An Automated Harvest
The machine that spins wire also spins rope and in nature is more akin to a twisted umbilical cord than an arachnid's spinnerets. We must tie every fetus down to a womb. We hold babies in plenitude, but the mother-end of the strand is largely unclaimed. We receive a call for intimacy, but the caller must leave a message or hang up. We don't know how long the cassette tape will run. Already there are spools stored in a warehouse. Hundreds of feet of magnetic tape. Play it to hear a whisper.
“I know you are still afraid of the dark. I was there when you dreamed of the blood soaking your legs only to wake in a puddle of your own urine, I know that you hit her. I know your shame...”
“I know that you woke with his screams and his fists, and wondered why, until you changed the sheets. I know that you've forgotten what it's like to be kissed...”
“I know that you want your grandfather to die. I know that you are already afraid of being useless...”
“I am afraid of being forgotten. I am afraid for my children. I am afraid that you do not love me the way I love you. I am...”
The first length of tape is a WORD hanging in the air by a single strand.
(The machines will finish the harvest, because there aren't enough men and women to clip and carry every sheaf of wheat.)
~By Zachary Garver~
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Poetry: Inches to Miles
Inches to Miles
We push past knees and hide our smiles
I watch the smoke curl its back into the night
the sky shouldn’t be moving like this.
Wait, whispered as the door closes.
I count the fractures and disconnects
tiny mistakes printed on bodies
sunbursts watermarks footprints.
Later, we draw a map.
~By Chenice Greenberg~
We push past knees and hide our smiles
I watch the smoke curl its back into the night
the sky shouldn’t be moving like this.
Wait, whispered as the door closes.
I count the fractures and disconnects
tiny mistakes printed on bodies
sunbursts watermarks footprints.
Later, we draw a map.
~By Chenice Greenberg~
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Poetry: Half Dark & Untitled
Half-Dark
How many half-darks I have seen? I could probably
calculate a number. Couldn’t we?
Darkness has little chance of half-existence with
full-breasted mountains in the distance. Sure, light comes over the top of them occasionally.
Sure
the snow is a source of some sort
Don’t go out there she tells me
then remembers her mother
then becomes quiet and shares my triumph,
when I have one
If I stopped watching, stopped calculating
stopped altogether
spoke a language no one knew
got my finger stuck between the keys?
The clock wastes time: a comet going on for miles past the time in which
we have spotted it and named it a comet. It knows not letters it soars it travels speedily through space
perhaps forever. Perhaps forever it doesn’t rest and that is what we should remember about it
A gypsy sleepless night an understatement.
Where have you walked? And slept and fought
Hair dried to the wood
The fungi the decomposers the invisibles
Remove me now
Untitled
Mom knitted
Dad
a sweater
years ago.
It wouldn’t fit him now
if it came out of the hope chest
She has since never knitted
never sewed
decorated
or arranged,
couldn’t be bothered,
I love her for it
Dad brings in the wood
She sweeps the woodchips,
loads domestic machines
She says “he got pissed off” “she got pissed off”
I got pissed off
But hardly ever
fuck
she left me a message
after work
“one of the residents died today”
she left me a message
“I decided I’m going to start knitting again”
~By Erin Heath~
How many half-darks I have seen? I could probably
calculate a number. Couldn’t we?
Darkness has little chance of half-existence with
full-breasted mountains in the distance. Sure, light comes over the top of them occasionally.
Sure
the snow is a source of some sort
Don’t go out there she tells me
then remembers her mother
then becomes quiet and shares my triumph,
when I have one
If I stopped watching, stopped calculating
stopped altogether
spoke a language no one knew
got my finger stuck between the keys?
The clock wastes time: a comet going on for miles past the time in which
we have spotted it and named it a comet. It knows not letters it soars it travels speedily through space
perhaps forever. Perhaps forever it doesn’t rest and that is what we should remember about it
A gypsy sleepless night an understatement.
Where have you walked? And slept and fought
Hair dried to the wood
The fungi the decomposers the invisibles
Remove me now
Untitled
Mom knitted
Dad
a sweater
years ago.
It wouldn’t fit him now
if it came out of the hope chest
She has since never knitted
never sewed
decorated
or arranged,
couldn’t be bothered,
I love her for it
Dad brings in the wood
She sweeps the woodchips,
loads domestic machines
She says “he got pissed off” “she got pissed off”
I got pissed off
But hardly ever
fuck
she left me a message
after work
“one of the residents died today”
she left me a message
“I decided I’m going to start knitting again”
~By Erin Heath~
Poetry: Coney Island & Untitled
Coney Island:
The lights from the
boardwalk
Leave
orange stains
on black water
It's
quiet now
The crowds have
all
gone home
except for
us.
We remain
With our toes
in the sand
pointing out
to sea,
our faces turned
to look
back
at the
ghosts
of other people's
dreams.
Untitled:
Were you but a jewel
held up
against the
sun
to bare the lights
and shadows
of your
soul
And show to me
what fire,
if any,
can be found
there.
~By Sophia Johnson~
Freshman COMD (Illustration)
The lights from the
boardwalk
Leave
orange stains
on black water
It's
quiet now
The crowds have
all
gone home
except for
us.
We remain
With our toes
in the sand
pointing out
to sea,
our faces turned
to look
back
at the
ghosts
of other people's
dreams.
Untitled:
Were you but a jewel
held up
against the
sun
to bare the lights
and shadows
of your
soul
And show to me
what fire,
if any,
can be found
there.
~By Sophia Johnson~
Freshman COMD (Illustration)
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