Monday, October 28, 2013

Untitled by K. Rose

I find inspiration among distant faces

Each one solidifies a part of history that no one can explain

Viewed with disdain are the various shades of lip stains permanently etched

Each story different and with recognition each lie can become exposed

Dig deep and you shall find the diamond in the coal mine

True beauty with the glimpse of the sun rising in the horizon

Forgotten cultures intermingled within one

Creating an undeniable pact with unreliable facts

Untraceable celebrations and unthinkable recreations

History runs like an unrelenting waterfall with stories that are untold

Aspirations of acceptance and true love for mankind still exists in the souls of dreamers

Being instead of seeking what is heartfelt and true

The mirror reflects what was always seen

Beauty is not only true for ourselves but for everyone else

Beauty and true can be found among distant faces

Skin tones ranging from dawn to midnight

Each one singing a different tone each tune creating a melody

The reality of creation cannot be denied or misidentified

Windows of the soul exposed validating what we all share

What we all love, things we fear, varying textures of the same grade of hair

Diversity should be celebrated and appreciated

There is inspiration among distant faces

Each one solidifying a part of history that no one can explain

~Kendra S. Rose, student

Untitled by K. Dedrick


are the reflection

of a full moon

on an ocean wave.


A solitary grain

of sand on a shore

having withstood the test

of time.


The lonely soliloquy

of a loon

on a vast and empty lake

littered with leaves

in October’s wake.


A mountain top

piercing the sky


A pregnant


perched on the edge

of a petal


on the edge

of a meadow


on the edge

of imagination


on the edge

of a dream



are a sunrise;

a sunset

melting in

opaque gray

shrouded by the sultry sky




in every moment

in every breath

of my life
~Karin Dedrick, Coordinator of Student Services

Untitled by T. Fernandes

I have researched, read, experienced and incorporated many different philosophies and practices into my repertoire. Some may say I'm "a jack of all trades, master of none", while others may view me as a lifelong learner. Personally, I really don’t care for labels, nor like to specifically call myself anything, as I’m an eclectic mix of so many beautiful teachings and experiences. So, call me student, teacher, empath, intuitive, or entrepreneur, to some mother, wife, sister, or friend, it doesn't much matter, for I am one in these, and all these in one.
~Theresa M. Fernandes, student

Untitled by Anonymous

Sitting in Bryant Park, green chairs creaking,
Taste of France Balloon is à la ReMax.
Chatting about nothing for once,
Just listening and breathing.

Walking so many blocks,
Missing that being a daily norm.
Weaving our way through tourists,
Just two girls on the way to the subway.

It gets better with time, they say,
Your heart will come out of your throat.
It used to happen immediately in Grand Central,
Just Times Square now and just with red shirts selling tickets.

Took the subway back downtown,
Walked from Times Square again because I could.
All the way to the lower East Side,
Just reclaiming my streets with each stride.

~submitted by a student who prefers to remain anonymous

Untitled by A. Tascio

In Mt. Vernon the clouds don't take you anywhere.

All is cement, barbed wire & asphalt melting in the sun.

Shards of buildings jut out and hit me as the train takes me home.

~Anne Tascio, student

Not In by Ezekiel Strawberry

Around midnight, or was it two or three, I followed a trail of blood. I was led to strange apartment buildings and thick, frigid fences; these were surrounded by sporadic dying patches of yellowing grass lying unwet against pre-potted oak trees, grown. The oaks, they were actually behemoths, yes they were, they hung sterile and bone and picky-fingered in that no-wind you get on any hot, bereft midnight. And, when they weren’t hanging, they’d loom; it was a sort of ominous, watchful looming, the kind that towers and eyeballs and spies and detects and shadows and is silhouetted, a nasty tangle of sharp and web against that perfect howling cream cheese disc at your zenith.

The soil beneath was moist. Rich, thick; but, like an unfit mother, it’d lost its ability to nourish its sprouted, withering babies.

Bits of moon played, reflected on the trail of blood. Moonlight, that’s a reflection of the sun. The sun, a reflection of god. My eyes: if you saw them, that glimmer of moon sliver shimmering—that’s the reflection you’d find there. Spots, revenants, remainders of something once with breath—but, alive?

The blood is my alive, now. I’m living on this blood; I’m fucking greedy about it. My eyes follow its slithering under a fence, and, hungry, I stop walking.

What passed through here, bleeding this way?

Have you ever followed something, just because your instinct told you to? The question, the ‘why,’ the reason, it was vague; but! –you did know it was something unanswered. And, as in a dream, you followed the question, you searched for the comfort in knowing the answer.


That’s the question. Its rational contents are vacuum; if you could Deify that there little mark of punctuation, if you could glorify the Riddler—you could play Batman…and be left with the gift of a journey—something to eat following a grueling, successful hunt. Only, you wouldn’t necessarily know where to go! –but—go you would, if your interest was piqued by an unexpected trail of blood, say, that trickled bizarre through a dark and curious city with awful swirling faces, all lumped and crooked and greasy.

There’s barb wire up top, and a hole in the fence to my right. I pop through.


I’d told the blonde I was only going for some air, which was a lie, anyway, because air is not a cigarette, but the lie was bigger than that. I didn’t want to hear another word out her pretty little glossy slut-lips. She had this way of spewing garbage, chucking armies flying spikes and arrows and sharp barbed poisons, fish bones and squishy turds: She talked and I cringed.


I’m between brick buildings, considering the possibility of getting jumped. Dark alleys are good for getting jumped in.

There’s no moonlight, here, and it’s hard to see the trail. It fills the cracks between rectangular cobbles and seeps deep into shadows, where it drips, where it gets lost, where it’s the fabric of my thought, where it’s my ability to remember.

That cave, that library, that place where I reserve thoughts like to-do’s and birthdays and coupon expiration dates—its catacombs are ragged, cavernous and black; they roll and sink into dusty, sunless oblivion. I’ll shine a light at the mouth. That light’ll sink down into forever, dissolving into an infinite and thick yawn. I’m a black hole, you could say. Think Alice’s hole, only no Wonderland, no fantasy to wake from—only a sort of slow drifting into dreamless nothing-sleep.


She’d been edging into me, rubbing into me like a cat. Her softness was ripe, inviting, fruit that will be flawlessly ripe in, say, three days. I can still feel it, now, far away, gone—her fleshy warmth, she kept it concealed under soft clothing, but only from the eye. Her calf, my calf. Her elbow, my leg. Her breast, my side. Her whisky, my gin. My kind of girl.

And the lights! The lights were shiny and everywhere! Neon Bud Lite, Neon Bud, Neon darts, neon fucking dots and dreams and winking on my glossy shot glass, whirring and buzzing and dancing in the jukebox and on the smartphones, in holes in time and on the bitch’s glasses, that’s all I remember from her, she wore glasses and they screamed I AM THE ROOM and I did not like The Room, did not care for the busy busty bartender of The Room or its upbeat swinging restroom doors, those doors which also reflected this chaos moth party in their swinging, or the haze by which we all grew progressively drunk and horny; and as that haze crept through the bar, I have to tell you, you could feel a palpable urgency. There was a need to whet appetites for moisture—but the moisture was leaving the bar two shaved legs at a time—and the hour would come, it would, when the bar would just dry up, crack, and die.


The blood, the stream, ends. It trickles, now, a thin stream that ends at the grate by the curb.

A pungent sewage reek, that’s there, and there’s dripping liquid. The drops echo. The drops cut the silence. There’s clarity, there, and cold. It defogs, un-fluffs. A vague siren trumpets somewhere. Far, probably. Sounds like a football field away, or two hundred yards, or: Miles? Galaxies? Universes? The dark is funny that way: it’s layered, and uncertain, at best; also, it’s layered, and uncertain, at worst. I wriggle down.



Her voice, that voice, that garbage truck voice! She’d pointed it in my face, force-feeding her understanding of skiing, television, and gun control, a rotten tirade of glass chunks. If this was foreplay, I didn’t want to see the finish line, and I definitely didn’t want to fry her a goddamn egg in the morning.

I was inside the bar, but I wasn’t. Not really, no. That’s why I’m not actually a person. Not really, no, not a person, hardly one at all, because I’m not here. I hear what you say only I don’t understand who you are…and—you don’t understand me, do you. No, no one does, not really, no. I don’t. There's an orphan dog that follows me around and blocks me from people, and it stinks of liquid and awful brown; it's got fleas and disease and pestilences that other people just aren't interested in. Loneliness; stench; death.


Underground, and through the grate, the moonlight plays on green shit water, and green shit water plays on my work boots, invading them. Slosh, slop, and instinct tells me to walk. I won’t see the blood, it’s lost in this river. I only know the blood.

I spark my lighter twice before the flame catches. I’m going in.


She hadn’t asked me one goddamn question about myself. What was her name? I really did like her. Christ, what was the name of that stupid bitch? Susan? What had it been? Sally? No one has names like Susan or Sally anymore. Susan, maybe.

All I remember are those spinning chaos orbs, the stupid ubiquitous retard pieces of crap.


I'm wading. The lighter flickers. I'm flanked by ancient cobble walls with a soft glowing orange. They're bushy with wet tufts of mold-slime. The odor's getting bigger. The lighter's hot and I let it go out.


Samantha? Sammy? Sue? No, not Susan. No Susan. She swung her hips over to me and looked so cute and sexy it was painful. Two or six drinks later I wanted to sew her fucking lips together. It was cowardly to leave but I left without a word, mostly though because she was a hideous little goblin and I don’t always see that sort of thing if a girl’s shirt is cut low enough, but I did at the bar, I did tonight, I witnessed her ugly and left, so her ugly must have been big.


Sounds like rushing water up ahead. I flick the lighter but it’s all melted and fucked up. I walk on, all caution and slow, pushing deeper into the abyssal hallway.


And the only reason I don’t want to see the ugly is because I want to see the beauty; and the only reason I want to see the beauty is because I am desperate to love it; and the only reason I am desperate to love it is so that I will be loved in return; and the only reason I need to be loved in return is to prove I’m a human; and the only reason I want to prove my humanity is so I know I exist; and I need to know I exist—I need that, because I’m disappearing.

End of the line. End of the tunnel. The loud of rushing water is everything. White noise with an echo, which means I’m in a large room. I think there’s other tubes. I think they’re all dumping sewage into a central chamber, further down. I think I’m gonna jump.

I’m midair and within the descending stream and it cradles me, and the dark cradles me, and I wish I never left her there. Maybe I ruined her night, she even probably liked me. How can you say that!—she didn’t know me at all. Maybe she wanted to. She thought I was cruel, of course. Do you think she went home and masturbated? You're sick! I don’t care, can I watch, though? Don’t ask me that, but it’s sad if she did, I could of given her the real thing. You really are sick, you know that?


No…there is no me.

The fall ends, splash, and my head’s underwater and it’s cold and ungodly. It’s a slap of slime. I’m awake! This place stinks of decayed goat scrotum! Oh my dear God I’m awake! Cold! I feel cold! I hate this smell! I’m in my body! I’m drowning! I forget how to swim!

My head bobs back down under the surface. Then, instinct: I’m back, I’m breathing air, I’m treading water, I steady my breath, I take a moment to create calm.

I see two doors in front of me. They’ve got a faint glow, like someone squashed a jellyfish and pasted its luminescent guts on two doors, only there wasn’t enough jellyfish to go around, so the glow is few and far between and tough to make out.

Everything else is pitch black. I swim toward the doors.

I know where they go.

Left is nothing, it leads to nothing, it's rest, it's where I'm already going, I'm more than halfway there, it'll be comfortable and nothing...right, if I take right, right will shit me back into the world, the real world, and that's when I realize I've left the world, this tunnel is not a worldly sewer at all.

All I know is I can sleep when I'm dead.

~Eliahu Case, student

My Iniquity by M. Rutledge

I love you, these three words

Slowly slid from my lips

Floating through the air

Wafting gently to the ground

I knew that my love

Deeper than the pain

Draped across my chest

Would never be seen

The reflection of her own

Mirrored the syncopated

Stutter of my own heartbeat

Knowing that my soul

Needing her soul like

A bird needing wings.

I needed her.

I wanted to believe.

To make me a believer.

To believe that my days

Would begin with her

My nights ending beside her.

I wanted to belong

To someone who would never belong to me.

But I persist. In my iniquity,

I persist.

Knowing that what I wanted

was not mine to be had.
~Musatye Rutledge, student