but a single man treadinglightly on the forest floor in soft leather slippers, or even another bird gliding slowly through thetrees on silent wings, the hummingbird would certainly vanish before the elapsing of a secondinto the wood, that single fiber would cease to be as a thing of beauty or function to the entire And such is my luck. As another man walks up the trail, treading lightly on the forestfloor and in soft leather slippers, she flies, leaving the pale pink of her lilac blossom behind, intothe wood. I do not blame the man, he does not know what I have found, or more properly hasfound me. He seemed to be one who enjoys the warmth of the sun, and the bands ‘cross the skyafter a midsummer shower, and the eyes and song of a loon on a misty Mousam morning, but heis walking much to fast to find anything, or to be found on a morning in the wood. It is alrightthat I lost my soloist. I knew her sweet etude would not last, but she keeps playing to me in away that only an audience of one, a soloist himself, may understand. For as she flew off, toanother lilac in the bush, she left behind a single thread of pearl. And so I dance.