lumen e-book 2012

a c r e a t i v e a r t s m a g a z i n e b y

M E R C Y H U R S T U N I V E R S I T Y

a c r e a t i v e a r t s m a g a z i n e b y

M E R C Y H U R S T U N I V E R S I T Y

f a c u l t y a d v i s o r s

D R . K E N S C H I F F

D R . M A R N I E S U L L I VA N

M S . J O D I S TA N I U N A S - H O P P E R

e d i t o r s i n c h i e f

C H R I S T I N A M I H A L I C

S A R A H P R I C E

e d i t o r s

C H E L S E A S C H E R M E R H O R N

I R E N E G A L L A G H E R

E R I C A G A L L A G H E R

S U S A N H U

d e s i g n e r s

C A S E Y K R E I N

J . J O H N T H I E D E

m a r k m a t a s h

B I T C H , I L O V E Y O U . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3

n i c h o l a s r e x

C L O S E U P T I G H T . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 4

c a m e r o n d e m a r c o

C O L O R S E R I E S # 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 5

t y l e r s t a u f f e r

S E L M E R M A R K V I # 6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 6

c h r i s t i n a m i h a l i c

P I E C E S O F Y O U . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 7

m a r k m a t a s h

T H E A M / F M D O U B L E A L B U M . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 8

m e l i s s a t u n d o

B E A U T Y I N D I S T R E S S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 0

k a y l a n a s h

T H R E E P I E C E S F O R V I O L I N & P I A N O AU D I O . . . . . 2 1

a n g e l i n a s m i t h

C I G A R E T T E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 2

a l e t h e a g a a r d e n

S A VA N N A H G I R L . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 3

s a r a h p r i c e

S H R O U D . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 3

i s a a c s m i t h

B A L L O O N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 4


w I T H O U T w O R D S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 5

m a r i k a k o c h

T H E D I N E R . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 6


U N T I T L E D . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 0

j . j o h n t h i e d e

D R A G q U E E N & C H A I R . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 1

c h e l s e a s c h e r m e r h o r n

G R A S S B U R R S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 2

c h r i s b o l e s

C U L T U R A L S C R E A M . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 3

l a u r a f i e g e l i s t

D E F I N I N G R E A L I T Y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 3

c a s e y k r e i n

M E M O R I E S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 4

j i l l i a n b a r r i l e

S A N S A L VA D O R , B A H A M A S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 5

m a r i k a k o c h

S A L U T D ’ A M O U R . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 6


T H E F O R E V E R S A I L O R . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 0

e r i n m c c a n d l e s s

V I E w F R O M N O T R E D A M E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 1

k a y l a n a s h

T H R E E P I E C E S F O R V I O L I N & P I A N O V I D E O . . . . . 4 2

t y l e r j o l i e

V I TA M I N S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 3

d a v i d s a n t i a g o

T I N S E L T O w N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 4


T O M Y S I S T E R . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 5

T a b l e o f C o n T e n T s

m a r i k a k o c h

M A G N U M M Y S T E R I U M . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 6

s a r a h p r i c e

T O TA S T E M I L K A N D H O N E Y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 7

a d r i e n n e c h a m p i n e

T H E I N T E R S E C T I O N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 7

j i l l i a n b a r r i l e

U N T I T L E D . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 8

s a r a h p r i c e

P E A R L E D T H O R N S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 9

n a t a l i e g r o s p i t c h

w E I R D . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 0

c h a d w e b e r

F A C E S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 2

s a r a h b l a i r

D R E S S P A T T E R N S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 3


S O U T H E R N C H A R M . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 4

p a i g e g e l s i m i n o

T H E G I R L w I T H T H E G L A S S E S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 5

h i l d a n a v a r r o

K U N A I N D I A N F R O M P A N A M A . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 6

l u k e a l l p o r t - c o h o o n

S O N A TA F O R S T R I N G q U A R T E T . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 7

c h a d w e b e r

T I N Y G R A C E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 8


Y O U R H A N D S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 9

r o d o l f o c a r l o s

R E S TA U R A N T D O O R . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 0


T H E U N L I K E L Y S U M M O N I N G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 1

e m i l y f r a n c i s

A N T I - S O C I A L N E T w O R K I N G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 2

n a t a l i e g r o s p i t c h

F R E E D O M . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 4

k o r r i n e h a l l e n

E L E P H A N T . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 5

s u s a n h u

D A M N R E G R E T . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 5


I K N O w Y O U . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 6

k a r m a s m i t h

T H E M O N S T E R I N T H E M I R R O R . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 8

j a m e s c o n l e y

B R O K E N S K A T E B O A R D . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 9


O L D C R E E K B L U E S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 0

j e n n i f e r m c c u r d y

I R I S H B R E A K F A S T T E A . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 1

k a y l y n s t a c k

S E N D M E O N M Y wA Y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 2

l u k e a l l p o r t - c o h o o n

VA R I A T I O N S O N A N O R I G I N A L T H E M E . . . . 7 3

s a r a h p r i c e

L U R I D . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 4

m i r a n d a g e o r g e

A H I G H S C H O O L D I S E A S E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 4

m a r y n o l t e

M A N Y Y E A R S F R O M N O w . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 5


F L O O D E D O U T O F E D E N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 6

s a r a h h l u s k o

N Y B O TA N I C A L G A R D E N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 7


I H A D A R U N - I N w I T H Y O U R G I R L F R I E N D . . . 7 8


D O C K S I D E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 0

t r a c y m . h o w l a n d

J U S T A D R E A M . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 1

c h r i s b o l e s

L I V I N G I N A D R E A M . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 2

j . a . m a c d o u g a l l

A I N S L I E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 3

t e s s s i n k e

L O R D , L O O K D O w N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 4

m a u r a h u n t e r

L I F E A N D D E A T H . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 5


C O U N T E R - C A D E N C E , A S O N G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 6

d u r i m l o s h a j

E U C L I D E A N S P A C E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 8


H O N E Y S T I C K S A N D B L U E B O N N E T S . . . . . . . . 8 9

d a r i a l a e m m e r h i r t

P R O F E S S O R B U R K E ’ S O F F I C E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 0

n i c o l e l a w r e n c e

B O x I N G G L O V E S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 1

c h a d w e b e r

E I G H T L E G S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 2

k a t e l y n c e c c h e t t i

D R E S S M E U P I N C O L O R . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 3

d y l a n w i e s n e r

U N T I T L E D . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 4

m a t t h e w c . t e l e h a

F O R E V E R ( w R A P P E D I N L E T T E R S ) . . . . . . . . . . . 9 5

m a r y n o l t e

I A M w E N D Y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 6

r a c h e l h a m m o n d

S E L F P O R T R A I T . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 7

a p r i l a l f i e r i

L E A F O V E R T I M E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 8

k e v e n g r e g g

B R I D G E J U M P I N G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 9

s h e a q u a d r i

T O Y H O U S E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 0

j o r d a n a b e h

M O V E A B L E D R E A M S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 1


P R O C E S S I O N I N A C A D I A . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 1


I T wA S A F O R B I D D E N L O V E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 2

e m i l y f r a n c i s

I N V I S I B L E B A R R I E R S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 3


M E A N D Y O U . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 3

g i o v a n n a t h o m p s o n

B R A C K E T . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 4

r o s e m a r y m o o r e

S U N G L A S S E S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 5

c a r l i h a t f i e l d

D A D I I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 6

e t h a n a . b r a t t o n

T H E C A V E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 7

t e s s s i n k e

T H E B A L L A D O F S w E E T G I S E L L E . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 8

r a c h e l c l a r k

B O O T . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 9

s h a n e m c c a b e

C E L E S T I A L O C E A N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1 0


w E F O U N D E A C H O T H E R F L O A T I N G . . . . . . 1 1 1


q U E E N O F T H E S A N D . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1 1

a n t h o n y c h i a r a p p a

T H E H O O P . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1 2

l a u r a p a l e r m o

S E L F P O R T R A I T I N F L O R E N C E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1 6


P A P E R M O O N S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1 7

a m a n d a s t a f f o r d

P E E K I N G I N M Y D O O R . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1 7

l y d i a s t r u b l e

F I V E VA R I A T I O N S O N A T H E M E . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1 8

m a r y n o l t e

T O M I K E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1 9

m a r k m a t a s h

T H E F L O w O F T H I N G S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 0

b r i t t a n y w e r n e r

L A Y E R S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 1


T H E H O R S E ’ S A D V I C E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 2

j o h n s t r o n g

O B L I V I O U S B E A U T Y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 4

r a c h e l p l a y s o

S E L F P O R T R A I T . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 5


R A I N , R E E D S , A N D M O S E S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 6

h a n n a h m e t z g e r

P E A N U T S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 7

s a r a h p r i c e

P A E A N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 8

l e e a n n s t r o m y e r

I N q U E S T I O N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 9

m a t t h e w a d a m c z y k

U R B A N D E C A Y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3 0

k e v e n g r e g g

T H E D R E A M w E A V E R . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3 1

e i t h n e a m o s

T H E L E T T E R I w R O T E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3 1

f e l i c i a s a n d i n o

ON wOMEN AND THEIR ISSUES/STUDY OF LIGHT . . . . 1 3 2

m e g a n f e l l o w

U R B A N D E S I G N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3 3

s h a n e m c c a b e

C E R A M I C B U S T O F S H A N E M C C A B E . . . . . . 1 3 4

i a n g a y f o r d

T H E M E A N D VA T I A T I O N S I N D M I N O R . . 1 3 5

c h r i s b o l e s

L O V E L Y C I G A R E T T E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3 6

13lumenM M X I I

bITCh

, I lo

ve Yo

u

Mark MaTash

The beaming smiles of my Nana and Papa are serene at first glance.

Their 50th wedding anniversary was four years ago

And yet I remember every detail of their celebration.

My mom, their daughter, held a party for them

At our family’s restaurant, where everyone celebrated jovially.

There was plenty of story-swapping going around

Recollecting of past family joys and embarrassments.

Over golden flutes of champagne, they were toasted for their love

And blessed for the remainder of their intertwined lives.

Last month while I was working,

They came in to eat like they do every Saturday.

I sat with them and listened to the usual repertoire

Of Nana telling him to have another beer and shut up,

while Papa tells her to blow it out her ass like her cigarette smoke.

This usual banter, caught between bitefulls of chicken wings,

Gulps of Bud Light and puffs of Marlboro,

Has always been heavily laced with a satirical sounding

Tone that matches the angelic pose of their celebratory toast,

A tense slurring which sounds like they

are ready to kill each other at any moment.

Fifty-four years and still going strong.

15lumenM M X I I

14lumenM M X I I

Clos

e up T

IghT

nICholas reX

In the presence of cedars and laid to rest among the elms,

we are always running out of heroes;

they seem to tumble every day.

The antithesis of rebirth in spring is the slow decay of autumn.

Dorchester leaves rustling at my feet as I gaze upon your epitaph.

Granite carved depicting the trumpet of a

hierophant transcending society with art.

Is there not something sacred about burning

out rather than fading away?

Leaves of autumn erupt in conflagration,

rather than have their hues fade.

So your fire was extinguished in your prime

in the ethereal realm of the sky.

As you fell from the air, was your life-fire

snuffed by the wind of Thanatos,

just as the leaves follow the same path to earth?

As the blankets of snow cover you, the sound

of a trolley pervades the distance.

Rest in peace, Chiaiese, and know you are not forgotten.

Your spirit lives on through vinyl memories praising

Helios with stratospheric trumpet.

Lay down your staff and trumpet, and embrace

the golden gifts of Morpheus.

As the icy embrace of snow seeps through the cold earth,

so does your legacy warm the soul of any that

heard the instrument of Gabriel.

Color serIes #2

CaMeron deMarCo

17lumenM M X I I

16lumenM M X I I

pIeCe

s of Y

ou

ChrIsTIna MIhalIC

I want to uncover you, discover you,

and study you with intensity.

I want to hear the slopes of your voice.

The rises and fall of your speech—

your gibberish, I want to hear your answers,

to life’s fleeting questions—

those that recoil in and out of your mind.

I want to catch the ones you lose,

and toss them back into you.

I want to memorize the sound of your voice.

The distinctive beats, your sound waves—

I want to feel them rebound off me.

I want to unfold the levels of your thinking

As though each one contains a new being,

a different part of you—

those inaudible contemplations.

I want to study you in silence, and whispers,

the steadiness of your breath.

I want to see air move through you,

and memorize your laughter’s pitch.

I want to hear you in major and minor chords,

dissonance. I want to listen to your decibels.

I want to learn the tints and hues of your irises.

The colors that surround your pupils,

the reflections that take place off your sclera.

I want to see them magnified.

I want to meet your hands,

And trace your fingers—

as though each lumbrical has a story to tell.

I want to see you, focused, still, distracted.

I want to get inside your genius.

And understand the brainwork.

I want you to demolish in front of me,

then watch you re-build yourself—

so I can memorize each building block,

and truly understand the pieces,

that make you.

TYler sTauffer

selMer Mark vI #6

18lumenM M X I I

19lumenM M X I I

2004: After my grandfather’s death, Catholic school and I parted ways. Larry and the

unknown hellions we considered friends welcomed me in.

1992: Sam Kinison died in a car crash; the preacher turned angry comic probably earned

himself a place of comfort in hell.

2007: After nearly dying on a chain link fence, Larry seemed to hide doubt behind the

vicodin-induced bravado symbolized by the scar near his femoral artery.

1994: Bill Hicks died of pancreatic cancer, his final words were “where truth, love and

laughter abide, I am there in spirit.”

2008: George Carlin died of heart failure; it was also during this time I found out about the

pills. The foundations began to crumble.

1966: Lenny Bruce died of alcoholism and Catholic revenge; telling people what they don’t

want to hear can be more dangerous than you think.

2009: I find out from my mom that Larry was kicked out of college for cocaine possession.

The record scratch of the comedy and rock albums we shared felt endless.

2011: I’m ashamed to try to talk to Larry again. He’s climbed up from rock bottom, but

the meanings behind the jokes and songs we shared have been buried long ago.

Switch over to disc 2.

2003: Larry introduced me to George Carlin one night. The idea

of a singles bar named “Frankie’s Fuckery” made my

jaw numb from laughing so hard.

1977: Elvis’s pill habit finally dumped him off of the throne;

everyone shouts “long live the king” again.

2006: Larry admits to me that he’s been smoking pot and that I

ought to try it. I’m skeptical.

1980: John Bonham dies in a pool of his own vomit, rock and roll

tagged along with him on the stairway to heaven.

2005: I watch the movie “Dazed and Confused” for the first time

at Larry’s house. The soundtrack whistled through me

like air blowing through the windows of a GTO blaring

“Slow Ride.”

2002: Larry introduced me to Natural Light one night; I thought

then as I think now, “Holy shit, this stuff tastes like cold

piss!”

1969-71: The 27 Club trifecta of Morrison, Joplin and Hendrix

was initiated. The soundtrack of the revolution was

dead, one thing led to another...

The a

M/fM

do

uble

albu

M

Mark MaTash

20lumenM M X I I

21lumenM M X I I

beauTY In dIsTress

MelIssa Tundo

Three pIeCes for vIolIn & pIano audIo

kaYla nash, CoMposerbarTon saMuel roTberg, vIolInandrew raInbow, pIano

f o r p e r f o r m a n c e s e e p a g e 4 2

(2012)

a u d i o c o n t e n t o n l y a v a i l a b l e o n c d

23lumenM M X I I

23lumenM M X I I

savannah gIrl

aleThea gaarden

People don’t like old-fashioned magic anymore,

but my grandmother was a traditionalist,

and we always had a horseshoe hanging outside our door.

Nine-year-old me knew the right way to wish

for the new Nancy Drew mystery or a black cat

of my own, but Momma thought it was all superstition—

so when grandmother died, she buried her in black

and sent me to school to get a proper education.

Grade school taught me long division and preterite

tense, but I always hated history books. Instead,

I hung around the graveyard with the old Confederate

soldiers, and laughed when Momma scolded; the dead

never did anyone half as much harm as the living.

Besides, grandma liked it when I came visiting.

shroudsarah prICe

I dreamt of dinted tambourine bells

in the rills of a late March shower

under barren trees, fretful birds.

I dreamt of shrikes in the hedges

in red nooks

black blindfolded and

thorn enshrouded with the wind

a Gregorian chant

stretched into a moan

with the breadth of the world

pulling it close.

I dreamt of salamanders

lying like curls of liquorice

in the silt and the shadow,

like smudges on the moon;

they drowned there,

and did you know

there were cranes there

with bills in the shale blue

water and the fall flowering

alone

and that the browning of the grape vine

ran with rivulets of frost

while the spider slipped on the water

into a pale mouth?

22lumenM M X I I

Two rosy vice grips and a pink jack to keep it steady

I stood on the stoop and pulled in the cloud a few inches

Capturing it long enough to create a foggy town

Down around Pearl City

walling up against the fresh ozone

And just as swiftly relieving the town from the mist

Rinse and repeat

Each time relaxing my cheeks and my eyes

Until it seems like the sluggish action of a REM cycle

Brings in the fog.

You can’t run away but you can run away the moment

Bring it in.

You can’t cheat death but you can pick your cancer.

CIgareTTe

angelIna sMITh

24lumenM M X I I

25lumenM M X I I

Interlocking under sheets,

Fumbling into buttons, and multi-colored shirts.

Falling out of words, language—

articulated gibberish.

Elongated sighs of release,

entranced into each other’s

eyelashes.

Pausing in silence,

and then whispers.

Turning your breath into

sound waves, descending into ears.

words and letters spilling into

nonsense, random articulations,

quickly molding into

a mishap—

A confusion.

A “what did you say?”

Some mismatched speech,

evolving into elongated silences.

A Stop.

A Pause.

A miscommunication piled up from

misplaced signifiers.

Manifesting into blockades

of bricks and birches.

wIThouT words

ChrIsTIna MIhalIC

Accidental drywalls warped around,

Each others being, emerging into,

Immediate remorse.

Guilt.

Moments of malfeasance and then a stop.

A pause.

Concentration, ponderous movements,

And then,

A gracious expression.

Lips curving into one

unspoken statement—

of laughter,

And understood forgiveness.

A demolition of previously built barriers,

A curse to the signifiers—

Rebelling against them,

through laughter and contact

Your hands pressing harder while

Misplacing fear with song lyrics, a voice,

Burrowing into the other’s bare skin,

kisses of contentment.

Tumbling over and into

each other’s bodies

while leaving our left temporal lobes

dumbfounded over the ease

of comprehending feelings

without words.

balloon

IsaaC sMITh

26lumenM M X I I

27lumenM M X I I

JACK: Oh… right. (Pause.) I’ll have the potato soup, if you please.

CELIA: Sorry. we’ve only got tomato left.

JACK: well, I’ll have some of that, then.

CELIA: Cup or bowl?

JACK: (To the audience.) I didn’t know what this lady was getting at, but, boy, if it didn’t

blow my mind clear across the room. She was a mysterious girl, that Celia. (To

CELIA.) I don’t know. what do you think?

CELIA: (Pause.) I think you should decide if you want your soup in a cup or a bowl. Maybe

you’d just like to drink it off the damn table.

JACK: Oh. why would I want to do that? (Pause.) I guess I’ll take a bowl, please. I’m going

to be here awhile.

CELIA: Thought you said you had a train to catch.

JACK: No, I’ve just always thought that the ten-thirty soup was the best in these railway

restaurants. They must like the late-night travellers better, see. I have this theory

that—

CELIA: whatever you say, Slick.

JACK: I never told you my name! And besides, it’s not really ‘Slick.’ See, I haven’t been

called that since the time in school when we had the butter-eating contest. I bet

you can guess who the winner was. (Winks at the audience.)

CELIA: (Looks curiously in the same direction before turning back to JACK.) Are you trying

to be funny?

JACK: No. Just ordering soup, like any fine, upstanding English gentleman would do.

CELIA: (Pause.) You know that we’re in New York City, right? And that you sound as

American as Apple Pie and anti-tax protesters?

JACK: (To the audience.) Celia wasn’t always the brightest of girls. But, damn it, if I didn’t

love her from the second I realized her endearing stupidity. (To CELIA.) Poor,

poor Miss Railway waitress! I can see that I’m confusing you.

CELIA: (Mockingly.) “Miss Railway waitress”? But I haven’t been called that since I was

a stripper at Erotic Al’s Lust Emporium! (Seriously.) Look, buddy, just call me

Jane, and maybe we can get along until you take yourself and your crazy head

somewhere else.

JACK: You know, you look more like a Celia to me.

CELIA: (Sighs exasperatedly.) I’m going to check on the soup. It won’t take a minute, if

you want to make yourself comfortable.

(Exit stage left.)

JACK: (Sits, then speaks to the audience.) You can see why I loved her from the start, I know.

She was so bumbling, but with good intentions. You couldn’t ignore that. Plus

she was a belle you could get used to ringing, if you take my meaning. (CELIA

enters stage left.) what’s the word on the soup, Cellie?

CELIA: It’s going to be awhile. The cook’s having some trouble with the stove and we’ve

got to heat the stuff up. You came in a bit late for our best soup. (Reluctantly.) So,

what brings you to New York City, Mister—?

JACK: Jack’s the name, doll. Nice to hear some decency from a gal like you. You don’t get

that much here in the metropolis—most everyone here’s a harlot or the snobbish

type with her hands in interpretive dance or the opera or some other crap. I’m

here on business.

The d

Iner

MarIka koCh

C haracters:

JACK, a well-dressed man in his mid-thirties

CELIA, a waitress, mid-twenties

Setting: This play takes place in New York City, in the present day. The

scene is set in an empty railway restaurant, late at night. There is a long

dining-table near to stage left with a bell and a cash register, in front

of which is a chair. There is a sign beside the table reading “MENU”

with a number of soups and sandwiches listed on it. A toy gun will be

required eventually.

A spotlight snaps on stage right, with Jack standing in the middle. He is

wearing a suit, a hat and carrying a large briefcase with him, looking a

bit dishevelled and rather anachronistic. As the light comes up, he begins

to look around in the audience, seemingly curious about their presence.

JACK: (To the audience.) It’s nice to see such a big crowd, all to hear

my little story. Surprised there’d be such interest, really.

well, let me tell you, it all started the way you don’t think.

That’s to say, it happened strangely. Out-of-the-blue. with

a certain measure of curiosity, you might say. It all started

when I went to the railway diner that evening, hoping to

catch a bowl of soup before my train got in. (Runs across

the stage to the table where CELIA is standing; the spotlight

follows him until the lights come up to illuminate the scene

on stage left. JACK speaks breathlessly when he begins, as if

he has just run a long distance.) Excuse… ex—pardon me,

Miss, but I need a bowl of something hot, fast as you can

give it to me.

CELIA: (Tiredly; without looking at JACK.) Of course you do. Too bad

I just donated my ovaries to the Society for Asexual women.

You might have had a chance last night, Slick.

JACK: (Pause.) what? (To the audience.) She really hit me over the

head, ol’ Celia. But, then, I’d always been rather susceptible

to misunderstanding since the Incident. Haven’t been quite

the same up here since. (Taps himself on the forehead before

returning to CELIA.) I don’t know what that has to do with

anything, lady. I just want a bowl of soup. The ten-thirty’s

arriving soon.

CELIA: (Looks up.) Fine. what sort of soup would you like?

JACK: what sorts do you have?

CELIA: (Brightly.) well, there’s the Goat’s Blood, of course, which

people really seem to like. Not quite as much as the one with

a base of Destroying Angel Mushroom, though. (Points to a

sign beside the table.) Just read the menu, genius.

29lumenM M X I I

28lumenM M X I I

JACK: Listen, Cellie. I think we’ve known each other for long enough now for me to make

a little confession to you.

CELIA: Yes?

JACK: My dear little Cellie, that’s just like you to say. “Yes.” You’re the most endearing girl

I’ve ever met, and I’ve no hesitation in saying that I’d like you to be my wife.

CELIA: (Pause.) Come again?

JACK: (To the audience.) She was struck almost completely dumb, I could see. (Though

she’d been before, too, if you get me.) But, then, anyone would be awed as she was

if being propositioned by a Don Juan of my caliber. (Falls to his knees in front of

the table.) Marry me, Celia. with your waitressing skills, and my supplies, we’ll

put all the pimps in the Broadway District out of work.

CELIA: (Pause.) we just met, Jack—

JACK: Don’t you believe in love at first sight, my dear, lovely Celia?

CELIA: well, I—

JACK: I do. (To audience.) And I think that everyone who doesn’t should be taken out back

and shot. (Spins revolver over his finger before speaking to CELIA.) what do you

say, my little spring rose?

CELIA: (Pause. CELIA stands wringing her apron for a short time before climbing over

the table and throwing her arms around JACK.) YES, JACK! I love you! I have

since the moment you walked in here, my dear, dear Jack! (Laughs hysterically;

obviously humouring him. After a few moments, she lets go of him and stands back

from him slightly.)

JACK: (To audience.) She really made me happy, you know. Especially when she was so

happy. All that laughing, and the tears in her eyes… the way she kept checking

on the soup for me…. But there was only so long a gentleman could stand being

crowded by his gal. I mean, how long could you stand it? You’re thinking that

you’ve found the light of your life, your “true love,” then she just starts taking so

much out of you that you can’t stand the sight of her annoying mug. (To CELIA.)

Celia, I think it’s time we had a serious talk. I don’t know that this is working out.

CELIA: (In a trembling voice.) what?

JACK: You’ve been holding me down. I need to expand my horizons… meet new people. It’s

a shame it had to end like this, love.

CELIA: But… no, Jack, please, we can work this out! (Grasps JACK’S empty hand.) Please…

remember your ideas, about your sales? we can do it all, Jack, whatever you

fucking want, just… put the gun down.

JACK: It’s too late for that, my dear. I’m sorry. (Steps back to level his revolver at

CELIA’S chest and shoots before she can run away. Speaks to the audience.)

Poor girl. She should’ve seen that men in my line don’t have time for true

love, or the time to get others involved in our business schemes. Too risky.

(Pause; looks at his feet.) well, anyway, that’s my life’s story. Nice of you

to drop by to see it. (Rings a bell on the table; yells into stage left.) How

long does it take you to make up a bowl of God-damned tomato soup?

(The light falls.)

CELIA: Oh, Lord…. what kind of business?

JACK: Just entrepreneurial things… hawking my goods on the streets… that sort of thing.

It’s been a real trial, I can tell you. People just aren’t buying in this economy,

lady. Sometimes you just have to sell what the public needs, and, boy, I sure

try to provide that service.

CELIA: I suppose so. what do you sell?

JACK: The usual sort of stuff. Methamphetamines, cocaine, even some heroin when I

can get it—

CELIA: whoa there, Jack. Back up a sec. You said that you’re out on the streets selling

drugs to people?

JACK: Hit it on the head! (To the audience.) The girl was impressed with me from the

start. The birds always are when you tell them that you’re a big-shot in the

business world. It’s one of the benefits of the trade, really.

CELIA: I don’t understand—

JACK: (To CELIA.) I’ve got some here in my briefcase if you’d like to take a look, along

with my trusty revolver! Look here, I’ve got just the sort of stuff for you, a girl

having to stand here on the late shift, listening to the woes of her customers

and all that—

CELIA: (With alarm.) No, no! That’s quite all right, Jack… I believe you, I believe you….

(Pause.) Do you… get a lot of business?

JACK: Sometimes, sometimes… depends on the time of day and the supply, really,

Cellie. And whether or not that damn pimp down on 42nd Street is having

a two-fer.

CELIA: A what?

JACK: A two-fer! You know, “two-for-one”? I would’ve thought an ex-stripper would

know the lingo. (To the audience.) She was coming on to me. I could see it

in the way she asked me about my job with such interest—people usually

didn’t care. Stopped after I’d told them about the business, you know. And

the revolver, of course. That was usually a bit of a show-stopper. Celia was

different, the sweet girl. I really couldn’t help myself, and, after that, I had to

ask her to be mine. (Opens his briefcase to reveal his revolver, then speaks to

CELIA.) Celia… do you ever think about love?

CELIA: (Nervously, eyeing the weapon.) All the time. Let me go see if your soup is

ready, now… just… call if you need me, Jack….

(Exit stage left.)

JACK: (To the audience.) She could see that I was going to propose something just by

looking. The shake in her voice said it all. well, I couldn’t blame the girl for

being nervous. A pretty thing like that here in the tough city with nothing

to protect her honor but a flimsy apron and the menu board would have to

be a little wary sometimes, I’m sure. (Mimes aiming his revolver around the

audience.) But I didn’t care. Love at first sight isn’t something I can just put

off, you know. (CELIA enters stage left.)

CELIA: (Laughing nervously.) well… it seems that the soup’s taking longer to make

than I thought it would! The cook’s getting lazy since it’s the night shift,

you know.

31lumenM M X I I

30lumenM M X I I

drag Queen & ChaIr

J. John ThIede

unTIT

led

ChrIsTIna MIhalIC

Our cat died. She died,

in one swoop of the night.

She crawled out to find,

freedom, only to find,

black tires screeching loudly,

against her once soft fur—

Now hard from the shock of tires.

She died, and I couldn’t tell you.

Because I remembered your eyes

when we picked her out together.

They evaporated into hers

As though you’d never seen anything so

delicate.

At the dinner table, they told me.

They gave me cake first.

A fresh cut piece in front of me,

And they told me she’d died.

They told me she’d been

run over.

They told me, and I ran

over the event, crying into my vanilla icing.

while my parents, and their parents

Stood still, staring,

at my red 22-year-old eyes.

Our cat died,

and I couldn’t tell you,

how her bright eyes are now,

buried under a hard earth’s surface.

I can’t tell you how,

In death she took everything—

Your look, her eyes, now evaporating

under this earth.

Our cat died, she died,

in one swoop of the night

she heard tires screeching

against her little dark body.

and in that moment she took everything.

32lumenM M X I I

33lumenM M X I I

They are stuck in the cage,

we have climbed out of.

They sustain fabricated faces,

as we wallow alone.

It’s like organized stealing of the pure

Motion continues to flow inside time.

It travels from soft tranquil liquid,

to hard scratching distortion.

Indians: free, running in the quicksand

of time, peaceful and content.

Tribes deposed by the technology

of modern derangement

CulTral sCreaM

ChrIs bolesdefInIng realITY

laura fIegelIsT

Shivering yelps

beneath the sun,

are never heard…

we must arrest comfort,

before they sell it.

No heart would trade trees for cheap coin.

Spiraling down is the only way up.

why can’t the fear fade?

Sell your soul to fit the mold,

Or the snake bites the warmth away.

This is the place to be free.

Abandon the umbrella that restricts your hands;

balance yourself as you hopscotch across

rocks that separate you from placid water.

Feel the smooth, cool stones painted with mud;

don’t be ashamed of your soiled palms.

This is the place to be fully alive.

Open your mind, your heart, your senses;

only by doing so will you achieve tranquility.

Now close your eyes and listen with your soul—

allow the symphony of falling water to

penetrate your anxiety and destroy the walls

you’ve built around your emotions.

Receive the energy from syncopating droplets.

This is the place for adventures.

Let your worries drop with the rain.

Revert to the child you once were—

stick out your tongue, lean back;

catch the gumdrops

as they fall from the sky.

This is the place you can count on.

In this moment, you are here

and nowhere else.

gras

s bur

rs

Chelsea sCherMerhorn

My wet feet trample

the slick green grass,

running back and forth

while droplets in the air

reflect and intensify

the boiling sun.

One colorful square

in a patchwork of brown—

the immaculate yard

is a Persian carpet next to

the small white house

with flaking paint.

The rust-stained door

releases older sisters

in swimsuits ready for fun

in the water sprinkler.

Although they laugh

and run with me,

it isn’t quite the same.

They clearly see

the rotting house

And the ratted holes

in our bathing suits.

The grass is not

as soft as it looks;

Daddy works day and night.

No matter what

He cannot keep

the grass burrs

from sticking

in our feet.

My sisters’ eyes

aren’t sparkling,

though they seem

to be having fun.

Maybe right then,

I was just too young.

34lumenM M X I I

35lumenM M X I I

MeMorIes

CaseY kreIn

san salvador,bahaMas

JIllIan barrIle

37lumenM M X I I

36lumenM M X I I

He lit a cigarette and stared around the nearly empty station again, feeling

ridiculous and out of place in the tuxedo he had been charged to wear to show “respect for

the dead.” with a bit of wry laughter forced from his throat, in something of a better humour

since the shock had begun to ease its strangle-hold on his larynx, Jared finally stood and

moved stiffly to the ticket-window.

“Excuse me,” he called inside, with an impatient rap on the glass between him and

the oily teenaged girl manning the counter. “where does the train go after this stop? I’ve

left something quite important on it.” She shrugged and pushed her flat brown hair from her

eyes in response, at first—then she saw Jared’s peculiar dress and let out a squeaking laugh

that rang through the cement-walled underground.

“Blimey, you’re a one, aren’t you?” She giggled through her chewing gum and her

strong Northern accent, and leaned close to the glass. “It’s gone all the way back to London.

You’ll have to wait here a good few hours, unless you want to go chasing after it.” The girl

laughed snidely again and flipped open a magazine sitting on the pile by her feet. As much

as he hated to admit it, the girl was right. He would just have to go about trying to get Doctor

Hale on the phone and explain everything to him before it was too late to begin explaining.

Jared walked swiftly from the platform up to the street to make the call back to

Cambridge, where his headmaster was already awaiting confirmation of his arrival. The

dialling itself was painful. Jared felt like every depression of a button on his mobile phone

was like a step made to the gallows, and, like walking to one’s execution, he guessed, was

over and starting the main event without a moment’s pause. Doctor Hale’s voice over the

phone was sickeningly cheerful when he picked up.

“Jared! I was wondering when you’d come in. Those London trains are always

sloth-slow on the weekends. How was the journey? Did you find a taxi to Little Malvern

yet?” Jared froze under the strain of the mild interrogation, knowing he would have to break

that cheerful demeanor—and, likely, his future in music—with his responses.

“The journey was pleasant enough, Doctor Hale, and, no, I haven’t. You see, I—I

left the violin on the train.” He spoke this last in such a rush that the lively old professor on

the other line laughed incredulously at him.

“Speak a bit slower, will you, lad?”

The young man breathed, and started again deliberately: “I left the violin on the

train. It’s en route back to London as we speak. I could try to catch it there, if I can find a taxi

that’ll speed decently for me, but I don’t think there’s enough time to—”

He couldn’t believe that it’d happened. He had checked a

thousand times, reminding himself over and over again in his mind,

practically sweating over the mere thought of forgetting it. Then, a

sighting of a friend from home later, the thing had completely fallen

out of his mind.

Jared was a young viola student just starting to make

something of himself in the music community. He knew the series of

Bartok concertos by heart, could tune to his own relative pitch (as long

as he wasn’t in an orchestra) and could name the dates of any famous

viola player he knew. And he was going to be the man who, confronted

with the massive responsibility of bringing a prized instrument to its

rightful resting place, would not manage to lose it on the train or some

such nonsense. He was far too good a player, too good a musician and

too good a man to do something so ridiculous.

Yet he managed to do practically just that after only a few

hours out of town. He had been charged to make a sacrificial offering

of his headmaster’s prized violin to the spirit of Edward Elgar by

taking it to his grave in worcestershire. Rumor had it that Elgar

himself had accidentally given a puncture wound to the violinist who

owned the thing with his baton at the premier performance of Pomp

and Circumstance, which was quite enough to make the instrument

irreplaceable and incredibly valuable to the “musical community.” On

the train, sitting beside the fitted black case and chatting to the people

around him, Jared had seen a friend from his old private school in

Dublin and couldn’t resist striking up a conversation about his musical

endeavors—so, with his preoccupation in finding his phone number

to exchange with the suddenly pretty young woman, he hadn’t had

the mental capacity to notice the train easing its way from the station

until it was galloping out of the countryside again with the instrument

taking up prime space next to the scratched fiberglass window.

The conservatory would undoubtedly have his head when

they found out, and the media would deal with the rest. He could

see the headline of The Mirror in the graphitised wall of the old train

station when he looked up: Muddling Musician Misplaces Majestic

Maple-wood Violin, it would proclaim in black letters thick in font

and in its ridiculous attempt to be clever, just like every headline those

days. It seemed to him that the English were always trying to be clever.

salu

T d’aM

our

MarIka koCh

39lumenM M X I I

38lumenM M X I I

After indiscreetly jumping the stile he rushed into the first compartment and

through to the very last, where he found a bent, poorly-dressed old man playing his violin.

The old instrument was spinning a gorgeous rendition of Elgar’s Salut d’Amour, the vibrato

warbling wildly with the shake of Parkinson’s that held the man’s hands and managed to

romanticize the piece even further. Only at the end of the melodic phrase did the man

stop, and looked up at Jared through tired, watering eyes. The young man was stunned into

unfeeling. what could one do? Take the violin away from him, because it was known for

some ridiculous passing in the presence of a famous composer? No orchestra in London

would have Jared play for them if he didn’t take it back, but… here was a man who looked

little better than the average homeless man on the street, simply playing his instrument,

having no idea of its worth, and—

“Play you a song, lad?” the old gentleman questioned with a croak to his voice,

and set the bow peaceably back on the brightly-polished A string. with that, Jared made his

choice.

“Yes, please… do you know any Shostakovich?”

* * *

Doctor Hale was right, as he always was. The scandal of the lost violin made

London so bitterly angry that, despite the lack of professional viola-players in the city,

no orchestra would even think of taking Jared in once they heard his name. The kind of

irresponsibility he had shown was not easily forgiven, especially for those imbued with

the precision that came with being string-players. Jared could still recite the headline that

condemned him: Irresponsible Irish Instrumentalist Irrefutably Disgraces Elgar.

He couldn’t say he was upset by it, though. England changed people, and made

them shallow-minded. His countrymen had always said, after all, that England lived for

appearances where Ireland lived for the soul. Jared liked to think that he had proven the

theory.

“Jared.” Doctor Hale’s voice had gone eerily deep. “There’s no point trying

any of that nonsense. You will wait at the station, and pray to God that instrument

finds its way back to you, or you’re going to have to find yourself a new city to start your

career. London won’t forgive you for this.” with that, the line was quiet once more, and

Jared slumped helplessly against the lamppost he had been clinging to, raking his hands

through his hair as his scalp had begun to itch. Nerves and the tub of gel he’d used on it

before leaving for the station, he supposed.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Jared decided that a walk around the small

city of Upton-upon-Severn wouldn’t go amiss. The High Street was charming enough,

with its old-fashioned white facades and church steeples poking into the sky every so

often. He had been there before for music competitions, but everything seemed different

since he had been thrown into a crisis only to have to “wait and see.” Before, he’d thought

it terribly boring, compared with the metropolises of Dublin and London in which he’d

spent nearly all of his life… then, facing a problem that would likely end with his death

(or, so something nagging the back of his mind said, anyway) it was a muted and serene

sort of town, staid, but easing to the mind.

It was a shame, therefore, that time had the unfortunate habit of running

rampant when one had responsibilities gone undone. when he checked his watch on

setting out through the city, it was ten-thirty; by the time he did so again, it was three

hours later, and he had to run his way through the streets to get back to the station, just

hearing the occasional little twittering of mirth by the people he passed in the street. He

hadn’t had to worry such as he did, as the train hadn’t yet arrived when he tripped back

down the stairs to the platform and threw himself into a bench by the stiles to wait. The

anticipation made his heart continue on at the pace it had taken up since he’d begun

running up until the train rolled in—then it felt like it had stopped.

The doors opened, and no one exited the train. It wasn’t exactly a popular

stop, this, but, still. His mind frantically assessed the situation, wondering whether fewer

people was a good or a bad omen for the presence of his violin, when, instead of steps

emerging from the train, he heard music singing gently from the inside. Violin music.

41lumenM M X I I

40lumenM M X I I

vIew froMnoTre daMe

erIn MCCandless

The first time I died I was

fifteen, maybe sixteen;

Into your hands, the captain said

And dropped my body over the side,

Misspelled my name

In the dispatches.

I was old enough to say

“Yessir,” go out to sea,

Take my licks at the grating when

I cussed on Sundays, or smiled wrong

At the bosun—

Disrespectful-like.

The forever saIlor

aleThea gaarden

[ 1 ]

Twenty-seven, the next time:

North Atlantic convoys.

Unterseeboot ran through the waves

Like Ahab’s whale, hunting and hunted.

we dreamt of home

And naked pinup girls.

[ 2 ]

[ 3 ] The last time, it was silent.

Space is like that, one smooth

Sphere of black glass, and the first shots

Tore through bulkheads noiselessly, a quiet

Angel of death

Guarding the heavens.

Old enough to get shot, to

Collapse on the deck, drunk

with pain. The whole world shrunk to sky,

To the tricolor as it ran down.

The men cheered.

I bled out on deck.

The Germans dreamed too, I guess

Of Munich and blue skies.

I hope the bastards got home safe,

Because we sure didn’t. Two clean hits—

Drowned in water,

in metal, in fire.

42lumenM M X I I

43lumenM M X I I

Three pIeCes for vIolIn & pIano perforManCe

for audIo reCordIng see page 21

Today

the heat

is unbearable

today

the shade

is invisible

today

the solitude

is a fire sale,

today

leather

sears skin

today

the ice

melts; perspires

today

the urge

was irrepressible.

Today

the cat

scratches the bedpost

today

the scratch

of pen on paper,

today

that sound

is insurmountable

today

is itching ears

and swollen veins.

today

is priority

and searching.

today

is a lie

to survive the day

today

the knot

didn’t come undone.

Today

the shoes

do not come on

today

the shoes

cannot come off

today

the window

won’t stay open

today

the carpet

dazzles with boredom

today

the time

barely passes.

Today

the sun

folds into haze

today

the fireflies were smothered

by light, ground into a neon

paste used to paint

the walls of night.

tonight

the heat finally breaks the back of midnight

and snaps the legs of darkness.

- with thanks to Jen McCurdy

vITaMIns

TYler JolIe

c h o r e o g r a p h y

A N A S TA S I A w E L S H

m u s i c

KAYLA NASH, THREE PIECES FOR VIOLIN & PIANO

wITH VIOLINIST BARTON SAMUEL ROTBERG AND

PIANIST ANDREw RAINBOw

d a n c e r s

OLIVIA BOYD, ASHLEY COOK, ANNA DAUGHT,

AMY DEER, KATARINA FITzPATRICK, MARY KERSEY,

DESI LAEMMERHIRT, ANDREA LANKESTER,

EMMARISHEL, CHELSEA ROBICHEAU,

KRISTINA wEIMER, ELISABETH wILSON

(2012)

v i d e o c o n t e n t o n l y a v a i l a b l e o n c d

44lumenM M X I I

45lumenM M X I I

TInselTown

davId sanTIago

To MY sIsTer

ChrIsTIna MIhalIC

Driving wasn’t special until,

My sister took to the wheel.

Her Guess sunglasses gleaming like

The sun reflecting off our old Honda Civic.

Laura was the goddess of that road

And I was second in command,

Acting as her sidekick—

Giving her left and right instructions,

And finding myself awed as she sped past

corn fields, and beat up Country Fair signs—

landing us into new worlds’ destinations,

each glowing like golden currents before me.

I saw a strew of city street lights.

A moonless, starless destination.

A place where our dreams didn’t seem

So out of hand.

I can still feel the vibrations,

pulsing through the stereo speakers—

My sister’s voice, right in tune.

She’d turn it up so loud you’d swear we were

Unstoppable.

“Above everyone else,” she’d say.

“Clearly,” I’d reply.

Today we’re separated by city street lines,

And monotonous highway lane drivers.

But sometimes, when the moon situates

Itself just right as to put me into

A starless destination,

I can once again feel the corn fields,

and beat up Country Fair signs

fading into an old beginning.

She’s putting on her Guess

sunglasses again

And I’m beaming like the headlights,

guiding us into ecstasy.

I’ll turn up the vibrations and

still smell the promises we made,

about tomorrow, and the dreams,

we both caught when

passing the city signs.

I’ll allow the feeling of release

To take hold of me, as it once did

when, together, we sped parallel

to those yellow lines.

46lumenM M X I I

47lumenM M X I I

Goldenrod rises like the halls of Canaan,

flushed and batting softly at the East wind.

The airy purple clover abase themselves

in sage green angles,

here, beneath bees with wings of stained glass:

for all light is bronze here,

for all crowns are sulfuric clusters,

are where Apollo trailed his fingers

bending by chariot’s incandescence

on his way west.

To TasTe MIlk and honeY

sarah prICe

Look up, and watch them bow,

tilting like bouquets thrown.

will you leap up and catch one,

grasping stem below yellow, blue

and tug it down so it dusts your nose

your collar and you can feel the tension,

the pull in the tall plant?

You could hold the gold there,

but it would be a flower again

and do you know what a flower is?

would you prefer the goldenrod

to be the halls of Canaan?

Overcast shadowed the land; nature killed by winter’s kiss.

white snow draped heavily on the desolate terrain.

A barren road wound through the trees;

Highway pavement twisting into a bend.

The passenger lowered the radio to a mere whisper,

A murmur of background noise.

The engine purred contentedly as the car sped ahead…

A perpendicular road sat hidden,

Veiled amongst the forlorn trees

The driver never saw the sign.

The screech of brakes only muffled the screams;

The snapping and scraping sounds halted and

Oil and gas fumes saturated the air.

Shards of glass and plastic were

Strewn across the cold pavement.

Clouds of thick smoke rose toward the gray sky while

Blood trickled profoundly down the driver’s face.

The InTerseCTIonadrIenne ChaMpIne

Magn

uM M

YsTe

rIuM

MarIka koCh

The first time he saw it,

he was not afraid.

There seemed no reason to pause

before the sight, so similar to that of days before,

yet changed in essence.

The very air felt different,

filled with pulses, as the last echoes of a church’s bell

singing over sugar-white hills.

She was white as she lay there,

her hair yellow and delicate like aged paper,

still settled gracefully

around her cherub face.

In this, she was the same.

Preserved in her earthly beauty by something

not of the world of human consciousness.

He did not pause on seeing her, because

it seemed to him that this thing they called ‘Death’

had transported her, his dove of a sibling, to a place

that could never be trod upon by the living.

That place was inconceivable.

It was simply the close of life.

In truth, this solemn judgment made,

he would never have sung

man’s lament of this world’s end

had it not been for the weeping

mother, who cried in-between

her gasping breaths,

that he was a monster

for not shedding a tear.

49lumenM M X I I

48lumenM M X I I

pear

led T

horn

s

sarah prICe

women stare from doorways,

with catches held against their ribs,

with hair glossed as spider eyes

to see the wych elder weep

and the dimpling children,

plashing muddy hands in the gloom,

hail your passing from the river side,

where the twisted legs of crippled frogs

are shining in the water.

The sign post cannot be read

shadow cloven, slipping by

and pearled are the mouths

of the women ’neath the whitethorn

entwining with the outspread moon,

long legs flitting

midst pleats of moths’ silk.

Now see the trees where apples hang

grow mottled with the vague shadow

of owls with pale faces

shut out of looming barns

and the hills close and soft with heather:

a stygian bride for the sooty sky,

all swallowing.

You are bygone

from the salt in the cattle sheds,

the piled, bloody rushes,

and the wan widows over vats

dipping candles in seasons lackluster.

You’re cloistered

in the land behind

where the thorn gleams, leans

over your couch,

and brimming foxglove

are held to your lips

by narrow hands.

unTITled

JIllIan barrIle

50lumenM M X I I

51lumenM M X I I

I went to the closet to pick out an outfit,

But much to my dismay the hangers were empty

And nothing but nettles and crooked-tooth gnomes

Hung limply in their place.

Out of sheer frustration I wept a terrible river

That gathered in a basin and swallowed me whole;

A suffocating tumultuous blend of everything I feared

And everything I convinced myself I am.

I lost myself on the seashore

And prayed for God to guide me home.

He took his time returning my message

’Cause he’s a really busy guy,

But eventually I spun in enough circles

That I was back where I began.

Dusk had finally risen

And I needed to buy some eggs but

My shoes still hung from the ceiling sticking out their defiant tongues

So I just went out barefoot instead

To discover that the night earth was covered in lovely stars.

I stepped on the brightest one

It said, “wish on me, I beg of you, so I can feel useful again.”

I closed my eyes tightly and wished with all I had

That everything could just return to how it had always been.

I woke up this morning and my brain was rearranged.

I think someone snuck in in the middle of the night

And pushed all the furniture against the walls,

Turned all the cups and bowls upside down,

And sprinkled glitter on absolutely everything.

Have you ever tried to get glitter out of purple shag rug?

It simply doesn’t happen.

So when I woke up this morning,

It was raining from the ground.

The fish were swimming backwards

And the cat barked at me when I walked by.

My cereal was in the bathtub and my milk had curdled green

So I needed to go to the store but

My shoes were stuck to the ceiling.

I begged them to come down,

But they just laughed and stuck their tongues out at me.

Those bastards.

Frustrated and lonely,

I ate my Chucky Larms dry

Combed my teeth and brushed my hair

watered the dog, fed the plants

And danced to the colors swirling through the air

Until everything felt okay.

weIrd

naTalIe grospITCh

53lumenM M X I I52lumen

M M X I I

dress paTTerns

sarah blaIr

faCe

s

Chad weber

I am not wearing a disguise and

Everything

I am about to tell you is true.

I have swum across the ocean and

I have danced on the moon.

I am lying under the stars.

This is not a disguise.

I have survived a war and

I have crossed the sandy desert.

I am watching the rain from a window.


I have painted the town

And I have touched a rainbow.

I am crying on the front steps.


I have been to Egypt and California

And I have spent a night on Mars.

I am safe at home.

I am in danger, too.

I am not wearing a disguise.

I am lying under the stars.

I am watching the rain from a window.

I am crying on the front steps.

I am safe at home.

I am in danger, too.

I’m tired of wearing a disguise.

54lumenM M X I I

55lumenM M X I I

The g

Irl w

ITh

The g

lass

es

paIge gelsIMIno

I thought I knew the girl with the glasses,

but the truth is

no one but God knew her.

And her glasses were a wall

of matchsticks burning

the unsaid words away.

I thought the girl with the glasses must be clumsy.

She’d walk into class,

bruised and scraped,

whispering angry words I couldn’t hear.

Maybe she cried,

but I couldn’t see past the glasses.

I thought the girl with the glasses was my friend.

I told her that her family wasn’t good to her.

And my head slammed against the lockers,

her fingers closing around my throat.

I wondered if there was a demon in her eyes,

but the glasses revealed nothing.

I thought the girl with the glasses hated me.

She yelled at me to go away,

but I followed her to where the older girls

pushed and clawed at her with their words.

I broke their stoning circle

and took her outstretched hand.

She might’ve been happy,

but the glasses only reflected the sun’s light.

The girl with the glasses came into class today

blood on her fingers, glasses cracked.

“what happened?”

“I smashed them,”

And she shattered and broke

the glasses falling off her nose.

souThern CharM

laura fIegelIsT

Oh, this is my all-time favorite vacation

Picture! Remember? St. Simon’s Island,

off the coast of Georgia, 2004.

Fort Frederica, where the British defeated

the Spanish, making Georgia

a British colony.

102 degrees, the air was dense and heavy,

weighing down on our shoulders.

The climate change from the Fort to the gift

shop made our sweat steam off us.

Five minutes until the educational film.

we had some time to recuperate from

the marathon tour as we

perused the artifacts.

Yeah, yeah, the movie was great,

but making sure I got its picture was

much better.

Among the interactive stations was a basket

of dress-up clothes. That was right up our alley...

I rounded up the gang and explained that if we

hurried we could make the movie on time.

we threw on the clothes. See?

I didn’t even finish putting my dress on.

Little Bobby didn’t button his jacket.

Sarah’s skirt was falling down.

Oh, and we couldn’t find another “soldier

prop” for you, so you held a candlestick.

It kind of looks like a plunger.

Your fingers inside the jacket? Nice touch.

with a cannon behind me and a British soldier

behind you, I think we blended in nicely.

Could you see the Spanish troops crouching

among the crepe myrtles, their moans,

their final cries of mercy, punching the muggy

air as they fell into the “Bloody Marsh”?

I remember thinking about my history textbook

and how no one in old photographs smiled.

Hasn’t that ever bothered you?

That’s why I said to “look serious.”

And look, Sarah’s skirt

was falling down.

You can’t tell, but I was bursting

with enthusiasm. You, on the other hand,

were probably feeling exactly

how you look in this picture.

56lumenM M X I I

57lumenM M X I I

kuna IndIan froM panaMa

hIlda navarro

sonaTa for sTrIng QuarTeT

luke allporT-Cohoon, CoMposerruTh baCon, vIolInJulIa sherMan, vIolInJennIfer Jansen, vIolarobIn hasenpflug, Cello

(2011)


58lumenM M X I I

59lumenM M X I I

You told me you thought your hands were too dry, cracked,

rough, and unworthy of fitting into mine.

And I thought, who are you to judge your hands as

though they were fitting into themselves?

You see, our hands, when resting in each other’s, are not

carrying out what they were created to do.

Your hands, my hands, each hand, was made for movement, clawing, picking, not

hand holding, and yet here they rest, with perfect persistence of staying in place,

stagnant, into each other’s: An un-evolutionary choice, aided by eight lumbricals.

And so I ask again, who are you to judge your hands as

though they were performing an instinctive task?

Are your hands not performing, speaking, and locking into mine

in an un-evolutionary manner for the sake of the soul?

Are your hands not yearning to speak for the unspeakable

muscle that lies so delicately inside of you?

And so I say, to hell with unworthiness, to hell with dry, cracked, rough, and soft hands.

As long as your hands continue to speak inconsistently with evolution,

then they are more than worthy of fitting perfectly into mine.

Your hands

ChrIsTIna MIhalIC

Recapitulation; redemption; birth,

Call it what you will―

It is Grace.

She is Grace.

Beauty in its purest form

A light has shone upon us,

Not only for us to love,

But to tell again―

Not all innocence is lost―

And in her elegance,

Hope is renewed.

A manifestation

Of the past that surely has escaped us,

Her untainted spirit

Revitalizes our own youth,

How is it we are so honored?

Endowed upon us this gift of grace,

She is Grace.

Eyes―which have not cried

Tears of heartbreak, of disillusionment

Hands―so soft, unaltered by days of

work and months of sacrifice

Feet―which have not carried the burden of

wearing shoes we were not meant to walk in

Lips―that have only spoken truth and have

Not scorn the words of anger, distrust, fear

Spirit―that has not been broken by the wages of war

And the burn of hunger for the answer

To a question we all so blindly seek―

why?

It is by the grace of a power

Much greater than you and I

That we should be so lucky, so blessed

To be witness to the greatest gift of all,

Grace itself

Grace herself

The spectacle of her beauty will

Go unmatched

Cannot be compared, construed, or denied

Her beauty, indescribable

Chance, destiny, fate―

Call it what you will

It is grace

She is Grace.

TInY g

raCe

(To M

Y nIeC

e, gr

aCe C

arol

Ine w

eber

)

Chad weber

61lumenM M X I I

60lumenM M X I I

Demain dès l’aube

Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,

Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.

J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.

Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,

Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,

Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,

Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.

Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe,

Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,

Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe

Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.

* * *

The unlIkelY suMMonIng (TranslITIC poeTrY)

laura fIegelIsT

To a man that’s the Louvre,

the little hare burrowing in a hole is not

in jeopardy.

But to a Red queen, the bushy tail

can powder her face.

The party voices to Jesus’ cat’s tumor

and attends the masquerade in a Ferrari parlor.

Meanwhile, Tom & Jerry’s Parliament

meringues with the Cheshire.

Ginny, please Dementor laundry toilets longitude,

for the maracas are lazy and can’t fix Caesar’s pennies.

A cursed rainwater odor enters a comma, breathe.

So, with sprites in ladles, cradle the dew;

no “raindrops on roses or whiskers on kittens”

will cause the Tri-state to lead

your promiscuous common unit.

General Gardener, antsy, orders laser-key tombs, but

kneel, level Aslan; descend Aunt Marge; save war!

Eat, so you may not conjure the rage to steal

my treasured totem.

Un-boogie the house of Peter Pettigrew;

you’re buried in the floor.

resTauranT door

rodolfo Claros

63lumenM M X I I

62lumenM M X I I

Fragmented hearing,

Our future

Looks so

Bleak.

we don’t

Communicate

Anymore so…

I’ve decided I won’t speak.

Let these simple

words reveal

what I’d like

to shout.

we’d better

Reconnect,

Or power will

Run out.

Look across the lane,

See the features

Illuminated bright

By the glare.

Don’t speak a word

To my friends,

The ones with the

Vacant stares.

Inseparable

From phones,

Keyboard,

Touchscreen.

when they tear

Their eyes away,

There is a

wicked gleam.

Connect and make

Relationships,

Facebook, Twitter,

MySpace.

Anti-social networking,

Overriding

The human

Race.

anTI-soCIal neTworkIng

eMIlY franCIs

The point is to

Contact

Those at a

Distance.

Not to

Alienate

Those close with

Resistance.

Everything faster

So we take

Less

In.

How can we

Finish anything,

when it’s hard to

Begin?

we put lives,

Lives of others,

And our own

On the line.

For what, though?

So we know first?

Or remember

That one time?

64lumenM M X I I

65lumenM M X I I

I am the wrinkled skin

A young elephant

Born close to the womb

My great strength matches

My grace, personality and size

I embody an elephant

An artist so true

I am the elephant in the room

I am the grey space in a rainbow filled world

elephanT

korrIne hallen

“You don’t understand! I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender.

I could’ve been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am.”

And even though the moment passed me by

I still can’t turn away

One’s real life is often the life

that one does not lead

And any time you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain,

Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders.

“You’ll regret it.

Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon

and for the rest of your life.”

Forget regret, or life is yours to miss.

daMn regreTsusan hu

freedoM

naTalIe grospITCh

66lumenM M X I I

67lumenM M X I I

who, unlike the rest of us, lowers his eyelids

and sees the scrolls of Alexandria

instead of the vague spectral outline of his last observation.

whose smirk always tends toward one side

because the other is holding onto his heaviest secret

as a favor to his already bursting brain.

Boy, who has soul,

has the blues by its twelve bars,

has a coffee stop at the cornershop,

and has eyes that could never just be considered eyes.

Brilliant Boy, eloquent Boy, captivated Boy

Boy,

whose words could build barriers or break down doors

Boy,

who means what he says and whose means are how he says it

Boy,

who takes both his coffee and his criticism black, neither cream nor sugar.

Boy, oh Boy

Do I see you.

Boy, do I know you.

Beautiful Boy, I know you.

The way your hair is brushed back from your sight,

as of someone who can’t be bothered by things

like obstructions in his vision.

You are That Boy

whose syncopated rhythmic breathing

turns to slow even drags like those on a cigarette

when he knows he’s right.

who remains brow-unfurrowed and voice-unshaken

as he reveals to the wide-eyed twenty-somethings

twenty bits of something they didn’t know.

That Boy

whose inflections peak in a restrained crescendo

Noted only by a trained ear

because there is an unspoken social price to pay

for being too hasty in stating lofty truths.

I see You, Boy.

The way you lick your lips

as if to keep your morphological sea constantly smooth

for the ideas that may just sail out into the open, of

their own accord.

Boy,

I kno

w Yo

u

angelIna sMITh

68lumenM M X I I

69lumenM M X I I

(self porTraIT)The MonsTer In The MIrror

karMa sMITh

brokenskaTeboard

JaMes ConleY

70lumenM M X I I

71lumenM M X I I

71lumenM M X I I

IrIsh breakfasT Tea

JennIfer MCCurdY

The scent

is nostalgia. A dark

amber stout without the gifts of alcohol, a malty

good morning for you and a cupful of mettle to see you through

the day— the essence of a rolling greenscape on the edge of the earth. My first

taste came in a Scottish guest house among the company of vacationing students

I sank into the heat, and seeing my satisfaction, the students withdrew their silent

bay window. Many times have I raised a tea-cup to my lips and had to replace it

table, conversation among friends being a precious thing and not to be neglected.

visited the Sisters of Mercy and discussed with them a nearby Gaeltacht school,

in floral dress poured some milk in my cup and placed the saucer in my hands,

window, pondering a car-lined street and a single disheveled pine shading

a townhouse. with a bittersweet sip, I remember Helms Point and the

glitter of the Celtic Sea at dawn, the sun bringing to life the hills

of stone fences and Scottish brume.

upon the

on the

I once

and a nun

Mornings like these I feel as though my soul were home again,

and again I set my cup on the washboard, whispering a resolve to return.

as if bestowing a benediction. Three thousand miles away, I now stand alone at my

criticisms of my American stock and commented instead on the restless sea throwing mist

Afternoon:

we were kicking stones into the creek

(crick, my grandfather called it, hard on the i

with white trash tucked into the consonants)

when I heard the first high groans of the trees,

the whispers on the water, a quiet avalanche

echoing in the distant east.

“C’mon,” I said, grabbing Boyfriend’s hand

and tugging him back towards the truck,

sitting silent and rusty under a dead willow.

“There’s gonna be a thunderstorm.”

I slipped in the driver’s seat, slammed the door,

dragged the truck to life with garage shop prayers

(“goddamn foreign piece of shit Toyota”)

straight outta my dead brother’s mouth.

Boyfriend scrambled into passenger seat, designer jeans

dragging through the muddy ground, flip-flops

slapping against the bare metal floorboards.

Evening:

Boyfriend burned popcorn while I smacked

the radio into operation. Burning oil spat onto his

brand new polo and a riot of corn filled with hot air

slammed against the pot lid.

NPR was blaring over the thunder and I swear

I heard daddy’s voice in the static.

(“Bought-and-paid-for liberal trash—”)

Later, Boyfriend made Tea Party jokes while

I stared out the window, watching

flashes of lightning split the world in two.

That night, I went to sleep listening to what my momma

called the tin roof rap (a loud, late night staccato

of raindrops zinging against flat metal)

while Duke Ellington played above the headboard.

I buried my face under a floral-print pillow

and hid myself in musty blankets, but the machine

guns still followed me into my dreams.

Funny Story:

“will your family like me?” he asked once.

I laughed until I thought I would puke.

old C

reek

blue

s

aleThea gaarden

72lumenM M X I I

73lumenM M X I I

varIaTIons on an orIgInal TheMe

luke allporT-Cohoon, CoMposererIk MeYer, pIano

send Me on MY waY

kaYlYn sTaCk

(2010)


74lumenM M X I I

75lumenM M X I I

For an hour,

we pretended.

That we were an older couple,

who met years ago.

we took our dog

on a walk to the old church,

and laughed and held hands,

like we knew each other forever.

I giggled and told the story

of the first time I saw him,

at nineteen,

So many years ago.

And we talked about how –

and when – we finally met,

And how it feels like it was just yesterday.

Maybe because it was.

At some point, we had to go back,

and return the dog,

and go back to reality.

Go back in time many years.

But, we’ll always have that hour,

that older couple,

the walk along the beach,

and a love that had lasted forever.

ManY Years froM now

MarY nolTeThe dead walk amongst us

Not in spirit but clad in flesh

zombies that feast from dawn to dusk―

But are never sustained, nonetheless.

They’re not born from a virus

Or crafted in some nuclear lab.

They’re victims of society, spineless

Stagnant humans scrambling to adapt.

Forever longing for admiration

These artificial fools―

Sacrificing passions and desires

To sit on popularity’s pedestal

Losing their identity―now one with the horde

Going forth to spread the virus, forever absorbed.

a hIgh sChool dIsease

MIranda george

Summer saw him caging lurid color,

the wings that dyed the day

the dusty petals of mourning cloaks,

lilting, broken from the hands interlaced.

He held the hands up to the sky

and leveled the gaze of one eye

through dented filament,

skeins of scales colliding,

polka dotted thoraxes knocking

at the hands’ heels

and saw the sun through the color

bleeding and he is young

and he is old

and watching a sunset

that blooms heavy and low

like a rotting flower:

pungent

and wondering

if it was always like that.

lurId

sarah prICe


M M X I I

nY boTanICalgarden

sarah hlusko

floo

ded o

uT of

eden


You think that’s a pretty river?

flowing peacefully by green trees?

Just wait. You’ll see.

Roiling water sputters and spews,

desire for destruction its only view.

But wait! what tranquility exists

in a drop that I could shop for

in those toxic plastic bottles!

Sterilized taste eliminates the water-

borne diseases that taunt

children in Africa

who long for a sip.

Drip… Drip….

Your faucet is leaking again.

when Robert Frost wrote

“Fire and Ice,” he forgot that ice

is just as deadly in a liquid state,

where the method of destruction

is molecular at base.

Take away water—we all shrivel up,

ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.

But add a few more drops,

to quench the thirsty earth—

The apocalypse is here;

knock, knock, Noah.

we need a few more arks;

There’s no rainbow this time.

Oh, and that river— that’s really a road

in Texas, near where there should

have been a wedding this weekend.

water equals Life.

Maybe not. Adam and Eve

were flooded out of Eden.

79lumenM M X I I

78lumenM M X I I

She continued without worry,

And she said, I’m fine, I’m great

My boyfriend’s really nice,

My boyfriend knows no hate.

And I thought, that’s not an answer

And I thought, is this a dream?

For in secret I’ve liked her boyfriend,

But this seemed like such a scheme.

Then I panicked, she must know,

And I thought, “oh may, oy vay,”

As I sat in anxious worry

Over the next words that she’d say.

I thought, will she hurt me?

I thought, will she break my face?

Does she know I like her boyfriend,

That I wish I was in her place?

But she continued with her praise

And she continuously grinned,

And I thought it’s really strange,

How she’s acting as though we’re kin.

So I sipped at my tequila,

And I listened to her sighs,

And it made me really frightened,

To see she had honest eyes,

As she spilled her boyfriends secrets,

And her drink spilled on the floor.

And someone said “we’re leaving”

And they took her out the door.

And I thought about her boyfriend,

And I thought about her words.

And I thought this is crazy,

There’s no way, this is absurd!

Since then I’ve been immovable.

Since then I’ve wondered why

You told her such strange secrets,

when you’re supposed to be her guy.

And I’ve thought, I will say something,

And I’ve thought, just make a move.

But her eyes come back to haunt me,

And there’s nothing I can do.

I had a run-in with your girlfriend,

I had a run-in on the town,

And she told me all your secrets,

She told me over rounds.

She said, he really likes you

He admires you a lot,

And she said you shouldn’t tell him,

Cause I promised I would not.

And I thought, what are you getting at?

As I said, you seem too calm,

to admit he likes another girl—

This all seems really wrong.

And she said, I’m really sorry.

And she said, I’m kind of drunk.

But he really thinks you’re charming,

He thinks you have some spunk.

And I thought, woman, you’re crazy,

And I said, he’s yours not mine,

And I said, you are his girlfriend

Yet with this you seem just fine.

I had a run-In wIThYour gIrlfrIend

ChrIsTIna MIhalIC

80lumenM M X I I

81lumenM M X I I

JusT a dreaM

TraCY M. howland

doCk

sIde

aleThea gaarden

Rough wood digs into the soles

of her feet, a comfortable pain for a girl

too impatient to bother with laces or socks.

She’s standing on the edge,

staring out into the known,

as lines of cold water

drip from her hair,

running down her legs

past the tattered skin of her knees:

concrete war wounds

won over a reckless July.

Laughing, unafraid—

it’s no great leap from the docks

into the nighttime water.

The grand houses behind her

are backlit by the moon,

shadows cast onto

the rippling surface:

lakeside gargoyles guarding

sleeping families behind sliding doors.

She glances back

for a second

at the black marble eyes

of the darkened windows

and sees something worth escaping

for the promise of endless summer.

Then—

She grabs my hand,

tugs me forward,

drags us both over the edge

with a shriek

and a splash,

One great leap from the docks

into the nighttime water.

82lumenM M X I I

83lumenM M X I I

83lumen

aInsl

Ie

J.a. MaCdougall

we waited at the shoreline,

Our hands deep in each pocket.

Clutching, grasping at something, anything,

Your mother clenched her locket.

we waited for signs of life,

Signs of struggle, just one sign.

we waited as the sun sank deep,

Across the glare of Ainslie’s line.

we waited for our fathers,

And our fathers’ fathers,

To return with good fish, not bad news.

Lake Ainslie washed and curled round my ankles,

As I squashed in my boggy shoes.

How could she be so careless

In taking one of our own?

A young boy aged but ten,

Taken for reasons unknown.

what will we tell the others,

who wait up on the hill?

To know a mother’s lost her son,

Reduces me to nil.

To see my father’s eyes, they swell,

with lament our hearts employ.

Memories of Ainslie flood,

with bereavement for the boy.

82lumenM M X I I

ChrIs boles

The beauty fills my mind,

It opens my eyes unto the sun

And shuts them in the shade.

The thoughts took me through the sky

To the otherside of reason.

There she was,

Bliss, entirety and love

In the ever blooming field

Of vast green contentment,

Inside my head.

Every time it takes me

From dark grey to a vibrant yellow.

Euphoria, she lasts forever,

If I keep imagining it from a distance.

Yet, it steals me for some time.

Then, it leaves me the palest blue.

Trudging through the streets with melancholy shoes,

Until it fixes my head with stardust again.

It comes & goes

shines & fades

pumps pink & black & black 2 pink.

lIvIng

In a

drea

M

84lumenM M X I I

85lumenM M X I I

lIfe and deaTh

Maura hunTer

lord, look down

Tess sInke

c h o r e o g r a p h y

T E S S S I N K E

IN COLLABORATION wITH

DR. ROBERT VON THADEN AND GREGORY BAKER

m u s i c

STEVEN SHARP NELSON, THE CELLO SONG;

ADAM HURST, THE SHALLOwS;

BELA BARTOK, STRING qUARTET NO. 4, V;

JOHN wILLIAMS, LOOK DOwN, LORD

v o i c e s

NICHOLAS CIANCI, MUNA NEHME,

SARA FOx, wILLIAM DUL

m u s i c / v o i c e e d i t i n g

MARK SANTILLANO, JAMES SINKE

d a n c e r s

AMY DEER, wILLIAM DULA, RACHAEL GNATOwSKI,

JACqUELINE JAMIEL, EMILY MCAVENEY

(2012)


87lumenM M X I I

86lumenM M X I I

He skirts the road

Of the decadent lonely, And I

Enjoy the view

From the hole in the wall in my hand

He sets the scene

And I’ve seen it before, And I know

He fits the bill

Because it’s all in his Counter-Cadence

He waves his hand

Like he can’t be bothered, And I

Follow his stare

To the blank wall behind me, And know

I must be stopped

Lest I do something rash, because I

Have every intention

Of seeing this to its logical end.

Build me a box which you bought for a dollar

And I’ll tuck you away

Send me the signs that your love is a liar

And I can jump ship today

Give me that ring which you forged in the fire

And I’ll be yours to take away

Baby, you swing me in your own time

Baby, you swing me

Coun

Ter-C

aden

Ce,

a son

g

angelIna sMITh

Good call, Good God

How you twist my mind up, And All

The bets are off

Because I might have already won

Time it ticks like bombs

Going off every second, Could you

Please grab my hand

Before the countdown to zero

Disjointed letters of late nights

And balancing acts on the wire

I’ll take a stand

But I may need a safety net, Agreed

we’ll meet in the middle

Of the string that supports us, we set

Ourselves up to shake hands

Just know that lips are the hands of the heart

Build me a box which you bought for a dollar

And I’ll tuck you away

Send me the signs that your love is a liar

And I can jump ship today

Give me that ring which you forged in the fire

And I’ll be yours to take away

Baby, you swing me in your own time

Baby, you swing me

89lumenM M X I I

88lumenM M X I I

euClIdean spaCe

durIM loshaJ

honeY sTICks and bluebonneTs


The rusty, white F-150 clicked into the driveway, leaving the smell

of crushed Bluebonnets painted on the tires. Squished between my

parents in the blazing heat of a Texas summer, sweat melted off my

skin while my limbs squirmed from the pain of sitting still so long.

The sun caused the thick black dirt to crack and compact, and dried

up the Johnson grass interspersed between the Bluebonnets and

Indian Paint Brushes. The smell of the flowers wafted into the air,

melding with the buttery sweet scent of honey. Slamming the massive

truck door shut, I ran to a stall set up in the yard, displaying plastic

tubes of honey. I smiled at the honey lady with the olive-skinned face

whose bushy black hair curled around her wide green eyes. I ran back

to Daddy and dragged him by his finger, pointing out which tubes

I wanted to take home. Mama gently picked up one of each flavor

that I chose and put them in a plastic bag, while Daddy passed some

coins to the lady. wanting to enjoy the freedom of the open air, I

lingered in the ditch full of Bluebonnets, picking some and watching

for rattlesnakes while I crafted a bouquet. Mama and Daddy stood

impatiently by the truck, threatening to leave me if I did not hurry.

Cradling my bouquet of orange and blue flowers, I ran to Mama,

begging her to smell the flowers. She nodded, smiling at my innocence.

Placing the flowers on the dashboard, I climbed back into the truck,

sliding across the boiling vinyl that burned my thighs. I buckled my

seat belt and reached for the bouquet that I was determined to hold

in my lap. Daddy stepped into the truck behind the wheel while

Mama handed me the honey sticks before getting in. Translucent

gold glittered in the plastic tube I pulled out of the bag, glinting

in the sunlight while I gently popped it open. On the way home, I

didn’t mind as much that I was sandwiched between my parents.

90lumenM M X I I

91lumenM M X I I

professor burke’s offICe

darIa laeMMerhIrT

boXIng gloves

nICole lawrenCe

92lumenM M X I I

93lumenM M X I I

eIghT

legs

Chad weber

How did this happen?

All caught up in a spider web

I don’t wanna see anymore.

Chew my eyes out, please.

I used to believe in something,

But thankfully the creatures ate my soul,

I don’t wanna feel anymore.

Take my heart now, too, please.

My skin crawls

with the spider, through the knots

In my stomach;

Through the spaces

where my eyes

And heart

Used to be;

I used to laugh a little, too.

Through the holes in my spirit

I hear it

Calling

The little beast, eight mighty legs

And I make my way back to the center

“Eat me alive!”

“Take every last bit of me,”

She replies,

“I have!”

And I am satisfied,

To know

I will never see, feel, or hear

Again.

It always ends with a broken heart. dress Me upIn Color

kaTelYn CeCCheTTI

94lumenM M X I I

95lumenM M X I I

unTITled

dYlan wIesner

This is my love note

it’s just a song, it’s just a tune.

But it’s my heart wrapped in a melody,

my soul disguised in music,

my link to you forever, ever more.

Forever you’ll exist,

a constant melody so sweet,

a memory not half as sweet as you.

A beautiful idea, an enchanting hope,

though never half as beautiful as you.

You’re lovely wrapped in letters,

you’re wonderful in words.

But as hard as I try,

I can never match the feeling I feel inside.

You’re an essence irreplaceable;

your presence, unforgettable.

But every look into your eyes

brings a feeling I can’t describe.

Forever you’ll exist,

a constant melody so sweet,

a memory not half as sweet as you.

A beautiful idea, an enchanting hope,

though never half as beautiful as you.

writing from within

feels so easy when I’m sitting here.

The ink falls on the page,

and my jaw drops to the floor.

A thought, a memory, a sudden flood;

filling up the room, I’m drowning here with you.

Forever you’ll exist in a melody,

a memory so sweet, but never as sweet as you.

And if you leave, all I have are these memories to comfort me.

And if you go, I don’t even know who I’d become.

And it’s too late to wipe the ink off of this page,

and it’s too late to pull your name off of my heart.

forever (wrapped In leTTers)

MaTThew C. Teleha

96lumenM M X I I

97lumenM M X I I

I aM wendY

MarY nolTe

Many, many years ago

you took me by the hand,

You pulled me high into the air

and we went off to Never Land.

And there I met all of your friends

friends, and enemies too.

And for a minute I wished to stay

to stay, and be with you.

But then I remembered my home far away

what it was like to be tucked into bed.

I started to hate your jungle abode

and everything else, even the hat on your head.

So I told you that you had to take me home.

You were disappointed, to say the least.

But I couldn’t live in a tree in the forest,

I couldn’t abide by the sea.

So you took my hand and you flew me home,

and I kissed you goodbye on the windowsill.

I asked you to stay and live with me,

I would not hold you against your will.

So you flew away, and ever since then,

I’ve wanted nothing more than to have you back.

But I know that you, forever a boy,

can’t fly a woman into the pitch black.

But sometimes I still stand by the window and look

and think maybe you’ll return to me.

See the girl I once was, hold my hand again --

And we’ll live in the jungle just feet from the sea.

self porTraIT

raChel haMMond

98lumenM M X I I

99lumenM M X I I

leaf over TIMe

aprIl alfIerI

brIdge JuMpIng

keven gregg

Let’s just dive into the river, baby,

Forget what they’re all screaming.

Throw away their opinions, the water won’t judge,

And we’ll wade ashore, sloshing heavy-legged,

Laughing,

Snug in night’s envelope, wondering aloud

which of the fish we’d be

In a perfect world;

where we’d have the money to go

In a perfect world;

Fires we’d set, people we’d hurt

In a world unlike this starlit now,

Pixilated in our dim night vision.

And we’ll squeeze each other,

Think about all we’ve waded through

Just to be here leeching the sticky heat of another

And to smile about it.

But in the sand my words are lost,

And yours replaced by glassy breath.

Rambling scenarios become reality in dream

And we wake up entwined and wonder,

Isn’t this a perfect world?


M M X I I

ToYhouse

shea QuadrI

Let’s pack our bags,

Toothbrush and keys.

You got what you need

‘Cause I’m all that you need.

we head for the light,

Bright light in the city.

And when the phone rings

There’s no looking back.

we’re moving on, we’re moving

And we never can stop.

we head for the light,

warm light of the sun.

So we sit on the shore

with our fistful of sand

And watch it escape

Our tired wrinkled hands.

we head for the light

As this world slowly dims

And you say that’s the plan.

Yeah, baby, that’s the plan.

Moveable dreaMs

Jordana beh

Never have I been to an Acadian Funeral,

where in the shadows of the highlands,

The beloved bury their own.

with each spade, a cascade of soil over closed casket.

Their trembling hands work the land.

The faces I do not know,

But their hands, Oh their hands, Unmistakable.

Hardened by their task, by the blistering finality.

Their eyes stream in the sharp wind,

As it wisps the unearthed land

Into the pit of the hourglass.

proCessIon In aCadIaJ.a. MaCdougall

102lumenM M X I I

103lumenM M X I I

IT wa

s a

forb

Idden

love

ChrIsTIna MIhalIC

It was a forbidden love, a “No trespassing” zone.

The signs covered the edges of our lips,

And yet we walked all over letters—

our tongues acting as shoes.

we could feel it in our principles.

That you and I were floating too close,

To the ozone layer—

we were eventually going to turn ultraviolet.

But it was winter, light was scarce—

we remained stagnant for a time.

Finding ourselves in split rooted trees,

Sitting amongst the snowy branches.

Our hands found each other’s warmth,

It was the only way to survive the cold.

we were dancing amongst each others bodies,

Unknowingly floating closer and closer to spring—

He arrived in forms of yellow light,

Catching my cold arms with his lips.

He seduced me with promises of a new existence,

As I watched you float directly into the sun.

A window stands between us,

Intercepting communication.

we’re susceptible to interference,

Its presence an abomination.

I see you, you see me,

we get sidetracked by our reflections,

Not seeing past our own views;

Our unconscious deflections.

You can yell, I can cry,

we see it wash through one another.

Risen voices, tensions high,

I don’t know why we even bother.

If we’re not going to listen,

And we take our own sides,

InvIsIble barrIers

eMIlY franCIsMe and You

paIge gelsIMIno

why do we get so angry,

when our ideals collide?

I see my face red and tortured,

Your expression incredulous.

As our own voices bounce back,

Our fights control us.

Never reaching agreement,

Each not seeing through tinted glass,

we give each other time

To let poisonous feelings pass.

The next day we are sane,

Your feelings will never match mine,

But we can cohabitate,

Until the inevitable next time.

I watch the stars turn,

slipping away

as I spin round and round,

my song spiraling into the sky

in puffs of icy white clouds.

Snow drifts down

as my boots crunch to a stop

in front of you

with that gentle smile

and frosted glasses.

I take your hand,

my mittens warming

your cold fingers,

and the stars turn around us.

104lumenM M X I I

105lumenM M X I I

braCkeT

gIovanna ThoMpson

sunglasses

roseMarY Moore

106lumenM M X I I

107lumenM M X I I

dad II

CarlI haTfIeld

ERIN GO BRAGH, the first words seen as

Green steel reveals a cave hidden from the world.

Look left, now right, now back ahead,

A green cloak, a wooden staff, a place meant in the forest

Now a glare from a fight scene and sounds of clay chips falling from Vegas,

warnings of shenanigans and malarkey assault the eyes,

A sword of foam guards it below giving heed to those that are weary.

A slam as green steel retracts to seal the cave

Rustling as the inhabitants turn to see a newcomer.

would You Kindly questions the cave walls with promises

written in blood of a dinner in hell to be responded by a clown

wondering why So Serious but the subtle ticking of time calms the nerves.

Stacks upon stacks of lives in boxes cover the floor

waiting to be seen by those who inhabit the cave.

A strobe, a black light, a party unlit.

Mickey the leprechaun stares at mock Vegas

High from his white throne of sustenance,

Giving luck to those who will acknowledge his prowess.

An intensity of red draws attention to the guardian

Twisted in the knots of Celtic tradition lies a black dragon

watching the inhabitants of the cave, his eternal fire

Emanating from his ever open mouth.

Fierce though the dragon may appear to newcomers,

The guardian is silky, comforting, protective and omnipresent.

Pepperoni and coffee assault the nose of all those who enter

Clicking, chuckles, clicking, anger, more clicking and more laughs,

Variant lives are being lived and expressed on 17 inch screens.

An exhale, someone says Holy Hell and everything freezes

Yawning confirms what everyone knows but wouldn’t admit,

The ticking of time faded into nothingness but now returns

Full swing along with the shuffling of pairs of feet searching

For lost possessions swallowed by the three cushioned glutton

Or lost among jackets and shoes across the floor.

Embraces are made as the sandman comes knocking.

A rush of wind is heard as the seal to the cave is broken again

Followed by the familiar slam of solitude and calm.

Dull yellow suns are extinguished and tumblers are put in place

As sounds of snoring and dreams fill the cave.

The calm of darkness cleanses the cave, waiting for more newcomers

And regulars to return once more to usual seats when the sun returns.

The Cave

eThan a. braTTon

108lumenM M X I I

109lumenM M X I I

The b

alla

d of

swee

T gIse

lle

Tess sInke

Her hair and eyes, so pure and true,

Her lips they were too sweet,

As she went dancing through the town,

A fella, she did meet.

But poor Giselle, for she fell sick,

Her love did fall apart,

The white clouds broke and tumbled in,

She died a broken heart.

To the willis land she did go,

Young maidens just like she,

To mourn the loss of true, true love,

And take revenge on thee.

when skies turn dark the young men come,

willis come a calling,

To take back what they lost from love,

And send young men drowning.

when her true love had lost his way,

willis came to claim him,

But dear Giselle with sweet, sweet lips,

Did cry out to save him.

They danced until the morning sun,

Then to the graves they fled,

Their broken hearts now satisfied,

Giselle turned back to dead.

The young man stood, in love struck awe,

Amidst the shadowed light,

“My sweet Giselle, who loved me so

And saved me from the night!”

Oh poor Giselle, so pure and sweet,

To die a broken heart,

She saved her love from death’s cold grips,

Now death, keeps them apart.

booT

raChel Clark

110lumenM M X I I

111lumenM M X I I

CelesTIal oCean

shane MCCabe

we fo

und e

aCh

oThe

r flo

aTIng

ChrIsTIna MIhalIC

we found each other floating into each other,

carelessly.

I didn’t plan you,

Or write you into me, rather, together,

we stumbled accidentally into a spinning existence.

It spiraled from an unconscious, heedless deal;

A suggestion, an exchange of ability and talent—

(I wanted to learn from your fingertips).

To a persistent, obvious wanting.

It tapped us on the shoulder one idle wednesday.

we turned to find a pressing need for closeness,

and found radiance in each other’s breath, a magnetic pull.

Energy—we were mutually spell bound by the exchange.

It engulfed our bodies as we lay present together

Under passing skies and sunset clouds—

we found need out of a monotonous being.

There, we illuminated different shades of beauty,

into each others essence.

we found a brilliant, new realm of reality

where fear was far less than welcome,

and whispers were the only sounds,

that passed through our parted lips.

The lion stays low,

crouched at her Majesty’s feet.

She’s queen of the Sand.

queen of a place with no king.

A roar is silence out there.

Queen of The sand

paIge gelsIMIno

112lumenM M X I I

113lumenM M X I I

The h

oop

anThonY ChIarappa

On the grade school playground there were three basketball hoops,

two that were useable and one bent beyond use. It became a challenge

to all boys in the school to tear the rim off, and it especially became

a sick obsession with three boys in the sixth grade; Anthony, Austin,

and Mark. For days they had disputed ideas to figure out a way to

bring it down; not only did remarkable craftsmanship keep it attached

regardless of its deteriorating situation, but also an evil mother monitor

by the name of Mrs. Pruitt made it nearly impossible for the boys to

even try to remove it.

MONDAY

“Any new ideas?” asked Mark

“I don’t know, I guess just keep trying to pull it down by

hanging on it,” responded Austin

“It kind of sucks that I can’t even get a chance to hang from it,

which would probably speed up the process,” stated Anthony, who was

the biggest of the three; since none of the boys could jump high enough

to grab the rim, Austin and Mark had to jump off of Anthony’s back to

reach the rim.

“Alright we will just do what we have been doing, and hope

Mrs. Pruitt doesn’t see us,” said Mark

“And exactly how are we going to keep trying without Mrs.

Pruitt seeing? Our playground isn’t exactly big,” said Austin

“I have an idea!” exclaimed Anthony. “Remember a few

weeks ago when Andrew and Rory had that fist fight that tied up both

mother monitors for the majority of recess?”

“Oh yeah!” answered Mark.

“A distraction! Great idea!” said Austin, “but how are we

going to convince Andrew and Rory to fight again and risk another

detention?”

“Hear me out,” Anthony said. “Mark, you’re better friends

with Rory than me and Austin so after school today tell him Andrew

wouldn’t shut up about how he is a Canadian ginger and was just

constantly ripping on him. Austin and I will tell Andrew that Rory was

making fun of his mom again and saying how he whooped him in their

last fight.”

“That’s not a bad idea, Anthony,” said Austin.

“Yeah as long as they don’t find out that we set them up,” said

Mark.

“I don’t think it matters between those two. They are bound to

go at it again anyways,” said Anthony.

“True,” responded Mark.

The plan between the three is that tomorrow, Tuesday, as soon as the fight breaks

out they were to try and get both Mark and Austin on the rim and have Anthony pull from

their legs, this was a surefire plan in their minds.

On the bus ride home Anthony began working on Andrew.

“You should have heard what Rory was saying about you today.”

“what was that jerk saying?” asked Andrew

“He was ripping on your mom again saying how mean she was and all she did was

gossip about your friends.”

“Are you kidding me?! why won’t that kid shut up? where does he even get these

ideas from!? He’s the one with the asshole dad.”

“Yeah, he was also saying how he kicked your ass last time you fought and that you

got lucky that the mother monitors got involved.”

“I’m going to beat that kid tomorrow, that ugly ginger Canadian!”

Anthony had succeeded in his mission to light a fire underneath Andrew’s butt.

Anthony could literally see the rage in Andrew’s eyes as he got off the bus. Mark was having

similar success with Rory on their bus ride home.

“Can you believe what Andrew said about you today?” said Mark

“what are you talking about?”

“Oh, you didn’t hear?”

“Hear what, Mark?”

“I think he wants to fight you again. He kept telling Austin and I how ‘dumb your

Canadian family is,’ and that he can’t believe that they let a ginger into our school.”

“what’s wrong with red hair and being Canadian?!”

“I don’t know. I think Andrew is just trying to get you to fight again.”

“Fine, I’ll embarrass him again tomorrow.”

“I don’t know man, he says he’s the one who put the whoop on you, and how you

hit like a girl.”

“wHAT!?” Rory’s face grew red, “A girl?!”

For grade school boys there was no worse dis.

“He’s done! I’m sending him to the nurse’s office for sure tomorrow.”

Mark knew he succeeded as he got off the bus because Rory was salivating at the

thought of beating up Andrew tomorrow.

Later that night Andrew’s phone started ringing.

“Andrew! Pick up the phone!” Yelled Andrew’s mom up the stairs.

“Got it mom!”

“Andrew?”

“Austin?”

“Yeah it’s me. Funny story… For some reason Rory just called me and told me he

is going to ‘put you in the school nurses’ office’ tomorrow”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah apparently he wants a rematch from your last fight”

“I’m going to break his nose again!”

“I don’t know, Andrew, he said his younger sister hits harder than you.”

“REALLY?! That Canadian ass! I’m going to cream him tomorrow.”

“Alright alright, I just wanted to give you a heads up for tomorrow.”

“Thanks Austin.”

114lumenM M X I I

115lumenM M X I I

TUESDAY

The buzz about the big fight fills the sixth grade class with excitement, but

Anthony, Austin, and Mark couldn’t care less; they had their mission. The tension

that filled the classrooms was so thick that it could have been cut with a knife. Finally,

lunch time, which meant forty minutes till recess, and the silence in the lunch room

was deafening; everyone but the teachers knew it was going down at recess. The three

boys could barely contain their excitement, but had to pretend to be interested in the

upcoming fight at recess.

THE BELL RINGS – RECESS

Anthony, Austin, and Mark run out the door and bolt toward the basketball

hoop and pretend to be interested in basketball until the fight breaks out.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” the students yell and form a circle around Rory and

Andrew.

“You’re going down!” screamed Andrew.

“You wish!” yelled Rory.

The boys go at it in the most violent and gruesome manner; the rumble ensues.

“we have to do it now!” shrieked Austin.

“Alright, Anthony get ready!” Mark shouted.

Mark launched himself off Anthony’s back soon followed by Austin.

The hoop resembled rubber but still would not break.

“Start pulling, Anthony!” roared Austin.

Anthony began to pull with all his might, when finally, like a tooth being

ripped out of a child’s mouth at the dentist the rim snapped off. The boys were ecstatic

with excitement and turned around to show everyone what they had done. No one

noticed since they were all obsessed with the fight. Mark then took the rim to the top of

the jungle gym, held it above his head and started screaming, “freedom” at the top of his

lungs for absolutely no reason.

The fight had gotten so bad that the mother monitors had to run inside and grab

the janitors to help pull the boys off each other. what started as a harmless school ground

rumble turned into a bloody mess. Andrew had lost three adult teeth and been given a fat

lip and a broken nose. Rory had a bloody nose, a broken wrist, and a gash on his forehead

from when Andrew slammed him on the concrete.

“Oh my God,” said Austin.

“Uhhhh, we may be responsible for this,” said Mark.

“So what?! No one is going to know it was us,” said Anthony.

“I guess so,” said Mark.

“Plus we succeeded in the taking down the rim!” said Austin.

“Oh yeah!!!” screamed Mark.

wEDNESDAY

The next day at school no one seemed to notice that the rim was missing; in fact

the hallways were filled with a more somber tone.

“why does no one care about the rim?” asked Mark

“No idea. And why is everyone so sad. Did we miss something?”

asked Austin.

Anthony had listened in on a conversation between two secretaries in the office,

and learned that after the fight both boys’ families were called into school and evidently the

parents got involved and a verbal argument broke out between the parents and principal.

The principal ended up expelling both Andrew and Rory.

“was this our fault?” asked Austin.

“Yep,” said Mark.

Their happiness faded and was slowly returned with guilt.

116lumenM M X I I

117lumenM M X I I

self porTraIT In florenCe

laura palerMo

I am awake. I am awakened to thoughts of you as the anxiety and

anticipation course their way through my body. Unable to return to

sleep, overcome with the sensation of slipping on an endless sheet

of ice. Over and again my body jolts itself back to life, dangling me

above my bed in the darkest part of the night. Dawn’s twilight has

yet to rear. I am not certain if you are the ice or the arms the hook

and catch me before I plummet through the cracks into oblivion,

nothingness. For now, crinkled paper moons are placed between

the pages of paperbacks, stacked on top of another. To unfold them

is to map the distance between now and a new beginning. A new

morning and a new sinking moon with an old familiar feeling.

paper Moons

J.a. MaCdougallpeekIng In MY door

aManda sTafford

Lying in my tiny bed,

A few pages to read.

A kiss goodnight

From Mom and Dad,

Ready for sweet sleep.

Glasses off, lights out.

About to close my eyes, but I

Look to my door,

See the hallway just a bit.

Now eyes open wide.

A head and shoulders,

Nothing more.

No face, no hair, no features.

In and out, in and out –

Peeking in my door.

Are my eyes playing tricks?

what did I see?

Deep breath, eyes closed.

Don’t look again.

Just fall asleep.

A head and shoulders,

Nothing more,

Peeking in my door.

118lumenM M X I I

119lumenM M X I I

fIve varIaTIonson a TheMe

lYdIa sTruble, CoMposererIk MeYer, pIano

To M

Ike

MarY nolTe

when I was born

and you were six,

I stole your room

and you were angry

but I was too little to know the difference.

when I was four

and you were ten,

I made you teach me to play chess.

I heard you learned when you were two,

and I needed to catch up.

when I was five

and you were eleven,

I stole your drawing off of the fridge

and traced it

so Mom and Dad would think I was a good artist too.

when I was ten

and you were sixteen,

I bought Football for Dummies

so I could talk sports with you,

and so you’d think I was cool.

when I was sixteen

and you were twenty-two,

I complained about you hogging the remote

But secretly,

I loved watching shows with you.

when I was one

and you were seven,

we took this picture

and I made a silly face,

Just like you.

(2011)


120lumenM M X I I

121lumenM M X I I

I used to think Jack London was full of shit,

a fat, drunken poser whose stories were false.

Getting lost and finding oneself in the wild

was a concept that ended with Thoreau’s pulse.

Even then, Thoreau wasn’t a true seeker,

constantly relying on others for his quest.

Chris McCandless was more my type of explorer,

though his arrogance was what laid him to rest.

On an outing to a gorge, through a veil of heavy rain,

I traveled along a stream, becoming more eager to explore.

From a steep ledge, the stream resembled a vein,

I understand now that life exists outside the front door.

Civilized life has its perks over nature,

but there is a desire for reunion within.

Now I see those men not so much as false,

but as quitters or losers to the wild’s whim.

The path of that stream, from either a river or mountain,

has a definite beginning and an end.

But looking out into the wild, into the flow of life itself,

I’d leave everything behind and follow the stream’s every bend.

The f

low

of Th

Ings

Mark MaTash

laYers

brITTanY werner

122lumenM M X I I

123lumenM M X I I

The goose girl’s lips quivered

as she wove her tresses into one strand

gazing up at the dismembered horse head,

mounted on the castle’s wall.

“Poor Falada,” she said,

“I am such a dolt.

You hang there because of me

while I wade through thick mud.

My stomach is empty,

and people laugh at my ruined dress.

The maid proposed a switch,

To which I should not have agreed.”

Contemplating her plight,

the goose girl remembered

the words of her mother

right before she left:

“Be considerate of your new husband,

and always be a good wife.

You owe him all your loyalty.

Falada will guide you along.

Always confide in him;

he’ll see to it that you’re safe.

Trust in his advice

As you would trust in mine.”

The horse’s advICe


“Falada, what should I do?”

The goose girl cried to the horse.

“I took the maid’s advice;

she claimed it a life of ease.

when we changed clothes, I felt free.

No husband could say

to do this or that, nor father to do the same.

I could just sit in a field all day,

in the sun and in soft grass.”

The horse head gazed

down at the princess he had known.

“You were very foolish to think,

you could escape your natural crown

by tending geese in a field.

Your poor, dear mother

would be disappointed if she knew

that you’ve defied your father’s word.

“Your oath to the maid

not to speak of this switch

binds you tightly, I know.

You did not use

your brain in this endeavor,

but what can I say?

You were tricked.”

124lumenM M X I I

125lumenM M X I I

Sincerity rushes from her lips like an uncontrollable flood,

Perpetually destroying the pains built up in inside others.

It overflows the dams that hold back grudges and revenge,

It leaves only serenity to flow freely without bounds.

Her exuberant actions burn in me like a raging wildfire,

They incinerate the dry and stale feelings dwelling inside.

It sparks from the love in her heart and spreads without end,

when I am dark she will always leave embers to warm my soul.

Her storming personality disrupts the sea of dullness engulfing me,

It brews vivacious waves to strike the shores of my uncertainty.

Lost and pessimistic her gust of hope sails me towards happiness.

The vast emotions turn the tide of my desperation, leaving tranquility.

She’s not daunted by the confines set up for her by fabricated sources,

Her eyes are unaware of all the vices present in people’s lives.

whispers of animosity don’t reach her compliant ears,

In light of my incredulous mind, she is an Oblivious Beauty.

oblIvIous beauTY

John sTrong

self porTraIT

raChel plaYso

126lumenM M X I I

127lumenM M X I I

raIn,

reed

s, an

d Mos

es

paIge gelsIMIno

Now I am Moses,

parting the reeds

and wondering why this is so familiar,

still not knowing who I am.

Maybe I’m a bird

like the cardinal

who still chatters

and preens

even with me there beside him.

Maybe you, who doesn’t see

a thing, are the cardinal

and I am the sparrow.

we fly through shafts of waterfalls,

breathing the musty leaves.

Now we smell like the earth

and the withering death of fall.

I look to the sky, mouth open,

and taste it.

The clouds and rain love me more

than the sun.

You taste it, too,

and taste me as well.

You breathe it all in beside me

until we are

the rain

the leaves

the birds

the reeds.

peanuTs

hannah MeTzger

128lumenM M X I I

129lumenM M X I I

paea

n sarah prICe

willows are a pale drift, an up-shouldering

of lapsing leaves.

The sound of water is loud.

In coppice,

they lack, and know it,

unknowingly desire “whole.”

So they gather

red and purple willow wands

off wiry moss, from susurrus grass.

One may part soughing stems

to tug orange lashes

from the thick of subtly edged reeds

where soil is damp, wings glint

and the gaze is level with the downy catkins

in light and shadow motley.

Green flesh turns on the warm rock,

bark minutely fracturing,

so it can be bent, split and crossed

arced up to form the spokes of legs,

the warp and weft of long flanks,

prehensile limbs: forms

seemly shaded and supple,

for all that their joints are delicately knobbed,

their necks symmetrically ribbed.

They weave each other, having once begun,

wrapping themselves in straining, earthen ripple

and letting the folding over

and under dipping of boughs

lend structure to their grasping

so that whorled feet may bestir

webs shining across old roots

and upward twining calves may creak

in the cool winding of the grey day.

But no one seeks the water heard,

but listen and affix patterned tongues

that they may make the sound of water

and no longer rustle, but murmur,

approaching words.

In QuesTIon

leeann sTroMYer

130lumenM M X I I

131lumenM M X I I

urban deCaY

MaTThew adaMCzYk

The d

reaM

wea

ver

keven gregg

Sing me a sweet memory,

Sit and watch the stars.

The dark surrounds the icéd moon,

Blankets all the children

As the earth mother puzzles the caress

Of shag carpet on her soul,

while her sister on winged draft

weaves constellations.

Pondering Orion

Framed in the dreamcatcher’s jagged center,

All that breathes sits half-awake

Bathed in jar of night unfocused,

Taking refrigerated moonlight

In blessed ignorance for now.

And the dream weaver toils away,

Racing creeping eastern glow;

She shoots her brood a knowing look

As they race away from the solar curtain rising.

The many worlds are exposed, infinite;

They smile as they survey their work.

The letter I wrote is in the river,

words senseless doubtless now

You never write, though everyone promised

But I was a child, I didn’t know then

At suppertime you called us in

To sit still and eat

Outside the swings swung empty

Inside a loud voice in the hall

was strange, and we would have been afraid

If everything weren’t already out of order

Inside your legs took up the room

Big and purple and green they stretched

From window to door

So big we had to stand outside

And your face was too far away

I’m told you’re me and I’m you and we are

Alike and I look like you the most, yet

You seem to me so very far away

Inside they come as you go

And now I think I am gone, too

The l

eTTe

r I w

roTe

eIThne aMos

132lumenM M X I I

133lumenM M X I I

on woMen and TheIr IssuessTudY of lIghT

felICIa sandIno

urban desIgn

Megan fellow

134lumenM M X I I

135lumenM M X I I

CeraMIC busT ofshane MCCabe

shane MCCabe

TheMe and varIaTIons In d MInor

Ian gaYford

(2011)

a u d i o c o n t e n t o n l y a v a i l a b l e o n c d

136lumenM M X I I

A charcoal skull,

stared you down

the first time

your eyes opened.

A dusty worn flannel

as unkempt as your beard

said you were broken.

A lustful grin

noted nothing mattered,

inside the words spoken.

Your pupils,

filled with permanent ink

as cellophane

covers the sky….

It’ll make your head bleed,

your skin turn black

and your throat run dry,

but you still need it

resting between your lips.

You’re exhaling

a melancholy grey,

staining the light,

our sun, which follows you

like heaven.

You breathe dark soot

upon those who care;

all that loves you burns to ash…

love

lY CI

gare

TTe

ChrIs boles

s o f t w a r e

A D O B E P H O T O S H O P C S 5

A D O B E I N D E S I G N C S 5

t y p e f a c e s

F A N w O O D T E x T

L E A G U E O F G O T H I C

I M P A C T

p a p e r

8 0 # wA S S A U R O Y A L M E TA L L I C S

C H A M P A G N E P E A R L C O V E R

8 0 # wA S S A U R O Y A L M E TA L L I C S

C H A M P A G N E P E A R L T E x T

C o l o p h o n

L U M E N E - B O O K S

I N T E R A C T I V E

P D F

n e e d a q r r e a d e r ?

w E R E C O M M E N D : i - n i g m a

p a s s w o r d : l u m e n

E P U B

lumen e-book 2012

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