Poetry 2005-2006

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Poetry 2005-2006
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Forensics
By Nick Elits

The highway stretched out far into the freezing distance
Our travels made us weary and we longed for home
A car sat quite and solemn near a Bridge
Nestled in the security of the snow
It was freshly abandoned and still warm from its occupants
Under each Bridge was a new body which told its own fleshly tale
And each story told only of the deed that had been done
Masking the details in obscurity
The sun was smothered by dark foreboding clouds
They foretold the beginning of the end
The Earthly machine in the dead of winter
Began to cave in upon itself
Once so efficient and bureaucratic
It now struggled to sustain its own existence
Society started to crumble
The wrench in the machine was too hard to find
And it bled to death
The harsh reality of the revelation was frightening
I felt alone in my madness so I reached out for you
You gave me your comfort and I asked for a kiss
Because “the end of the world is surely upon us”
You held my hand and said “fall into it” and I did
I was afraid …I was afraid of the machine
I was afraid of what we’d become
And if the machine wasn’t going to let me be
Then maybe it better I not be
So from that day on I let my body tell the story
The forensic artists will know what I have done
They will see my deeds but like the others I will wear my mask
Keeping the details somewhere deep in the bowels of Oblivion
I will be one more body floating down the River Styx
For it not worth my Soul
To have the latest medical technology
For it not worth my Soul
To have mastered the elements
For it not worth my Soul
To be Sane
So here I float Upon the River Styx
Waiting to be judged…
Because the machine is society and the wrench is Science
Science is the vehicle by which we lose faith
And when the magic is gone we will cease
to live
Our sole concern will be for the product of the machine
Which is the existence of itself.



Ghost Dance
By Nick Eltis

While traveling from Sioux Falls to Spencer
I heard a roaring crash on the highway
Like stumbling onto an unseen disaster
A cluster of bodies around me lay
The whiskey and blood, they run hand in hand
Exhausted by the fuming man-made flames
Our metal beast slain, strewn about the land
God, let the doctors remember our names
There are plenty of reasons to lament
Me and my lady will die where we lay
Good luck to those who survive this event
Tis’ fate hath decided our judgment day
We danced all night, as if danseurs from France
A Tango, a Waltz, a brilliant dance



Letter to a Friend
By Nick Eltis

Within the last few years We’ve grown apart
Our faces have become more like our fathers’
And our minds more like our mentors’
We have moved on
Making new friends to fill in the gaps
That have been left empty by our absences
Losing memories of each other every day
Like lambs to the slaughter
Our innocence has also been carried off
By news broadcasts and x-rated movies
Our knowledge has corrupted us both
Let us sleep again like children
Let our thoughts be pure again like saints
Let our actions again be sincere
For we have lost these virtues over time
These changes are not for the better
They’ve hindered our spirits
From becoming what we were truly meant to be
Caring, loving, honest human beings



The River
By Nick Eltis

My mind is like a river Keep on thinking or I’ll die
Flood the city with racing thoughts
Keep the currents rushing by
Do not dam my precious river
Let my thoughts submerge my brain
Let them trickle down my frontal lobe
And not down my bath tub drain
Let my brainwork form an ocean
So I’ll have a place to swim
I’ll build myself a battleship
And sail the seas within
And if my little river stops
Somewhere inside my head
It will be that day that you can say
The boy is surely dead.



Really Living
By Carol Graf

How about fishing on the banks of the Uncompahgre
releasing your spirit among the Havasupai

yahooing at dawn on the Wapsipinicon
canoeing into the moody woods of the Housatonic

panscoping all the lights around nighttime Lake Pontchartrain
interloping among hang-outs, haunts, and hollows in Piscataquis Parish

harkening to the trains softly clattering through rundown Conshohocken
just marking time amid the sights and smells and sounds of downtown McConnellsburg

invading cluttered bookstalls and lettered halls at Beloit or Fordham
wading into sensuous literary currents at St. Norbert or Putnam

aaahhh .......that would be really living

But how about
catching a ho-hum ride across dead ugly dull stubbly brown flatlands to Marvin, South Dakota

hah hah.......would that be really living

What is it that matters
Which is it that delights

Friends matter

With friends, even a short trip to Marvin is really living
Without friends, even a trip offering new thrills and skills is not



My Wife, My Son, My Family
By James Ingram

The scent of orange fills my nose,
A reminder of my freshly washed hair.
She cuddles up next to my back,
Her arm over me like a comforting blanket.

As I lay there, half asleep,
I can feel her stomach moving.
And it takes me back five years,
Back to when she carried our first son.

She would hold me like this,
The lingering smell of her soap.
Washing over me like a wave of cucumber-melon,
Cocooning me in her cleanliness.

When I would begin to doze,
I would feel our unborn child kicking her.
I could feel his hands and feet thumping,
Ever so lightly into my back.

It felt like the bass from a stereo,
Which rattles your eardrums and shakes your bones.
Only far softer, a gentle reminder of his presence,
Good night kisses for dad, night time beating for mom.

As I snoozed,cushioned in her warmth,
And assaulted by his vigor.
I could gaze out the window,
And watch the soft snow drift down onto the quiet earth.

As they passed before my eyes,
I could see each tiny snowflake.
Dancing like a miniature ballerina,
To the music of my son’s ever increasing tempo.

Then she would roll over to get more comfortable,
And I would follow her, wrapping my body around hers.
The smell of her hair, the scent of strawberries,
Caressing my nostrils with their teasing fragrance.

She would sigh as I enfolded her,
Her body molding to mine like so much putty.
As I closed my eyes and entered the blissful world of sleep,
I could feel him already starting to rat-atat-tat on my hands.<>



Genunie
By Jen Olson

in a city
so large
and full of silence
in a city
so hurt
and full of injured
crying
in a city
so lost
and filled with
empty souls
it is amazing that
people don’t understand
something as simple
as a tear.



Moot Moosings

By Jen Olson

“who do you want to screw,
marilyn manson or rob zombie?”
he says with a psychotic psychologist’s voice.
thechoice is between a greasy eel
and a screaming snail.
and like a calculus problem,
my mind cannot process it.
not a delicious or desirable consideration,
sleeping with either of them.
to cut off an arm or leg,
the question is really this.
the arm, i think,
because i hate heavy objects.
just like i hate heavy subjects.

a collection of moot musings,
these questions of screwing.
we talk about other useless things,
ruling Iceland and becoming syphilis,
choosing celebrity underwear.
like chimps avoiding experiments,
we skirt the truth.
no Navy and lost keys,
no broken engagements or DUIs.
this sugar coated conversation is our raft,
helping us to drift away from solid things.

i wonder if he is serious,
if he could ever really leave this world
to become an astronaut.
or if I would really make a good Buddhist,
silently contemplating without insane emotions
that define my being.
And someday, maybe soon,
the night will not draw to a close
with darkness
signaling the long resisted end to today’s charade.
in a few minutes i will drift back to my dorm room
and he will stroll back to the ship.
but i know this conversation will continue,
at another time, with the same friend, in a different mindset,
even if it involves screwing marilyn manson.



My Future Isn’t Here
By Jen Olson

Whimsically floating,
she glints like a child,
alone in her vision.
“I’m going to New York
to play in traffic.”
A picture of vivaciousness,
stirred with the impulsive.

Grounded in stone and responsibilities.

And like a bird’s flight,
she means now, today.
Face jumping like a bee,
sporadic excitement flowing,
she grabs the lemon raincoat.
“I’m gonna taste a vendor’s hot dog
and look in Madonna’s window.”

I hate hot dogs.

She sings about carriages
and living in the park.
Of disco ball Fridays,
and philosophical book clubs.
“Central Park is the place.
The only place to live.”
And she might be able to do it,
dusting the crowd with dreams.

Silence.

“I need to go.
I am suffocating here.”
She dreams of how her curtains,
her swirly, homemade curtains,
could brush the trees in the park.
And like a cloud,
dust puffs in from the window,
proving her point.

Rain is coming, be practical.

“I must bring the book,”
and in goes Confessions of a Viagra Addict,
her reason for the Calculus grade.
There is always a reason,
she says belligerently.

And I believe it.

Aging underwear tossed in,
surrounded by mismatched earrings.
Her toothbrush forgotten,
shoved under the bed,
comforting an abandoned shoe.
“I need the perfect perfume.”



Desperate for Normalcy.

As the excitement starts to fade,
she drifts away mistily.
Taking the dreams.
The raincoat is folded back,
gingerly placed in a chest.
And when everything is put way,
the magic is gone with the dust.

I can’t go.

“But neither can you stay,”
she says from the back of my mind,
momentarily pacified by oncoming dusk.
As I fight back the excitement,
the crazed impulses,
I know the time is coming.



Endings
By Jen Olson

Trick me, use me, teach me, she screams in my head,
silent except for the grim laugh shining from her eyes.
Excitement courses through my veins,
defining her fear and my direction.
Her naked body glistens with sweat,
a tribute to some god long forgotten
in the journey from that insignificant town
where that sweet-faced boy was found,
hanging from the lone light fixture
in a room desolate and haunted by drooping promises.
Promises that I could stop,
that I would think about something other
than the cheap steel pressed against my throat
as my innocence was ripped away,
just as hers is about to be,
any lingering trace of youth.
Ah, yes it has been a long road to this dingy motel
in a long series of crusty bedspreads and dripping sinks,
of dirty whores and empty sacks, sprinkled with cocaine.
My one remaining textbook, a nod to that small college town,
the town I deserted in blind desperation,
acts as her head rest,
and grainy ropes tie her to tonight’s fate.
And she doesn’t even allow one singular tear to shine for me.
Because we were both dead, long before the light deserted us,
long before the gruesome church bells could save us,
long before this moment of silent comprehension could illuminate the truths of the past.



Simple Silence
By Jen Olson

i watched a solo
brown leaf meander
to the ground
in no hurry
and felt grateful
that something so simple
was the most beautiful thing I had seen
in a long time.



Smiling Alone
By Jen Olson

I saw you
alone in your crimson
colored glory
awake from nostalgias long
left behind in
the rush to
find a new
day a
new life.

I heard you
speak like no
one I had
ever heard
and it occurred
to me
that I understood
your wonder
even if not
your words.



Serenity in Unusual Places
By Jen Olson

Its funny how nothingness
is strangely amusing. As if sitting comatose, perched
lazily on a cushion is sane. Thinking about prancing in
Caribbean waters like a dreary snowplow driver.
As if staring,
with a blank mind and vision,
at the expansive sky is enlightening. The bland expression
and tired mind create a world that is simplistic and conflicting.
Like a wilting flower, drizzled with water,
that floods and dies. A moment of nothing is salvation.
Yet overpowering. I smile
at the Sunday mornings that turn into
afternoons, laying snuggled in fleece and down. Swimming in warmth
and satisfaction. Or
the ten minute flop breaks in between real life spent
face down on a fluffy rug, dreaming
about dreaming. Leaves blowing in the wind.
Laying in the park, watching the dust. A windy twirl with pillow
in the middle of a kitchen. A gift of lightness that is like wings to take my mind away.
Serenity in unusual places.



Pretty Things
By Jen Olson

he crumpled
himself in to the
moist plastic
seat
grasping a
book with
antiqued pages
and a dirt
smothered pink
cover
I
wondered if
he was a
blooming artist
or a collector
of
things to look
old
I wondered
if he
knew about
truth and
beauty or if he
skirted it I
wondered if it was
important
enough
to
wonder.



Never For Feeling
By Jen Olson

If you never touch me again
With pearly white knuckles
Ground soundly and firmly against
A fake brand of designer cream
And if sunlight never softens
Once tan and streaming skin
With clouds forever shining against pavement
And if air forgets
never finds a path of sweet release
To reach my lungs
Then I will stop in this moment
In a haze of chatter
movement color in the background
Sitting in a beige square
Surrounded by ground mahogany and
Paper-cut smiles
Discussing death and the nature of clocks
Buzzing by and ants trouping in the salty
Dirt and I will know
That the small insignificant crystals
Of snow floating by the
Window mean more than this. And yet
Not enough.



More of Nothing
By Jen Olson

i saw a
man
on the train
with deep
eyes
that stared into
mine
without a
smile
or any disconcernable
amount of
emotion
just stared
lost
i looked towards a
more
interesting sight
green with
a
hint of
sunshine and when
i
looked back
he
was gone
and other eyes
were
looking back at
me
and I realized
i
missed
the emptiness
of the
blank communication.



Exhausted Air
By Jen Olson

The chattering hum of the television
drones out my thoughts with the constant chatter
of others living a life.
As if those people know about life.
And the florescent lights glare off my page,
guiding my eyes
to more interesting pictures, showing me
a world that doesn’t include linguistics.

This struggle
parades with zoning eyes
and a sketchy mind.
There is no biology.
Only crazy people searching for something of value.
Homework. Sunshine. Socks.
As if you could really find it.
And what would you do if you did?
Die of boredom. Questing and pretending.
Like a ripping hangover morning,
the night before is doomed to be forgotten.

Homework is listless.
Professors share their life, for what it’s worth.
And I never know what to do with this burden
of expectations.
Precious knowledge. Garbled futures.
Reality is the crusty mac n’ cheese pan,
waiting to be scrubbed.
The mountains of snow blocking escape.
Or the awkward, decaying smell crawls from the vent.
I am alone with myself,
consumed by exhausted air.
And my eyes drift back to the page,
uninviting the cramped typing that thumbs through my brain.
The cheesing grin of a third grader stares back,
demanding empathy and curiosity.
And I begin to read again.



Wasted Foreplay
By Jen Olson

I love it when he calls me beautiful.
As if he loves me and I am the most lovely woman
in the world. As if these moments are real. What a fake.
He sleeps with a fifteen year old. He dreams of money and suits
but wastes life on Morgan and acid. All his dreams are already
dead. Twenty-one years of wasted experiences. There is no love.
And he calls me to know success without
being a part of it. He fears normal. I fear jail.
Our endless banter is wasted foreplay. Like flirting with a plant.
It doesn’t hurt. It surprises me how much it doesn’t hurt.
And when he calls me to tell me about his newest date
with captivity, I snidely make some insipid comment about real life.
When I actually don’t know what that is. As I push away a misty sense of jealousy.
Because he is everything I want to be
when I feel compelled to crash off the road of reality,
slamming my head to Metallica’s “No Remorse.”
I will hand in my homework on time.
He will show up smashed to work on Tuesday.
And I will love it when he calls me beautiful.



Sinking
By Lara Steen

Plummeting, I fall lower and lower.
Nothing seems to matter anymore.
I slowly sink into oblivion.
And time stops.
Trying to look out from the shroud
And discover I can’t see an opening.
I flounder and claw
But to no avail.
Screaming as no sound comes out
I reach out blindly and find you.
Clinging for all I’m worth,
Hoping you will be solace.
For a time everything is better,
But then it continues downhill.
Yet again I am left alone.
Sinking into blackness.
Spiraling
Downward
Fast.



Taste of Steel
By Lara Steen

Nothing feels better
than the quick bite of steel
being drug across delicate white skin
where green veins flow back and forth
with fresh blood ready to be spilled in a long thin line.
It’s like a high
that can’t be replicated.
It’s better than the first time
you took a hit. Better than
the first time you were fucked.
A euphoria
that takes you over and over
every time you taste the blade.
The release comes swift and you
Watch your life trickling down your arm



What Women Want to Hear
By Lara Steen

He said, “You’re beautiful.”
She promptly laughed in his face.

He said, “You smell delicious.”
She glared viciously.

He said, “You makemy day.”
She ignored him entirely.

He said, “You complete me.”
She snorted in disgust.

He said, “My God Woman, What do you want to hear?!”
She rolled her eyes and blew out an enormous sigh.

He said, “I love you.”
She screamed in delight.

Hesaid, “What?”
She jumped into his arms and said –

“Finally, just what I wanted to hear.”