I (Times the Quantity of x<3) – u

The sta s cal probability of me crashing and burning is overwhelmingly high I wonder What was the trajectory of the arrow you shot into my heart? You thought you missed You were wrong The s ng is perpetually tortuous and is only postponing the inevitable. I will burn I am beyond zero, ver cally and forever despondent X’s for eyes Reaching for the nonexistent My en rety is a syntax error My thoughts compute in the empty 1’s and 0’s of binary My words are lost in unspoken language Broken variables I leave no impressions I do not compute You give me a glance and my heart rate spikes to the second power I want to say it, I love u^2 But I am hollow and lost in myself Undefined

Glitter Trail As a child I was obsessed with fairies. In the backyard, in our tallest tree was a tiny house painted dark blue and pink. It was perched high above the ground so gnomes or elves couldn't reach the fairy's house. Above my bed hung a canopy colored a light green with faux flowers littering the seams. I had one just like it in my basement, too, where my sister and I would undergo magical transitions into the fluttering creatures. The living room was littered with "Sky Dancers" tapes, all opened up and shuffled. Besides them were DIY fairy kits filled with wooden appendages and smooth silk attached to recreated butterfly wings. It was a cool autumn day when I decided to take my obsession to the next level. My sister had lost her tooth that night and was excited to meet the tooth fairy. She and I grabbed the glitter from the craft closet and made a trail from our front door to the foot of her bed so that the tooth fairy could find our room without fail. We stayed up all night, or as long as the two of us could manage, with our butterfly catching nets secured tightly in our exhausted, little fingers. The next morning was exciting, to say the least. The vacuum was out as soon as my mom saw the trail I had made from the craft closet for a week, but weaseled out of the punishment in a few hours. I was never as enthusiastic as I was then about fairies.

Artwork by Ivy Landon

Grandpa  The presence you had when we would sit, wasn’t loud, talkative, or out of place, but with your presence, you commanded respect, and respect was given. You brought hot donuts and fresh bagels, a great treat called bobka, fresh fruit from farm stands. You loved to watch my brother, my sister, and I fool around on early Saturday mornings. We watched bugs bunny and road runner, and every week, without fail we would see you. You would stand in the doorway and you would hold out your arms for us to jump into. Crisp five and ten dollar bills, would jump out of your wallet and into our small infant hands. Before I was around you were really something else, or so I heard. You were a mayor of some town, that slips from my mind. You were a political power apparently, and one to be reckoned with. After you passed, people were sad at first of course, but your life was celebrated and cherished. You have had a lasting impact on all of those around, and there is no doubt you will not be forgotten. We miss you on Saturday mornings, but still get bagels. We miss the hugs you gave us, but still watch cartoons. And last we still know you are watching, and appreciate everything you were and still are.

Inseparable 

You were my first friend,

We were inseparable.

We always played together at recess,

Ate together at lunch,

Passed each other notes,

And ran into class to get seats together.

We were those weird li le kids,

We walked your rabbits,

Planted the berries on the playground,

And tried to make our stuffed animals fly.

We would stay up late, hiding under the covers,

Reading all my books,

Taking creepy pictures,

And playing Mario Kart ‘ l 2am.

But we were just too different,

Headed our own ways,

Each fight patched up,

A li le worse than the last.

I was fast, you were slow,

I was flighty, you were clingy,

I was moving on and you weren’t following.

When high school came,

You found your friends,

I found mine.

All the memories we had as kids,

And, now you’re just a wave in the hallway.

Thought in my Head  

The center of the universe Holding me up, the sun and the moon. 

The line of life and death. 

We all lived here, some more than others 

all alone in this cloudless sky. A confusing jumble of interest, 

solace from the world, a flag....my flag. 

never shall we land, my friends and I. Willfully trapped 

a paradox it seems, or perhaps a conundrum. To me they are the same. 

When I die the world will end. The orange light put out 

The boats sunk The canon fired 

The sail limp For these are my thoughts, 

impossible to decipher.

Prologue  

The day that I had first laid eyes on her is still burnt on the front of my mind even years later. I can remem-ber it so clearly because I could feel the heat of the sun no matter where I was placed. The blaze easily tore through the heavy layers of petticoats hanging from my waist, singeing my skin beneath my corset and shirt sleeves-- which were drawn far past my elbows to my wrists. Not even the cotton layer supporting my dress could ever dream of concealing my perspiration for too long. My face was beginning to turn pink despite the numerous layers of powder I had applied. The sweat puddled along my brow and upper lip was a hopeless cause to solve, as well. It was as if I was stuck inside of a conventional oven, roasting within my parlor with each passing minute.

The only force that had kept my over-heated heart beating was Elizabeth. She was a fairly large woman who pulled her apron a tad too tightly around her stomach. Elizabeth had followed me across the Atlantic Ocean when my husband and I relocated in America to expand his father's business. In spite-- and refusal to pay for her ticket for the boat-- she left my family's estate to continue caring for me. I expected no less from the woman who more than literally raised my brother and me. She was patting at my face with an iced hand towel as her assistant (Elizabeth was just too old to complete most tasks on her own) fanned my neck and the dips of my collar bone.

"Alice, dear," she began with that loud, rumbling voice of hers. "Shall I take you to your room to add another layer? The last thing I need is to have to scrub the oils from this dress."

The chance that I would be able to get up those flights of stairs was slim to none in this heat. I wanted to do nothing more than to bathe in ice at that moment and rip out of these restricting layers. But I had an image to uphold and a household to watch over. God, so help me if I was found indecently around my husband. Or any of his staff, for that matter.

"Mr. Edelstein will be down soon," I warn her, flicking my wrist in command to increase the speed of the fan-ning motion.

Elizabeth's thick, meaty fingers pinched my cheek as I said so, shooting a look at me. "You do recall that he has a first name? How long have you been married? Five years?" She replaced the cloth on my face with another dusting of powder. "Stop acting like you had just met him."

The new coat of make-up was caked and packed on my face, drying out the corners of my mouth. I was about to protest how he treated me no differently, and how we were still nothing more than acquaintances, but was cut off by the sound of light footsteps descending the stairs. My patching frown turned upwards to an indifferent gaze. He took each stair, one by one, with a rather arrogant tempo. Behind him trailed that conniving servant of his, eyeing up my plaster-like complexion with some kind of sick enjoyment.

Our meeting was fleeting, ending as soon as it began, with a simple chaste kiss and a good-bye. My hus-band, Roderich, flashed me his most charming and tender look before making his way out. Nothing more. It was easy to see the way his mouth dropped once he pulled away towards the door. There was no skill in picking out the negativity in his grin or the stress in his frown lines. His smile was just not the same. Nor was the feeling it used to give me.

The Butterfly When I saw you, your ephemeral wings, dusted with the iridescent colors of the rainbow, captivated me.

Gently fluttering in the breeze, you were a wanderer, hidden amongst garbage cans and graffiti I wanted to cherish you, a piece of innocence amidst a broken world. Innocent, you are beautiful but you

remain blissfully unaware. I wanted to keep you hidden in a jar, safe in my room, to admire. But instead, I watched as you left, slowly flying off into the distance, for you would suffocate, and watching the spirit and fluttering of your wings waning as your color fades and your wings still would make me a murderer.

Instead, I chose to watch

Always There

When you feel like life is out of control Just stop, See that tree, In that field, It's always there. When you're crying over relationships, When you're worrying over grades, When your coworkers drive you insane. That tree, In that field, Is always there. It watches and waits Observing the mayhem you create. It knows if you'd just stop, and see the trees, your worries would cease

What Real Men Want I want a game. A fun game with all the sports as one Baseball is my passion, real men play baseball. I want no rain from God, he punishes me when a game is cancelled I want a game. An interesting game where the winner loses and the loser wins I want to play on 34th Street escaping the cunning eyes of Mr. De Luca from his corner shop bakery I want excitement against Johnny, Billy, and Tim who all think they are better than me. I want Mr. Bisco and Mr. Kent to make us run I will run for my family and friends until my feet become one with the whistling breeze. I want Yankee Stadium to welcome me, take me in Her arms, and tuck me into her yellow sand and luscious green turf. Please, Yankee Stadium, shelter me from 34th Street with a game. Real Men want a game I want a game with love that blossoms like Mr. Taft’s symmetrical pink shades of cherry blossom trees. I want a plethora of things But all I really want is a game.

The black smoke will hold my face in its hands

As I feel the cold water drip down my spine

Do we only love with corrupted hearts?

Only dream with misguided thoughts?

We destroy inner beauty for trivial reasons

And temporary sa sfactory

Why?

Can we never hug without knives at hand

Plo ng for betrayal should we get hurt?

Will we ever care

At the most inconvenient mes for us?

Hide your color deep into the corners

Of your tainted mind

Do as you please

For I promise you, my friend

I will find you.

I’ll Sort it Out When it’s Time to Say Hello I sit on the bench closest to the church door My bones old and weak and sore Ready to decompose in the ground With me, myself, and my melancholy. I used to be as faithful as the one Who was willing to bind his son And take his blood in the name of God, But I would never cut the throat of another, even if He commands it. I recall that she said she saw a light Dawning with whispers that danced with the night That’s cold and crisp and empty. I am empty without my dearest, but He doesn’t seem to hear me. I fall asleep on that bench closest to the church door And dream a dream that I’ve certainly dreamt before. I see a tree bearing no fruit. Instead entwined with the bare limbs was a snake. It holds the last remaining morsel in its maw As it hisses at me, telling me to forget the word of God And, like my dearest, take a little bite. But I don’t know if God is watching, if He is even there. I awake a moment later, I see the clock has stricken four. I sit on the bench closest to the church door With me, myself, and my melancholy. I don’t know if He walks beside me as I leave the church. But I’ll sort it all out when it’s time to say “hello”.

Mama Bear and Her Cub 

There she is standing tall with my mother tending to her every need,

Smirking at me with a devious grin.

Laughing, smiling like she does

She comes first.

She comes first.

But, I have the birthright.

Why does this bother me so?

My Mother and her have something special,

My Mother and Ka e, Esau and Isaac.

It bothers me so.

Favori sm is all I see.

She wears the coat of many colors.

She gets treats and looks of adora on

while I might as well be invisible.

I understand Cain's rage and anger,

I know the feeling.

I wonder what it would be like to dress up like my sister

and to be the blessed one.

Metaphors are Be er than Feelings 

I’m in a cave,

But I hate caves.

Cold and dark, the fear of something not there.

There’s a pool.

Tropical fish swim deep beneath.

A light appears and shines,

Hope is discovered.

The fish swim to the surface

And whisper colors.

The Ar st 

I have longed for her return

Now that she is back, all the troubles in the world have disappeared.

She illuminates the beau ful scene with the blazing bright beams of light.

She gets to work right away.

She s tches her quilt with a pa ern that is so picturesque,

That when I see her pain ng, I stay there for a long me

Admiring every detail and s tch work that she portrays.

When she cries over her work, it’s so and comfor ng

When she is upset and howls the tune of disaster that breaks my heart and breaks the pain ng

But she will fix it up together in a day or two

Everything will be in place once more.

The crystals she paints hanging from the trees are parents to the sparkles which dance on

Them,

When the sun kisses them so tenderly.

Even though the ar st does not accepts the sun forever, she does appreciate the volume of color

The sun gives

Her quilt wears away and gets torn

She doesn’t get upset, because she knows it’s me to leave

I do not worry though, for she will come back next year.

Winter never disappoints me.

III.

we are sinking.

we are slighting ourselves for

new feelings,

but they will fall with the skeletons of leaves

and we will watch as old thoughts

wash up on foreign shores

and our pursuance is completed.

the shell of another lost year of consciousness;

we pass as glances.

i don’t care.

i won’t touch you.

we are separated by endless and

cold space.

i echo outward;

i retreat into myself,

toward these dark bastions,

the caves inside my hollow head

where I store a primogeniture

too great for my strength.

all I wish for is your forgiveness;

to answer your language,

at the steps of your mouth,

in the presence of a god.

but we don’t speak.

so i

arch toward the sea again,

and consider your ebb and flow.

By Zach Goldberg

Hitched And on and on I move forever with no hopes for better pastures

Artwork by Ivy Landon

Fire 

Hot, Flame, Heat

Destruc on, ash and soot.

Warmth and hearth in water.

Flames dancing.

Shadows moving.

Light flickers, pierces dark.

Candles and lantern swing.

Fire leaps, it licks its prey.

Burning, Burning away.

How to Get Blood from a Stone

First, start by dumping a mass of sifted sand that runs across the rock---- so much so, that the poor rock begins to erode. It becomes silt itself, bleeding into oblivion. They scoop up our residue---what’s left of us--- fashion us into a new mold; the kiln burns us into permanence. And so---we are again stone---petrified soldiers That march to a slow-moving wheel. We---now automatons---mechanical and monotonous.