•
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Marist College
Literary Arts Society
Presents:
The Mosaic
Spring 2006




THE
MOSAIC STAFF
Executive Editor: Kelly Glynn
Assistant Editor: Richard J. Langlois
Staff:
Allyson Corcoran
Craig Ellsworth
Amanda Hurlburt
Marion Quirici
Lindsey Siegirest
Alex Sutton
Special thanks to Professor Thomas Zurhellen for his continued
support
Thank you to Bria Soucy for her the cover art and section cover
artwork






Poetry Winner
An Elegy for Eyes Closed
I saw it on Tuesday when no one was looking
and that shadow of gray not yet black
with the wind whipping up and my chin tipping up
and the spiraling droplets
specking the sidewalk.
I was dizzy with spinning
round the lampposts
reveling in umbrellas and
bright gold galoshes,
when the globe lights that looked
like strung paper lanterns
melted into the darkness
.
So suddenly, I could not stand,
could not breathe, and the trees with
their stomachs to the sky
began to murmur
:
this is not the start
of a shivaree
can you not hear it?
The sound of two hundred and
twenty-two pool balls tumbling down
a staircase and the crack of
white china fissures sp
l
itting the slate
.
I was gripping the grass,
great muddy clods of it comes loose
in my hands and I disillusioned I
crawled towards anywhere, my arm
grazing something and turning
,
I met a half-familiar set of eyes
too wide to see but strait ahead.
And I was screaming with words
lost before leaving my mouth,
that we had to get out,
motioning with sullied fingers to
a door, hazy through the rain, white
like hope
but the face that belongs to those eyes,
small and pale and uncomprehending
.
Nothing was helping:
not yelling, not sobbing, not pulling a wrist
those toes
curled into the earth like roots ten feel deep
,
and I -
I could not just leave with the sky falling down
But someone would come
and I had to get out
this is not the start
of the shivaree
And I covered my ears and I d
i
dn't look back
.
I was thinking
something should have been done -
but who am I?
I was slipping inside
and no one was coming because
no one was looking and
outside, the dam was coming undone,
as I sunk with my back pressed against the wall
and tasted the salt on my lips.
Amanda Hurlburt





An excerpt from Willy Wallace, Jude, and The electric Shoes
By Jessica Bagar
I watched, fixated, as she made her way across the sea of bodies to the sticky bar, cigarette smok
e
curling around her delicate face as if she were on fire. She moved easily through the crowd, ma
r
tin
i
in
hand, her slender body contorting itself to avoid any unwanted collisions. Jade locked her emer
-
ald eyes with my own and mouthed let's get out of here and I complied obediently, gathering m
y
coat and scarf and paying our tab as I have done so many times before. Jade took my credit card
from the bartender, a new, skinny guy with bland features and patches of scruffy facial hair, and
slipped it into my hand as we escaped into the frigid winter night. I could see wisps of her blonde
hair escaping from under her olive knit hat, the one I had bought her last winter, as she drew her
coat closer to her small frame, hastening her step to keep up with my long strides
.
"God, I love that place," she said brightly, the tapping of her patent leather stilettos bouncing
off of posts lining the street. "You can go every night, every night, and it never gets old. I'll never get
sick of it, even if that damn bartender put a black olive in my martini
.
I hate black olives
.
" Her voice,
a sweet mixture of vodka and cigarette smoke, made its way through her scarf, which she had
meticulously encircled around her neck and mouth and into my ears and warmed me in spite of the
December chill. She stumbled into me as se reached for my hand, allowing a muffled yet fervent
Shit! to seep through her scarf. I paused to let her regain her balance and then kissed her nose; after
eleven years and six or seven break-ups, I still knew that one day I would marry Jade





An excerpt from This Morning's Minion
By Alex Tingey
Brian swung the rifle from his hip
,
accelerating in a tight arch, to his right shoulder and as he stead-
ied his mark he drew in one last breath and squeezed
.
He didn't see the bullet strike the squirrel
'
s
right shoulder
.
He didn't hear the chatter of claws scraping against rough bark in a final attempt to
hold on. All Brian saw was the squirrel falling, unabated
,
from his tree top gallows
,
unhindered by
the hangman's counter weights
,
onto a twisted knurl of roots that breached the snows surface thirty
feet below
.
Only the slight rustle of leafless branches in the wind disturbed the eerie silence following the
shot. Brian rose stiffly from the ground, brushed off his pants and flicked on the safety
.
He covered
the majority of the distance to the tree in an adrenaline fed rush to euphor
i
a, slowing down as he
regained sight of the fallen an
i
mal. Just as quickly as the wave of endorphins crashed his cerebra
l
cortex it receded
i
nto a pit of guilt and overwhelming sadness. Brian stood awestruck at the squirrel;
it was smaller than he had expected and it was dirty. Flecks of blood marred his white underbelly
and one stream crossed his chest below the elbows
.
Brian poked the squirrel with the muzzle of his
rifle and a few drops of urine dripping from his lifeless body. Its left ear was ragged along the edge,
its eye glazed over in the cold. He noticed its uneven whiskers
,
the white spot above its nose and its
yellowed worn teeth, the squirrel's mouth slightly agape.
The right fore limb wasn
'
t there anymore wasn't there anymore; all that remained was a tat-
tered red hole that bent its back into a pronounced arch
,
as if
i
t had tr
i
ed to dodge the round.
Brian pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it with cupped hands
.
He drew slowly
and he
l
d his drag for a moment before dissipating into the prevailing winds. He smoked it to the filter
and dashed it gently on the snow beside him replacing the soggy filter in his pocket.
Brian
l
eft the squirrel where it lay and picked his way down the slope off to his right to eat his
lunch in lee of the wind.
He'd never killed anything before besides ants and bees, and this powerful experience was
mind numbing. Brian pulled out a flattened ham sandwich and took a bite, staring off into the end-
less white snow in front of him. All he could see was the look on the squirrel's face as it
l
ay there
lifeless not but a moment
,
yet already so far gone
.
He thought how it mush be to die
,
how it must
feel or if it even would. He found himself asking if the squirrel had felt his body free fall from the
branches
,
and whetheror not it felt the wind through it's fur.
Amanda Hurlburt






HONORABLE MENTION
Selection
from
"Looking
for
a Grande
Purpose with
an Extra Pump of
Meaning"
By Jessica Mutascio
"I
think it is about time
someone removes
that
stick
from his
ass,"
I
say
to no
one
in particular
when
he leaves.
Reluctantly, I clock in
at
the
computer
register
and open
up
a
till. I never bother
counting
it like
we're supposed
to, find
-
ing it just
as easy
to
assume whoever
used the drawer last had been honest with their
count.
I'll
admit
it; I'm lazy
when
it
comes
to
details. They
don't pay me nearly
enough
to
care about stuff
like deposit
accuracy.
Briefly
glancing around
the
store,
the place looks
empty
until I
make out Grande Soy Chai sitting over
in the
cafe ar
e
a,
studying a
mess
of
books
and
papers
spread out
before him on one
of
the tables.
This guy
has
been coming
here
so often
in the past
year and a
half that I hardly notice him
anymore,
blending into the background like a
chair
or
one
of the dis
-
play
units.
I don't bother learning the names
of
the regulars. I tried to at first, Leroy
stressing
the importance of making
each customer
feel
special, so
that he
or she
would
come back
to the
store
to make future
purchases.
But
after
meeting
and chatting with some
of these people, I
found myself
wishing most
of
them
would
overdose on
caffeine and
never
return
again.
Having nothing better to do than
come
in here multiple times
a day and
blow money
on
involved,
extrava-
gant drinks,
many
of
them had also taken to
complaining.
There are few things
more
frustrating than having to remake
a beverage countless
times until it fully meets
an
individual's
exact set of
detailed taste requirements.
So
to keep
contact and
bitching
to a
minimum,
a
few
of
the other
baristas and
I refer to the regulars by their
drink names. Knowing
exactly what
they want gets
them
in
and out of here faster, and
makes the transaction
a whol
e
lot
easier.
"Hey
Libby,
what
the hell were
you
doing back there?" Marie
waits
for two
shots of espresso
to finish pouring
and motions
to my
chocolate-covered apron,
grinning
widely.
"You
know, taking my daily mocha bath. I
can't get enough
of this
stuff,"
I respond,
smiling
back.
"How's it
b
een
so far
today?"
Marie
is one of
the
only
people
I enjoy
working with
at
the
store, A
tall,
slender strawberry
blonde just
a couple
years older
than me,
she's one
of the quirkiest individuals I know.
Neon green glasses with
rectangle frames
outline
her
mischievous bronze-colored
eyes,
which
are constantly observing
the people
and events going on around
her.
Even
though we're required to wear black
or
brown
shoes at work, she
insists that her tattered hot pink
Converses are clos
e
enough,
letting Leroy's
chiding
roll
off
her like raindrops
on a
tarp.
"Leroy, honestly,"
she'd
begin.
"No
one can
see
my
shoes
behind the
counter.
Wouldn't
you
rather me be
com-
fortable
and
working instead of standing around complaining
about
how my feet hurt
and getting
nothing done7"
Only
Marie
can get away
with an
excuse
like that.
She's
been here twice
as
long as
any of
the other baristas,
and
knows
exactly
how to manipulate
our
manager when it
comes
to
getting around
frivolous policies. Refusing to take thi
s
job
or anything else
too
seriously, she spends
most
of
her
shifts avoiding
work, getting hyped up
on
free
caffeine and
making fun
of customers after
they leave.
Marie hands
off
the drink
she
has just finished making to the
costumer waiting at
the
counter, and replies, "Eh it
was kinda
busy
an
hour
ago.
Been pretty quiet
since
then,
actually.
Leroy tried to get me
and Tara
to
scrub
down the
store since
there wasn't much to do, but I
convinced
him there'd
be
more time for that tomorrow."
"Oh you
bitch," I
say, only
half-joking.
"I'm
working tomorrow.
Thanks
a lot."
"Anytime," she
laughs
and changes
the
subject. "Hey so
I
gotta
tell
you
about this dude that
came
in
earlier-such
a
tool."
"What happened? I ask, perking up
a
little
at
the thought of hearing
one
of Marie's funny
stories.
"Okay," Marie
begins.
"So this guy walks up to the door while I
am changing out
the pastries.
I
lookover
and
he's
tying
up two
golden
retrievers to the bike
rack out
there.
Anyways, so
then he comes inside
and
I
ask
him what he
wants to drink. He
goes,
'I'll have
a
Triple Venti Two-percent
179 degrees-"'
"Wait,
179 degrees?
Are you shitting
me?" I interrupt. For
steaming
milk we have these basic metal thermome
-
ters to make
sure
that it
gets
heated
somewhere
between 140
and 160
degrees,
sd
instructed by the health
code. Other
than
offering
a
very
approximate temperature, these thermometers
are
pretty useless when it
comes
to
specifics.
She laughs. "Wait, wait. Just listen. He
goes, 'I'll
have
a
Triple Venti Two-percent
179 degree Caramel Macchiato
with
a
layer of
caramel, a
layer of whipped
cream, and another
layer of
caramel
on the top' I probably
stared at
him
for
like thirty
seconds
with my mouth
gaping
open. I mean, who the fuck
orders something like
that?"
"You've got
to be kidding me," I
say, also
astounded.
"I
kid
you
not," Marie
continues.
"So
I
ask
the guy if he wants
anything else
with that,
and
he
goes 'I'd
like
two
apple
fritters for the dogs.' I'm like 'For the dogs?' And he
explains
to me in detail how he's visiting his
cousin, and at
his
hometown
Starbucks,
he
always
gets
each
dog
an apple
fritter
every
day because otherwise they
get
upset with
him and
bark
all
night long, or
some shit
like that."





An excerpt from House of Mirrors
By Shanen Lloyd
Once in the door, I head straight for my desk and record my day's events in my journal. The red ink
still wet on the paper, I sit by the window and think to when it all began, my sickness that is.
I could not have been older than five
.
In the park, there was a clown entertaining the children
and their nannies. My nanny at the time, whose name escapes me now, took me over to see the
show. Upon seeing the colorfully painted face of the clown, I had a convulsive fit of terror. My
screams could not be tamed and a doctor was called
.
It
was the first face of detain, with color and
features I had ever seen. I imagine I was born this way, with my mental defect-as they call it. When I
look into the face of a person, I se~ a blank slate. Literally
.
There are no eyes to read a person's emo-
tions, there is no nose, there are no lips to lust for. I see nothing, and that is my ailment. People
seem horrified to imagine a head without a face, to me it is not frightful.
It
is just lonely.
I do, however, know what faces look like. I pour myself a glass of scotch and turn on some
Beethoven. His music brings peace to my soul.
At the age of sixteen I locked myself in my dorm room at the Boy's Academy I attended with
my first bottle of vodka and a .35mm revolver. I sat in my cubicle and cursed at the academy jacket,
I spit at the photos in their wood carved frames at the people I couldn't recognize, I tore down the
pictures of artists and great minds I once aspired to become like. I poured myself vodka in a glass
with the school emblem printed on its side. I drank the rancid liquid quickly, swallowing it until the
glass was empty. Then I smashed the glass. I closed my eyes-the eyes I had never seen the true color
of, the eyes people told me were a brilliant blue. A moment later I opened them with fury and
intent. Standing up I stumbled across the room to retrieve my gun; my exit; my escape. As the alco-
hol clouded my mind, I walked into the wall with arms outstretched and looked up at myself in the
mirror.
For the first time in my life, I saw my reflection staring back at me
.
Desperate and foggy eyes, I saw my nose with the bump in it from the football game years
ago. I saw my lips quivering, bloodstained and chapped from biting it in frustration
.
In that moment
I no longer hated breathing.






An
excerpt
from Willy Wallace, Jude, and
The electric
Shoes
By Jessica Bagar
I watched, fixated, as
she
made her way
across
the
sea
of bodies to the sticky bar, cigarette smoke
curling around her delicate face
as
if she were on fire. She moved
easily
through the crowd, martini
in hand, her
slender
body contorting itself to avoid any unwanted collisions. Jade locked her emer
-
ald eyes with my own and mouthed let's get out of here
~nd
I
complied
obediently,
gathering
my
coat and
scarf
and paying our tab as I have done so many times before
.
Jade took my credit card
from the bartender, a new, skinny guy with bland features and patches of scruffy facial hair, and
slipped it into my hand as we
escaped
into the frigid winter night. I could
see
wisps of her blonde
hair
escaping
from under her olive knit hat, the one I had bought her last winter, as she drew her
coat closer to her
small
frame, hastening her step to keep up with my long
strides.
"God,
I love that place," she
said
brightly, the tapping of her patent leather
stilettos
bouncing
off of posts lining the
street.
"You
can go every
night, every night, and it never gets old. I'll never
get
sick of it, even if that damn bartender put a black olive in my martini. I hate black olives." Her voice,
a sweet mixture of
vodka
and
cigarette smoke,
made its way through her scarf, which she had
meticulously
encircled
around her neck
and
mouth and into my ears and warmed me in spite of the
December
chill.
She
stumbled
into me as
se
reached for my hand,
allowing a
muffled
yet
fervent
Shit! to
seep
through her
scarf.
I paused to let her regain her balance
and
then kissed her nose; after
eleven
years and six
or seven break-ups, I
still
knew that one day I would marry Jade
Amanda Hurlburt






An
excerpt from
The Long Way Home
By Brian
M
Rivera
"Hello?"
she answered Groggily
.
"Mom, I'm sorry to wake
you,"
a
voice said
quietly.
Audrey Cole was speechless. She tried to think but
couldn't.
The voice was
strangely
recog-
nizable.
"Oh
my God, it
can't
be,"
she
thought. She
could
barely form the word,
a
word she hadn't
spoken
in
so
long and thought
she
never
speak
again, "Grady?"
She waited a moment for a response. There was nothing, just silence on the other end. She
sat
trembling, holding her breath:
"Hello," she
whispered. Her
voice was
answered with a "click." She
sat
in bed
shaking, still
clutching the phone. Suddenly,
she
heard a
shrill ring,
like a telephone, but
it
couldn't
have been-the phone was in her hand, off the hook.
Audrey
shot
up in bed in a
cold sweat. She
had been dreaming. Yet,
she
was awoken by the
phone
on
her nightstand that was
ringing eerily.
She
stared at
it and then looked back at her hus-
band who was
still
snoring loudly.
She
looked back at the phone, reached over
slowly
and picked it
up. She brought the phone close to her ear, but then
stopped.
Audrey sat,
holding the phone in her hand, trembling violently. There was
a soft
light barely beat-
ing against the pane of her bedroom window and
she
could
see
the
snow swirling
quickly in the
light. A
single
tear rolled
slowly
down her
face
as
she
turned toward the nightstand and
gently
hung up the phone.








First Place Poetry Slam
The Apocalypse in Layman's Terms
IT begins slow, as anything, with any meaning would
.
To the simplest of eye
,
there is no need to cry
The news gets grimmer
,
but remains distant
It comes del
i
vered on the back of milk cartons
.
Given as something that is not found
,
but thankfully, not yours.
You disapprove, but being removed turn back to
Newly weds and celeb heads
The channel 5
,
to often prescribed,
Spoonful of sugar which helps the medicine go down.
Until the bottle runs empty
.
And with no TV set,
i
nternet
,
or percoset able to lull life back into a pastel sunset,
Reality hits.
Soon things get too grim to dim,
And instantly your outside has lined up side by side with the bonafide
definition of catastrophe.
Children of City Streets and Hip Hop beats
Strand hand in hand with business men and Barbie and ken
In crowded crowds inebr
i
ated and liberated on
Molotov cocktails
The grass roots go and uproot and move in hot pursuit
Of something more than the eight to four
,
m
i
nd bore at the corner store they've had since before
they knew what was money was for
All the whi
l
e NASDAQ and Dow are now measured
like threats in color coded cases and
expletive phrases which amazes even the most skeptical of gazes
Roadways and alleyways which in no way had been for sin therein
Now find themselves am
i
dst philanthropists
who exist by selling hand guns to toddlers
You hope and pray that what you see today may in some way be limited to the USA
.
Yet you soon find this first hand brand of mayhem
Somewhere swam beyond Uncle Sam and this notion of utter commotion mow makes
motions across four different oceans.
In parts elsewhere the malnourished have flourished and transformed and reformed into the well
informed
.
With knowledge in hand they stand and demand that all understand they are more than




















stats, and that's that.
Governments crumble, rumble, and fumble in a tumbled jumble way beyond the day to day disarray
which has been an okay cliche of dismay.
Recession bleeds into depression and a world wide regression and its impending that we'll be end
-
ing in the same warfare and despair for which we prepared and prayered against.
But before we get the chance to enhance world
With some mutual destruction, half the calories, improved suction, pollution reduction,
World ending construction of ending function.
The universe makes its own move to remove earth by solving and resolving our own
Involving in the celestial question of cosmic invention and intention and with omnipresent clout and
no doubt blots us out without reason or rhyme in no time
.
Poof.
And although I am but one man, and no fan of arrogance or a conceited stance,
I see all this, and a blank spot in space where we came and went and bought and spent
saying "space for rent", and thinking smart know it all starts with my heart.
And not seeking to see this come to fruition,
I do what was done before and after me.
The footnote which denotes most of humanity.
I swallow the words with all the meaning and instead
I Hand out verbal hallmark cards with the same deep regards saved for post cards.
I keep in a lock box which blocks
My honesty from running free.
And keep in all inside me.
~~
~
-
-
<
::-
~
--~~-
-
'
~
~
.
·
n
-,
- j
: ~
,
'
'<
;
,
-
Andrew Slafta
Amanda Hurlburt





Poetry Slam Finalist
Tainted Eyes
My reflection is a rejection
A screaming skeleton
Bodily bare boned and naked
,
To unveil my question
-Will I ever blink the same again?-
My eyes have never crossed such boundaries
My heart has never pleaded so desperately
My thoughts have never questioned so much
No
,
I answer
.
-All reality
,
all unjust-
For my eyes have been tainted by the realist real-
ities
And here we are playing Hollywood
And motionless thoughts tear right through me -
As our eyes are blinded
I am there -
Bare-skinned bodies
Scream starvation
Children crying
Rags not riches
Dirt for dirt
Mothers begging, oh sweet begging
,
Crying, pleading
,
reaching touching
.
.
.
The hands, the begging hands - reaching out
,
yet remaining untouched
One way minded
We turn our heads
Walk away - NO
,
this not exist in our world
,
So bubbled up we float away
Ignoring reality by the day
Step out
,
strip your skin
Falsity consumes our minds - our American minds
Land of the free home of the brave
Free we are not, for our minds are trapped
-
To visions we are ours travel down
And redirect to our selfish souls that we call ours
To the untainted eyes -
Fair dealings do not exist in this so called melo
-
dramatic world,
We call ours.
Michelle Ortiz
Michelle Matarese






Poetry Slam Finalist
The Woman that Inspires Me
Y Hubo Alguien
,
una mujer
,
tan Preciosa.
A child from an interracial marriage
,
A father from Africa and a mother from Cuba.
She was too light for some and too dark for others
.
Many were blind to see the beautiful person that she was
.
Years of neglect burdened her life
.
A want to and a will to change the world
,
was shadowed by soc
i
ety
.
This man
,
not much accepting of a foreigner, outcasted her.
Years she struggled, Nadando Contra la Corriente
,
just to spend her word, her culture
,
and her sound.
She moved to New York
, t
o a Land of Opportunity
.
Her parents made sacrifices, which enabled her to overcome many obstacles.
Nora Morira
,
her father, "t? eres como una estrella
.
"
For the years you have shed and for the mucis that you have created,
Yo "canto su historia"
You have given me so much
,
helped me discove
r
my identity and
lifted my head when it was hung low.
You would speak and I would listen.
You comforting voice
,
so pleasant, so sweet, spoke to me in ways no one else spoke
.
We developed a bond, which I am glad to say
,
is still strong today.
It didn't matter to you what I looked l
i
ke or how old I was
.
What mattered was that I had a good heart
.
One that is now full of passion
.
Your hands guided my hips to move, your rhythm took over my feet and let them flow
throughout the dance floor.
You showed me this new world
,
one of such freedom, where the people no longer discriminate
.
It doesn't matter how much wealth one possesses
,
the clothes they wear, or the job that
they have
.
Despite so much negativity, you were still triumphant.
You looked past everything and managed to get into many's souls
,
especially mine
.
You helped mold me into the young woman I am,
Strong
,
Intelligent, Beautiful, and most importantly
,
Proud!
Proud to be who I am
And blessed to be introduced to you.
In reality
,
No Hay Nadie Como Ella
So rich
,
so beautiful, so adoring.
The woman that I speak of is
.
.. SALSA!!!
Melinda E
.
Martinez







Faux-poet's note: Tyler J. Anderson really hasn't died
,
nor was he injured
i
n the making of this
poem
.
And even if he was
,
I'm sure no train would ever want to suffer through this catastrophe
.
(Sorry Tyler.) Anyhoot, inspired by one of our beloved Flamehead's homework assignments, I figured
it'd be cool to focus on the one thing everyone wants to know about but they NEVER TELL YOU in
obituaries
.
I aim to please
:.
Tyler J. Anderson .
..
What a Shame
:
Tyler J
.
Anderson went out w
i
th a bang
This past Sunday; he got hit by a tra
i
n.
It wouldn't have ever happened had it not been for the plane
That fell from the sky due to a pilot insane
Who had one too many tequilas with Stewardess Jane
(See, they'd left the controls to play a quick game
And ended up cleaning this remarkable stain
Of which I won't speak this lifetime or next -
Let's ju
s
t say it was THE MOST incredible sex)
.
Anyway
,
this pilot shouldn
'
t be to blame
,
After all
,
whatever happened to what's-his-name?
You know
,
the copilot
,
Mr
.
Stephen Furstane ?
Well, it doesn't matter, 'cause here's what they're sayin':
Tyler J
.
Anderson, redhead and almost legal to drink
Was just struttin' along
,
justa havin' a think
,
When out from the sky fell this big old plane
Right into the highway's speediest fast lane
,
And out swerved this truck to avoid a major bang
,
It drove right across the train tracks; my, what a clang!
As the jet fell to pieces and the truck snapped its frame
.
Now
,
the poor conductor of this crazy train
Decided it was best to go against the grain,
And roll off the tracks, lest he damage that van
Though
,
all his efforts were done in vain
Because as that locomotive sped straight for 5th and Main
,
(The closest street the better
,
he ascertained)
Our boy Tyler
J
.
Anderson was in high spirits walk-ing,
(To say he didn't see it coming would've been a bit mean).
Well, you can guess what happened, all details refrained
,
Let's just say he d
i
dn't feel any pain -
Though the body recovered was terribly maimed.
Good to die young and while he's still sane
,
We will all miss him, that crazy Flamebrain!
Jess Friedlander




Exit Center Stage
No more
l
ying
No more chasing
No more deceiving
No more wishing
No more longing
No more dreaming
No more drama
No more tragedy
No more pain
No more hatred
I'm done
I'm gone
I'm tired of it all
No more happiness
No more grief
No more regrets
No more wondering
No more what ifs
No more tears on the pillowcase
No more long walks beside the river
No more talks of forever
Just want you to be happy
Even if I am no longer there
.
RJ Langlois




Imprisoned
Sometimes I feel the walls closing in
Like I'm fighting to keep my head above water
But the tub is filling too quickly
My hands are chained to the bottom
And I used up all my superhero powers
On that damsel that ended up causing me dis-
tress
And there's nothing left for me
Except to accept the sinking
Masterpiece
Once a stranger to all that was bad
She was eager to try what she never had
She knew it was wrong but she did it anyways
This was the end of her innocent days
She grew up way too hast that year
We always saw her laugh we never saw her tears
But deep inside she cried and she cried
You could see it in her eyes
And sometimes in the midst of all the struggles
And when deep inside she cried and cried
I feel that I just might make it
She also learned to cheat and lie
If I stop waiting for the obstacles to be over
And my life to finally begin
And instead
I
just accept that this is my life
Life to her was just a game
She's like a painting left in the rain
Accept that happiness lies
Bold beauty
Tragedy is the truth
Turned into dare-devil
That slaps me in the face
So sturdy
And the balance of two is what keeps me ground-
I
now see her weakness
ed
Pure Perfection
Jessica Campilango The way she used to be
I want her
Allyson Corcoran
Back that way
But now all there is to her is this
A bunch if regrets and a wish list
I want to bring her back to the bliss
But all she does is cry and cry
And to the world she cries and she cries
She lies, and she cheats
,
defies
She wonders why they didn't stop her game
She's like a painting left in the rain
A masterpiece that's never gonna be the same
She's like a painting left
in
the rain.
Christina Torres




Napoleon In Rags
I had a dream that I was a folk rock singer
strumming six strings on a dark smoky stage
in an old dusty bar in some nameless southern
town forgotten by their fathers
,
brothers, and
their gods but wherever I may find two ears
and a smile well I
,
I'd sing all night
and I would walk from the east coast to the
west a minstrel boy singing songs about love
and politics playing town to town for a drink
and a hand urging you and me to take back
this land from the tyrant, the sword
,
and the
noblemen's grasp returning to the soil
I'd rise up and shout till my lungs turned blue
a billion voices in unison screaming "we're
through" with the cowboy on the saddle charg-
ing blind into the fight so righteous with divinity
he only sees his side watching sword in hand
barking orders at the sun while the son fights
for his life
then it all turned black
I see a preacher's son hold a silver gun
while a million hands just hold their tongue
and a holy man with a pilgrim soul
strikes men dead for what their father told
a man in red directs the lifeless choir
as the ghosts march on to the sacred pyre
the host of great white gods adjourn
and they laugh with g
l
ee as the city burns
but the hill turns black on the foolish king
as his throne of thorns begins to sink
the sunrise east of the mountains gleams
l
ike the serpents tongue in the bloody sea
and I awoke in my bed to the same sad song
playing loud as hell on my alarm clock
and I think maybe I should just stand up and
ra
i
se my vo
i
ce only I
'
m just too fucking weak to
make any noise but maybe when I'm brave
enough to sing the words I wrote I'll find my
way home
Matthew Maynes
Apostrophe to the Rose
You have grown in
The
l
ight of a smile,
Been watered by tears
,
Born witness
Tot eh black-haired girl's exh
i
laration
After the curtain fell
On opening night
,
Displayed a couple's love
On his jacket their wedding night
,
In her arms "jus.t because"
,
Under the papers in the garbage afte
r
he wa
l
ked
out
,
Felt tears falling
On your leaves like pearls-
The casket prayed over,
Love leaving only a memory
.
Crimson rose
,
Pressed
,
drying
Between the pages of a Bible-
Whose story do you hold?
Nichole Boisvert
Amanda Hurlburt






They call it estuary
.
The sign even bears
An emblem of a fish
.
The water is so contaminated now-
So murky you can't see the bottom-
That I cannot think of any fish
Wanting to call it home now
.
The few that do swim gloomily
Meandering in the melancholy water
,
Recalling the days when the water was so blue
It reflected th!:l trees l
i
ke a rippled photograph,
Recalling the days when the water teemed with
schools
,
Predator-prey, Darwin
,
nature's way
,
Recalling the days before trains shook the banks
Dumping silt and soda bottles
,
Recalling the days before man interrupted,
Recalling
,
Recalling
.
The Playa
Ham sandwiches and deli delights
Kisses
,
bites and wild nights
Tables
,
chairs and refrigerators
Busy
,
not now or I'll talk to you later
Bear hugs and claws and doggy .
..
well you know
Getting on top or getting down low
The bedroom is an oven and the sheets are on
fire I'd prove it to anyone who'd call me a liar
Breaking in the bed and tearing down the walls
Outside
,
my car or in shopping malls
Co-workers
,
friends or an occasional girl
It's Valentine's Day; I'll give her a whirl
Nichole Boisvert So stop at my door, I'll open it for you
And bring all your friends
,
it's better with more
than two
It's not a one-night-stand
;
it's the thrill of your life
And it'll be more than once if you don't tell my
wife
Chris Wieland






Water-Logged
Somewhere it's 2 o'clock in the morning
And the rain is hitting the pavement
With the same wrath with which
He used to strike my face
It's cold and I'm lonely
And all I can think
Is how I've just got to get out of this place
I head to water
The place I fear most
I step into the boat
The rain won't let up
And my light is fading
I know I won't make it
A mile off the coast
I'm tied to the mast
With imaginary chains
Let here feeling
Unnecessary pain
I'm in the middle of the ocean
And my boat is sinking fast
And all I want to do
Is have something to hold on to
Cause I hang on your every word
But lately there's been nothing
Only silence
Si
l
ence is slippery
Leaves me with nothing to grasp
Simply alone and stranded
On this god forsaken make-shift raft
I'm merely a pebble
Sinking to the bottom of your angry sea
I won't even make a ripple
Cause I've given that easily
I can no longer see the shore
Of that god awful place
And you can no longer see the pain
On my god awful face
Here I am sinking to the bottom
Choking on the water that slowly fills my lungs
My
eyes wide open
Burning every inch of the way
And I die watching you
Clinging to the life vest of your words
Holding on to the thing that can save me
.
Jessica Campilango







The Gardener
There he knelt. Chiseled from stone
,
by a man who knew no
t
of his craft
.
The statue was scratched and scarred
,
hindered by ages and conflict.
He moved at the pace,
one would think a stone would
.
Slow
...
Steady ... Cautiously .
..
Tilling the soft earth.
Unmovable from his artwork
,
he sowed the souls with solid care
.
His technique took generations
,
mastered by his own hands.
The brothers and boys
,
·
h
e learned to love
Now planted with
the peas and marble
.
Fashioned he was from hard stone
.
Unbreakable
,
unyielding
,
coarse.
Carved into granite he was not.
Yet
,
in his garden
,
he wished it.
Derek Kaleida
Allyson Corcoran
Me and My Dad
Of all the sailors sailing upon the sea
,
Blanketed with a calming glee
,
None could be as glad as,
Me and My Dad
.
With the cool breeze in our face
,
Illuminated by each other's grace
,
Those twilight hours we sailed in search of what
the ocean had
,
Me and My Dad
.
For you see
,
this is where it came to be
Where the sea took my father away from me,
No longer letting us share what we once had
,
Me and My Dad.
In our sea is where my tears still fall
,
One by one, the current takes them all,
Within the water I can see our reflection
,
And how it makes me so glad,
To once again see
,
Me and My dad.
Here I can find him to guarantee
,
He flows between where the heavens kiss the
sea,
Here I can find solace in what we have and had,
Me and My dad
.
No matter what, our sea shall stay,
And my dad will never be far away
,
No matter the days that make me sad,
It will always be
,
Me and My dad
Justin Calderon





Infant Soldier
Conceived by a union of genuine love
,
from a man of pride
,
honor, and courage
,
and a woman of beauty and grace,
I am a child,
who life is a testimony
,
love can create life
.
My father struggled for his country
,
even jeopardized his safety.
My mother struggled with her heart ache
and sacrificed her life
.
I am the product of her sacrifice.
Her death was my first breath
.
My welcome was her farewell.
My heart beats the song of their romance that
once was
.
The red blood in my veins
is equivalent to their passion
.
I embody their feelings
and am a combination of their souls
.
My appearance is their mixture
.
I am who I am
because of my creators.
Melinda E. Martinez
Heaven's Sonnet
Amidst the beaming light and the clouds break
,
Lies a place where we can only dream to see
,
Every soul flying hither to awake
,
Glad to at last fulfill their destiny.
Shades of purple and gray absorb the sky
,
Nesting such a placid
,
tranquil abode
,
While seraphim whisper a lullaby
,
Bestowing you with what the heavens hold
.
Where beauty's maw holds bountiful grace
,
And light glistens you through the new frontiers
.
Man psyche could never draw such a place,
So gorgeous that none can harbor their tears.
At last once that day comes
,
here we shall meet
,
When out lives are satisfies and complete.
Justin Calderon







Cornered
Confined
to enclosure
A comfortable cell.
Consumed by one's conscience
As amazing as a cardboard box at 6
.
Dreams are found
In
such
small spaces
.
Cornered we are in such places
.
These
are the times, we grow
.
Succumbing to ones surroundings
Engulfed, in the effort
.
We
contort
and then control.
Allowing a venue for confidence
.
In these situations derives
.
defiance
.
Character is
created
boys become Men.
The
cardboard
becomes wet.
Tears easily, allowing escape.
A new look, to look for.
Derek Kaleida
Autumn Memory
Her smile peeks
,
Alighting her face
-
A sunrise
.
Royal flush
Creeps up her cheeks
,
As mirth glitters in her eyes,
The final and most beautiful stars
Of the diminishing night,
Before her lids
Slip over them
,
Leaving them to delight
Another part of the world
.
The gentle trees
Cradle her,
As her spirit
Dances in the breeze
,
Beneath a canopy-
Crimson, green
,
orange:
Her smile remains,
Like the sun
To grace the skies
.
Nichole Boisvert
Bria Soucy







Da Blow
It an innocent child on the ghetto streets of war
Grew up so young
,
the fast life they adore
They live in a building w
i
th drug use and crack
whores
Bullets fly through the window
,
gotta get down to
the floor.
It's like the gates that meet you in the underworld,
with demons ready
to great
you on the other side
;
your soul
i
s a slave to
them for life
.
Liv
i
ng in the streets
You hear those feigns say, like Snapple this is the Needing money to eat
best stuff on earth
Filthy dirty feet
Mothers are pregnant, their seeds are a crack
Start knocking on doors
babies at birth
Begging for more
Some of the poor things came out dead looking
Chasing the very first high they had before
like baby smurfs
The block
i
s like a maze controlled by different
turfs
$0
be careful where u ride cause u may hit the
dirt
.
You really should see it; they say this stuff
destroys lives
They shoot it in their veins their pupils become
enlarged
They feel good for a minute
,
the then .
..
but then
,
They are stuck
Stuck like a pole
Stuck like a tree
Stopped like a parked car
Standing still from frost
That stuff in the veins knows who's the boss
.
It destroys neighborhoods
,
for that people could
see
You know in New York City where are the blocks
you want to be
Coming in
,
Michelle Matarese
That's all that it is
....
it's a game
It's a game played
,
that leaves you in shame
It's a game played which they can't tame
You can't contain
But who takes the blame
Your life adds up to a lame
You cry as you look at old picture frames
It
'
s true to say mayne
It leaves your life in shambles
A life full of pain
Sniffing it, lining it up,
It's your friend you gotta hit it up
Injecting it
,
making it, cooking it
Its Its
Da Blow
Mike Moon






Ready set go
.
So what it was that this little boy grew on up into an older boy
;
and someday that's
right you guessed it he would grow up even further through the stages of man developed over m
i
l
-
lions of years by evolution
.
He'd go on and grow his-self all big bad and strong
.
But right now it's the
middle life for him; an old enough to be called a man but still feel like a child inside and from some-
where feeling different and out of place and weak because alone when he woke up it was like a dif
-
ferent world
.
It
was as if something primal awoke from the way early far
i
nwards of h
i
s brain
,
some-
thing that had been created early in the stages of formation in the human mind And it would be
powerful and take control of everything within him; it would be thoughts and impulses and rationales
.
But this thing would die when he went out in publ
i
c
;
it was as if the boy killed
i
t every time he
stepped outs
i
de the safety of home and
i
nteracted with the outside world
.
Like in order to communi
-
cate and be with that mass he had to put up walls and those walls were created as an external bar-
rier but were built too hastily and with too much emotion to ensure they would be done right so they
came to cross boarders and impose on the inward world. These walls cut the creature into pieces
and hold it down boxed it in and then death
.
But it was becoming okay because he then one day
met a girl and it was like gasoline matches fire start of the race go because she could make him get
up and go; move into the face of the world and impose his nice little self all up
i
n it and force himself
in like everyone else and feel connected to the action. She herself was terrible and tragic and the
final and transcendental irony of the world. It was as the entire universe was composed of one cer-
tain substance
,
and the girl was made up of a separate and distinct substance and what happened
was that both of their molecular structures were shaped so that resonance was possible and the
resonance from each was at completely different frequencies causing horrible shocks and distortions
between herself and the rest of existence. Time-space and the girl fought bitterly
.
She shrieked and
tore against reality and the all of it. Tragic and beautiful because that's the way it was and that
;
s the
way it is because during their song she rant he blade down and he watched with self in hand and
that was whoa now hey there where did you get up and down go and where is rationality and whose
on second because it tastes good with penny flavor and then choking kissing drinking breathing and
later he's
i
nside of her and that
i
s the time in which he feels really alive and connects to the every-
thing of the world
;
fully involved in one of he more sacred and repeated acts of the all around gum
and that is right up until the time of release because that was multiply parted and he would feel like
was truly getting free of the world because he never felt connected to otherwise but he still felt
i
mposed on by it and its rules but then connected and then truly free and extremities tingle pulse
throbs and he becomes light headed
.
And during this she feels the resonance subside and the
whole because the void is filled and making someone so out of place and useless feel good
.
Head
to head is how they do it back and forth to a steady quickening inner beat and lined up together
smash barn down as a team and kiss pulling her close wrap around each other tightly and the min-
gled sweat smell of sex to fall asleep while the line between the two of them
i
s still blurry and it will
be until she rolls around asleep and the membership pulls out; a sad and dreadful moment that we
all knew had to come and had been dealing with from the beginning. The lines can only be blurry for
so long before they must go back to righty right and we must loose ourselves in these lucky
moments and the shear pleasure and awe of them and we must treasure them for what they are.
Hugh Knickerbocker






Alien Parasites that Cause Poetry
One fine spring day I was sitting as I am often
won't to do,
Listening to the transmission sounds
Sent from the CIA
,
The sort that I tend to pick
up
On the metal fillings in my teeth near my brain
.
I recognized the voices as that
Of Isaac Newton and Kublai Khan
Newly back from cryogenic stasis
The one you need right before
The interjection-infusion of nanomachines
Put directly into the bloodstream
"We have nearly covered the entire
earth
With our insidious disease,
I fail
to
see what could be wrong
When they all accept or do
not
see
The continued omnipresent shadow rule
Of the alien bourgeoisie
.
"
"It'
seems
,
great one, that some human
minds
React strangely to the mites.
They cause the mind to speak
to itself in riddles
And nonsense of all kinds
And these things often jump quite readilyTo the
paper from the mind.
But
I'm sure an intelligent person such as yourself This would not be such a problem
Would have already known such a thing.
If the cause were not so dire
"Sir,"
Mr
.
Newton
began
"I'm afraid
I have quite disturbing news
It
seems
that the plan that you so brilliantly made
And
so cunningly
put in place
Has
been
found to have a certain flaw
That
might make troublesome our reign
.
"
"What is this?"
bellowed the mighty Khan
"Do
you dare to question our alien lords?
The wisdom of the great and powerful masters
Does
not have
any flaw!"
"The
parasites
are all in place
.
We have
put them
everywhere
.
In the food and
in
the air
In the
paper
they do read
Ten
times as much in the diet soda
And in
the
light waves from TV!"
It seems the drivel comes from the
inner
mind
That somehow sees the bug
And tries to warn all those around
Of the rot and mangle going on inside
."
Kublai Khan thougtit for a while
And straightened the furry hat on his
head
"So this flaw, slight though it be,
Could allow the cattle to see our
scheme
Find the little blue claws with wings
And expose our whole elaborate regime
Before our iron grip is assured
And the Soul Harvesting mine complete
"
"This is
serious," concluded Kublai Khan
"You were right to come to me.
Hasten to solve this problem
And do it with all speed.
But do not worry for our masters
Should this plan still not succeed
For they still have their death rays
And that
is
all we need.
Emma Hagan








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