Untitled

What a sweet, acidic way
To perform a version of “Roman Holiday.”
Sitting Criss-Cross,
Vanilla-Emotion-sauce,
We giggle uneasily at the plastered mafia kids
As their guns convoltingly spiral
On the mirrored pavement.
Baby-doll eyes motley roll over
And their facades turn to ashes, ashes,
They all fell down.
Your polluted voice
Once again repeats that it’s a
Tragic event that should numb absurdity and
Freeze my laugh to the needle tears
Corroding in my aluminum conscious.
I glance at the pious little mask you’ve
Mordantly glued to your face,
Delighting in the consensus,
And our cackles wickedly explode like a
Million toys being blown to bits.
Do you truly love being shackled to ugliness,
Or are you just achingly plotting
Until the skeleton limbs on the clocks
Tick-Tock to your cue so you can
Snatch back what you lost?
You might want to put on some rose
Colored glasses before you’re blinded by
The newsflash:
Mr. Detective has finally concluded
That speaking in code is sleazily diluted.
So maybe next we could jump on trampolines
In a hopeless attempt to
Unlocking windows in the memory-stained sky.
You under-handedly mention my recent
Homemade cosmetic surgery,
The very first line in our script
Which will feature some
Psychedelic chances
And on-purpose trances
In our completely pointless but oh so lovely
Life-and-death Puppet show.

Untitled

Get the edges first.
I want penetration.
Your masculine force:
rough wires rolling over tensed muscle,
you are poised to pry.
I keep up my guard to screen out all those who think they know me.
I hope that one day someone will define me.
I hide in my shell, I am safe. Safe. Safe.
I hurt myself in here, but no one else can match the damage I do inside.
Figure out the puzzle.
Snap me into place.
(Hint: The last piece is hidden under the cushion, in the poodles intestinal tract, in the crisper drawer.)
I want you for the distraction.
Someone elses pieces unfamiliar.
We both know how this works.
Like kids at grammas Christmas party,
We mummur and squint
Curse the lighting, the image, the late hour,
Come on, fit already!

By: Dana Ovsak

Soul Queef (Retched Words)

Words barrel from his lungs.
Step back,
it will shock you.
Any time now...
Grim looks our fate.
Did your soul just queef all over me?

By: Jesse Howard

Found in true Accuracy

in the array of passions,
the clime for security upon well being,
and our questioning beneath
the souls ecstasy,
lingers an aimless goal.
Creating only a longing for something deeper.
The search is conducted on common ground, in which we find true wealth, not material riches but the Self,
in which all fears are conquered
and meaning becomes the answer.

By: Jesse Howard

untitled

don't play games with me bitch,
spread your legs and lets get hitched.
you can buy a one way ticket to my dick,
but please, don't hate me because I'm sick!
The truth is your the trick so don't run
and don't hide, stand still and I'll give you a free ride.

By: Jesse Howard

May I Serve You

D*mn hat
F-ing Apron
Standing Behind the Counter trapped..
tick tock
The clock has slowed.
God I want to be free
Hot
water bubbles in the well
Steam
Sweat
Gloved hands perched on the Counter..
Tight elastic.clinging to my skin
A customer trickles in
Followed by a herd
False Smile Dullshine eyes
Hello, may I help you
Pest all of you
Yes, can I haveummm
Sold my soul for cheap
What is that?
For a measly buck
Sure I will like
Clinking Plates
I move to serve smiling
Small talk..Learning..like you are the enemy
You are
Across the Counter
No more.
Hot
Joking and jostling
Restock
Hey slave, I need
No, you only get
Come on please
Dirty pans to be delivered to the Gods of Dishwater
Hot
Water in White Styrofoam cups
High above my head
Juggling Pans..magically transfer the empty with the full
Standing Behind the Counter
I should be on the other side
No need no worry
Sold my soul
F-ing Apron
The hand moved
Almost free
Manager
Go rigid in obedience
Pleasant service
Customer is always right
Bulls**t
Another customer
Quick service
Barked at by the manager
No horseplay
We scurry like rats
Trapped
Smug looks with I am glad I am not you shine
I should be on the other side of the Counter
Such a privilege to serve YOU
The clock moves and my shift stops
I pass the spoodle-the torch-, and robotic stance
Removal of the hat and freed of the apron strings
False smile fades into a tired straight line
Dullshine eyes reflect relief and exhaustion
I sold my soul with grim need to pay the bills
Weary shoulders..Numbed feet.Lifeless legs
Clicking off the open sign upon my face
And turning off the automatic recording.
May I serve you in my throat.

By: Amanda Hawk

UNTITLED

UNTITLED

It started out in 1977, god dropped you a little gift from heaven

Two parents struggling to do the best they can, giving it all to the child they had

Love kept them together through the years, always caring for me and wiping my tears

I miss the closeness we once had, when I think about it- it makes me feel so bad
I used to be able to tell you everything, keeping no secrets and having no shame
Where is the loving father I once knew? I wish I could say my love for you has only grew...

But you make me angry and pissed off, and I want out-

That's why I am leaving here for good with out a doubt

I hope you enjoy your new life here without me, all quiet and stress free
Just remember the choices you made, you brought
me to this, the path has been paved
I'll be out of here by dawn- I hope you'll miss me when I am gone........

*I wrote and left this for my parents before I hitch hiked (via truckers) with 2 girlfriends from Eugene OR to San Francisco CA to live a more glamourous life..."

By: Disree Hewitson

Untitled

Love, acceptance

Conditional

Can’t be myself

Want to be the best

Everything my neighbor wants

Considering the consequences before my actions

My actions? Or your desires?

Avoiding negative reactions

Be anyone else that fits the descriptions

Not me, not myself, not for me, not for myself

“Egoist”; the password to my self-hate, the key

How easy it is to mold me

Circle but I fit into triangle, square

Acting, show, denial

Running away from the person I can’t accept: Me

Boy? Girl? Friend, lover, enemy?

Do I want the best of others for myself?

Ignorance, blindness

I’ve built myself to become what? Me? Or a robot ruled by anyone else’s feelings

Anyone who could love me, accept me.





By: Maria



Category: other

Still

Silent but

I can still hear you

Your voice.



Cold but

I can still feel you

Your touch.



Bland but

I can still taste you

Your flavor.



Neutral but

I can still smell you

Your fragrance.



Empty but

You are still with me

Your presence.





By: Maria



Category: other

(Untitled)

Gone

You’re out of my life,

And all I can do is watch the minutes, hours, days go by

Without you

I think of all the things I could, should, would have said

Now I can’t speak because of my tears being shed

Not here

We wanted to be together till we die

And we were never given the chance to say goodbye

Not together

I think of what could have been

And if you ever think about me.



By: Maria



Category: other

Be-in

Be-in
drums bongo
from a shady section
of Liberty Park on Sunday
(the hippies had been holding
gatherings there on the beginning
of the week for at least thirty years).
It was the drums -- not the hippies -- they are an added bonus
that drew me to the place.

take me to a scene of
intertwining bodies/hemp/pot
a free-for-all dance
however one may move
women connect kiss on blankets
I watch parents put flowers in their daughter's
hair
We are either energized, spiritualized, or just high
as the punks as me for a smoke
I realize how much I'm skipping
ready to ripple inside
could be quite an illusion
under squinting sun
how much of this is free?

"Other," -- ah, the allure of the bongo. true rebellion.

By: Theadora

Please Don't Turn Valve

Please Don't Turn Valve
i hoped to pull it off/
speaking to the rock
it didn't go so well, me & the/stone
on the ground with a luggage/tag
"please don't turn valve
pipes leak."
in black marker/gold thread
i thought, how appropriate
since a rock can be pushed
don't want to sit cold-faced nor be
chased off a cliff by a boulder.

"Obvious Metaphors," "Other" "White Middle Class Feminist Hippie Oppression"

By: Theodora

strongness

she is my strongness
see her portrait
all in blue
heralding change
heralding
good sweet things
she lies in
arm tattoos
or wedding tattoos
or engagement rings

she comes to me in the form of
musical madness
tales of incest and partying
him asking me questions about his sexuality
confused
the rustle of pages
the magic of words
Toni Morrison words
battles with cancer
and she died young
left a son
and her grandmother
the only woman who raised her because
her ma was crazy
ripping off the mask in the ER
and saying I love you

one last time

I see her
on my wall
in my piano
in imagined tales of abuse
wearing a boa
curlers
the look of a half-dead guy
and a little boy
who's smart
enough to run us all over
and can parrot back statements like
"Free Leonard Peltier"
and
"Anarchy in the UK"
and'
"You're White Trash"
or at meetings
beating down the corporate flag
smoking pot
in fishnets with a hole in the toe
comes through with long hair
and every healthy book about cunts,
lesbianism, and the Pine Ridge Reservation
I see her
on the stage
in a theater or concert hall
screaming
stuff from the deepest part of me
and I quake
out in a trailer in the middle of nowhere
with a guy who's mom is a teacher, so he knows bout my depression, cutting, and suicidal ideation

OUT

with goddess candles and scars on her arms
she rises again
my strongness

CATEGORY -- "Other" -- 2003
By: Theodora

FOR YOU

I'm sitting in Gregg's room
Eating paper
and discussing Hinduism.
We went to the beach this morning.
Closest I've ever been to the lake.
It was fucking cold but everyone saw my white,
non-shaved legs. Hooray for Italian hair.

Transcending Transcendentalism,
Theodora

CATEGORY -- "WHITE MIDDLE CLASS HIPPIE FEMINIST OPPRESSION" "Other", 2004

By: Theodora

For You

I don't have a cigarette
and whoah!
I'm missed at East
smell like Italy stereotyped and menstruation.

The drunk lady at the
art opening was
screaming "fuck"
over
over
stole my boa
"been drinkin since noon.
she's really nice when she's not drunk." -- said the guy
who took one look at my VAGINA t-shirt and called me
SECURITY.
he looked
with his yellow teeth
like he wanted to git with me or something.

CATEGORY -- "WHITE MIDDLE CLASS HIPPIE FEMINIST OPPRESSION," "OTHER" -- 2004
I don't even smoke! Truly a case of romancing the "true artist, who must really smoke and drink all the time, right?"

By: Theodora

Genital Poems

Genital Poem I

1. waz talkin with
a computer nerd
about
vaginas/he syz, "we're men,
we can't say that word. it makes us uncomfortable./
we can say 'down there' and 'pussy/cunt', but never 'that word.'

[oh, poor baby]

2. it's abt reclaiming
what we got left.

Genital Poem 2
Ask me on a
giddy day,
and I'm all
for 'borrowing'
cunt for use as a
positive feminist adjective.
as in, 'wow, my poems are so cunty.
It rocked with female energy."

Cunt has a hell of a history and we need to shake up the boat.

CATEGORY -- both poems can be lumped under "WHITE MIDDLE CLASS HIPPIE FEMINIST OPPRESSION" or "OTHER" or "THEODORA'S ATTEMPT TO WRITE LIKE NTOZAKE SHANGE", 2004

By: Theodora Ranelli

Life

Life
we're talking
like girls getting their arms sliced
off

CATEGORY -- OTHER -- 2005 -- Junior year -- another WTF, but I secretly love this one! :)

By: Theodora

UNTITLED

UNTITLED

we've talked about
asses and buttcheeks
going to first base/
i could corner you
in the gymnasium
(teatherball sucks)
those cheeks,
yup. you've got whithers like a horse.
and no, i'm not anorexic -- i'm just
building up strength
for the day we go
cruising on the bus.

CATEGORY -- OTHER -- 2005 -- Junior year -- this is really a WTF. I think it was written during a creative writing class, but I have no other memory of it.

By: Theodora

Holding Grass in Our Hands

Holding Grass in Our Hands

Having a pang attack for
Leaves of Grass is
only fun when
one is sitting in the
middle of what
turned Whitman
on.

I can find
him and
we'll try
to remember
lines but we don't do
well when the boys are
hunting water bugs
and carving trees

By: Theodora
CATEGORY -- Other, but definitely "White Middle Class Hippie Feminist Oppression", 2004

My Dog Rover

My Dog Rover

Was a brown dog

His tail was brown,

And his nose was long



But then one day

My dog rover

a car it was

that ran him over



The pain was harsh

No one could see,

Just what Rover

meant to me



That dog was brown,

not like another,

But now he's dead,

My dead dog rover



By: Sam McGregor