Let Everything Burn,Anthony Herrero

My nose stings with the intake of third world country.
Stale sex, urine and beer wrapped around
buildings promising futures and dreams
entrapping innocents and bystanders
I don't want to be here.
Don't want to watch his form
sprawled out like a chewed rag doll atop ratty cardboard.
No one should. His body sinks into it sadly almost...
Willing it to swallow him whole. I want him to stay like this.
Alone and broken, lusting for the innocence he robbed me of.
I could sit and watch his eyes, red and pulsing
roll back to the top of his skull. Stare right into the whites.
The image is a warming one. Then he would trouble no one.
Not. Even. Me.
And yet, this Hispanic woman I swore was a street whore
clops to a sudden stop; she gazes as I gaze
I know what will occur
The hell that shall be wrought. Her thousand bracelets clink and slink
in time with her jumpy, jarry movements. Spikes skulls swirls.
It's all on display to see. Pitch black hair, curves bathed in latex.
I shudder and am repulsed as they speak. Enjoy one another.
Their smiles are sickening. What use is it to warn them?
Of the son they'll nearly destroy together?
Or the daughter who will learn to earn the loss of innocence faster
than both of them put together?
Is it fair to tell him of the blood he'll spill, the girl he'll yearn for?
The son she'll abandon, the daughter she'll give up on?
I refuse to warn them of the future and it's radio shattering,
sword hurling, fury infested single sectioned path they'll walk
I don't feel like interfering and letting them miss out
on the misery handed from
Father to Son
Mother to Daughter
Parent to Child
It's so much easier to observe the match kiss the paper
and
let everything burn

Need, Joanna Vogel

I am waiting for quiet, for a very specific
kind of hush. I am
waiting for a time when there aren't
any words that I don't
want to hear.
I am waiting for there to be
no words at all –
only eyes; only teeth and lips and
long hair that kicks up everywhere,
swirls like a wild halo of golden leaves
when you drive with all the windows down.
I am waiting for hands.
Specifically, I am waiting for your hands,
for your arms, waiting to be wrapped
in you. I am waiting
for you to forget
everyone else
but me. I am
waiting. I am
waiting…

Waiting,Tatiana Cadet

So many things to look forward to
to wonder about, to be frightened by,
Like the future.
Waiting for the future to come
Waiting for a miracle or a revelation of some sort.
Who's waiting for the right time to talk to their child about sex?
Who's waiting for the right time to quit smoking?
Who's waiting for the right time to improve or make a change?
Who's waiting for the right time to be educated?
Who's waiting for the right time to speak out loud?
Who's waiting for that right person, the Prince Charming or Princess To Sweep them off their feet?
Who's waiting for the right time to listen & pay attention?
Who's waiting for the right time to get tested?
Who's waiting for the right time to do something about global warming or pollution?
When is the right time?
Why wait, when the right time is now?

I am waiting for my time to shine
& my voice to be heard
and recognized as more than merely a child
or just another teen....
Maybe that time is NOW!

I am waiting for,Ashley Alongi

I am waiting for a poem
To fly in through the window
Introduce itself and decide to stick around for a while
Or one to sneak into the room
Shifty eyed
And plant itself on my paper when I’m not looking
I'd take in a homeless poem
Down on its luck
Or a sick poem
And with some revisions I’d nurse it back to health
I'd prefer it not to be with someone already
Or it to be well to do
It can come in stumbling drunk for all I care
And I won't question how it got here
Because right now
I am waiting for a poem
And I’m getting pretty desperate…

I am waiting for, Anthony Herrero

I am waiting for you.
I am waiting for the clouds to part,angels to sing.
I am waiting for this cell phone to lose meaning.
I am waiting for your guard to drop.
I am waiting for your walls to drop.
Not like molasses,that's much to slow,I've endured so much already
But like change down the sidewalk,rolling so fast you've gotta sprint to catch it
I am waiting for the music to hush.I am waiting for words - my words - to form literal meaning.
I am waiting for people to follow the rules they made.
I am waiting for the rules to get tired of boxing us in.
Slowing our every motion.Invisable last second,at my neck the very next.
I am waiting for my lungs to breathe evenly.
I am waiting for your voice to chirp happily.
I am waiting for the sun to rise.
I am waiting for a true blue new beginning.
I'm so sick of being needy,When I'm this good at everything I do.
I am waiting for my friends to cease dying.
I am waiting for pain to become gain.
I am waiting for the fire to quit burning.
I am waiting for Karma to take affect.
I am waiting for rules to be followed.
Isn't that all we have?Aren't we empty-handed when we disobey?
I am waiting for the pen to be mighter than any sword.
(Or,persay,a gun in these modern times.)
I am waiting for the good guys to win.
(the bad guys to end up in jail.)
I am waiting for endings to be joyful celebrations.
(for endings to have depth and meaning.)
I'm still waiting for you.
to have you
see you.
you.

Self Portrait Of a City Chick,Tatiana Cadet

The rocky roads and cracks in the cement
As i walk up the sidewalk
The crowds of city buses
And cluster pedestrians
My pace begins to hinder
As I look around
At the faceless people
That surround me.

I wonder if they see
The same blank image
Where my face belongs
I walk alone up the path to my destiny
And wonder why these aliens
Who are supposed to be like me
Are nothing like me at all.
They wander down the hill in groups
As I struggle to arrive to the top
AloneI wonder what lies above
Is it even worth this lonely walk
That is known as my fate.

Self Potrait of a Hallway,Bria Scott

Dirty and worn
paper ball here, pencil here
completely covered in tile, various hues of blue
if only I could speak
Sweat and shampoo , is it?
That smell is very much eminent wherever I go
Right here, he did it, he pulled it
And as they shuffle one by one
into me, on me, I surround them
Thy are engulfed as they follow me to their destination
Some run, some walk , talk, some are nervous
Claustrophobia perhaps?
He grabs her ass right there
She tripped you man
I see it all
I know it all
If only I could speak

The Last Time you Saw Someone (or a not so depressing piece of work), Maya Orr

It was the first and last time I ever saw her. I'm still crossing my fingers that I'll never run into her again. She was an idiot. Seriously. She looked nice though - very pretty. I know this for a fact because some guy walked up to her and gave her this corny pick-up line. You know, the one about rearranging the alphabet to put u' and 'i' together? Though maybe he was on a dare or something. I don't know. Anyway, her response? "I thought they were already next to each other." She meant every word. She was totally clueless. I was a bit weirded out but didn't really care. I didn't know her. I didn't want to know her. Problem solved - except not. I was waiting for my best friend to arrive, and as if she had been waiting for this cue, she did arrive. She didn't see me at first, but she did see the clueless girl, walked towards her, hugged her (they knew each other!?) and when catching sight of my, made her way over, girl in tow.
"Hey, remember when I said I was going to bring a friend?" my friend asked. No, actually, my mouth began to form. "Yeah, so, this is her. Bridget, meet Maya. Maya, Bridget." Thanks for letting me answer oh dearest friend. With introductions over with, we headed for food, settling on a pizza place. Simple but a good choice. Or maybe it would've been had Bridget NOT taken twenty minutes to decide no, she didn't want pepperoni, she wanted mushroom and the pink Vitamin Water. Really? How long does it take to decide that? Then she took it a step further and the cash register (I swear, the cashier looked ready to kill himself - I couldn't blame him): "How much do two quarters and a dime worth again?" Oh, please spare me. Whatever. By the time she bought her slice, I was on line for a second one. Oh give me a break, I didn't have breakfast. No break was given. he new girl somehow thought that we had been bonded to sisterhood at our introduction and let all her thoughts fly out of her mouth the second she thought them. Unfortunately, each was insulting and/or dull-witted. She talked about how all the guys like her, they were all staring at her (yeah, because you're an idiot, I felt like shouting), how greasy the pizza was, and why did they put so much grease on the pizza? Then she went on to saying how I was lucky that I didn't care what other people think about me, so on and so forth. Argh! Would someone shut this girl up? Lovely lovely Diane, my knight(ess?) in shining armor, my best friend in the universe (even though she had been the one to introduce us in the first place) took control of the conversation, talking about more educated things, touching on politics and reasoning behind certain actions in not-so-political settings. Bridget had no words to say, looking incredibly dumbfounded (a Kodak moment for sure). Thank God for small miracles, huh? I don't know if I described it, but her voice, ugh. It was like...melted sugar over needles - way too sweet with a way of attacking the mind causing instant headaches, and don't let me get started on her laugh. Although I'd like (not) to give more examples of her stupidity, I think I've (blessedly) unconsciously blocked those memories since they were so traumatizing. I don't know how Diane ever became friend with her, but last I heard, she moved to California. Watch out Hollywood. No, seriously. Pick up and run away. Now.

Super Best Friends, Ashley Alongi

It had started with child abuse. Or perhaps it was a symbolic sign telling me he was ready to leave the nest. Maybe. But for the sake of the story we’ll call it child abuse. Behind the Plexiglas window of the cage there she was, unmistakably the mother of all the little ones running around. In other words….fat. And there he was, much smaller , brown with big black eyes, inching over towards her. And like any loving mother would, she pushed him over with her head and let him fall over failing his tiny arms and legs about. That’s when I knew he was the hamster for me.
Thinking back on it now, following him with my finger probably wasn’t the most effective way of keeping track of him, but whatever way I did he was the one who wandered into the tiny cardboard box. This unnamed creature was enjoying all the comforts of gong to a new home. A brand new cage and food in the backseat. My mom had even put on the cars AC, which was a rarity. And yet he felt the need to squeak the whole way home. And that when the name Squeaky was born.
He spoiled me. After he was gone I couldn’t understand why the other would do certin things, like fall asleep in my pocket. Thinking back again, he probably was a narcoleptic. Every small thing he did excited my 9 year old self. The first time he walked from hand to hand, the way he put food in his cheeks to the dance he did when he peed. Everyday I would take him out for hours, most of the time forgetting he was there, catching him just in time before he would run under my bed , never to be seen again. He probably would have been fine though seeing as how he and the cat had come to a mutual agreement that if they didn’t bother one another they would be cool.
The day he died I can remember perfectly. He had a bloody nose that morning, but that wasn’t odd because he has been getting them more and more lately. I remember leaving him sitting on my mother, calling to him as I went down the stairs to school that I would see him later. I remember that day at school, someone had sunflower seeds at lunch and I had brought some home for him. But when I reached home I found my mother standing in the driveway to tell me that after three years and four months of companionship, that Squeaky was dead. Not believing I rushed upstairs to see him with a tissue draped over him like rodent CSI had shown up. One of his eyes was open and his body was rigid. This was not the Squeaky I knew. I refused to pick him up having m mother burying him in the front lawn while I watched from the window. But as she brought the empty cage upstairs I took on of the sunflower seeds from my hand and buried it next to his grave, Not only because he was my first pet, but because however lame it was, he was my first best friend.

My Dictionary, John Zurz

For my seventeenth birthday a friend of mine gave me a most unusual gift: a subscription to a series of a word a day e-mails. It almost made me feel like those people who buy those calendars that give them a new word each day to help them expand their vocabularies. I say almost because those people tend to use their new words incorrectly and or at the wrong times. And so for the last year I have been getting these e-mails with different words in them.
For the longest time I had used a dictionary my mother bought me when I was in grade school, it is one of those dictionaries with the words most people use, one without fluff words. By fluff words I mean words that aren’t in a person’s essential vocabulary. After all who would call a kindergartener learning his ABC’s an abcidian? Odds are they wouldn’t understand and neither would most people. It evokes an image of a class of geniuses who are trying to find the meaning of life, not your average kindergarten class. In the dictionary my mother bought me I went and looked up words that I needed to know for vocabulary tests and such. When middle school came I began looking at certain four letter words that one begins to hear on TV and such. While we all now know what “hump” means there was a time in each of our lives when we merely thought that it was a small hill, bump, or that thing on the back of the old man drinking beer outside of the corner store.
It may sound odd to be talking this way so soon, but remember I am a teenager and as most people that looked through dictionaries was because it could be reasoned that they might have pictures or descriptions of said four letter words. As it goes the “S” section of my dictionary was the first to become worn. The others were soon to follow. You can always tell what kind of dictionary you have by the definitions of the words in it: the more primp; conservative dictionaries will give the bare minimum when it comes to defining certain words. The other kind would give slightly more detailed definitions, while they do not come close to the Urban Dictionary, they are quite telling. It’s funny how the way the dirty words are defined will tell you what kind of product you are looking at.
For the longest time words have been giving negative connotations when they do not deserve them. Since when did liberal become a four letter word? Or even conservative for that matter? ‘Son’ now can be used to refer to a friend or acquaintance, and has been for a few years. Pop culture has influenced our vocabulary more than we think. A character of the popular show The Simpsons, Homer’s catch phrase has been added into the dictionary. Now and forever “Do’h” has been immortalized as a word to be used when someone screws up or hurts themselves. The primp dictionaries won’t have it, but if you want to know what “Hunky Dory” means odds are it will be in there.
The same friend that gave me the present of the e-mails that bring me new and pretty words to use has a vocabulary to match. All of the words she uses are nice and pretty, she may curse every now and again but she sounds much more natural when speaking with her flowery vocabulary. I suppose that is the kind of vocabulary one gains when they like to write poetry. As for myself I am constantly using words I never even knew I knew how to use when I am writing. It may seem odd but none of them are large words, they all seem to be quite short, quaint even. I am no poet nor do I pretend to be, I have no pretty words to use. While they some may be quaint, they all sound rough, even when I use the nicer sounding words they always seem to come out jagged.
For some reason when I write anything I tend to ignore the word “stuff”. When teachers would go over our work they would say don’t use “stuff” or “things”. In writing these two words have become as bad as curses, they are not to be used, while when speaking no one ever says “don’t say stuff”. There seems to be a disconnect, both are ways of communicating, of expressing an idea so what goes for one should go for the other. Shouldn’t it?
I suppose the word a day e-mails may be considered the most useful present I have received in my long eighteen years of life. I especially enjoyed the week where they used words that sounded dirty but actually weren’t. Though they may not have been useful, (When would be the right time to ask someone if they were masticating?) it was certainly entertaining. I may not be in bated breath, but I certainly look forward to seeing what new gem is in my inbox tomorrow morning.

My Father sleeps with his mouth open...., Kerri McCord

My father sleeps with his mouth open, drool running down his chin, Budweiser in hand, CNN on the television. Stretched out on the couch, newspapers scattered around him and on the floor serve as evidence that he continues to search for the perfection he lacks in his own life. He dwells on the rapes and murders reported, happy to have a discussion topic at the dinner table. As my father sleeps, I can almost picture his dreams. They all consist of a perfect housewife who lives to cook and clean for him and the children, and children who obey him in a snap, with straight A's and brushed hair, kids he never has to lecture, a wife who vacuums and boils water "his way". My father snores and jerks, spilling beer on his hand and the floor. He continues to doze and I wonder what would happen if I held his nose closed. I also begin to worry that he will choke on his saliva that somehow manages not to overflow onto his five o'clock shadow. Something else catches my attention; a spider is building a web around the lightbulb above the couch. The notion of my father waking up to this spidey-friend on his nose is quite satisfying.

I Believe, Sahiba Reen

I BELIEVE
It took me many moments of loneliness
to discover that I was never alone.
I call myself blessed, in a true sense
as when I ask, he replies back
talks to me face to face.
I remember having asked him "why me?"
I was shown the very next moment
everyone around me
asking the same
I got the answer.
In times as I grew,
I knew he was there
as all said but
a few actually believed .
As I walked on the path shown by my parents
I discovered more
than what they thought.
They showed me the path
to reach the satisfaction
to preach his teachings .
The Almighty, we address as God.
They showed me the path
trusting me to follow it
and carry on the family tradition.




As I walked on the path shown by my parents
I saw, still see
people doing all sorts of things
to know if he really was .

They pray
some for hours and hours together.
Some fast, religiously and honestly.
And somewhere a little child
standing next to it’s parents
watching to see, how it’s done.
Men and women don’t cut their hair,
men and women keep Rozas
men and women spell each word
of the book,
unmistakably perfect .
Sheer ignorance !
They only don’t speak
to the one they are looking for
who is so near.
I tell her, I talk
My mother complains,
I don’t pray.

For the Birds, Ashley Alongi

There are certain things a parent remembers from the child’s younger years. These memories stay with them and they often take them at face value. Lately though my parents have begun to understand that not everyone of those childhood moments of mine were like they seemed.
One particular moment was in kindergarten. The golden years of firsts. Many of my firsts happened in Ms. Eichner’s classroom. The first day of school, losing my first tooth, the first time I learned that not everyone was as smart as I was. But that’s a different story.
This story is about the day I cried in class. I wasnt upset about anything and couldn’t understand why it was happening, I just began to cry. They wasn’t any sobbing involved or loud noises. No sniffling or anything. The were just steady streams of tears coming from what seemed endless. Somehow Ms.Eichner , probably with those eyes in the back of her head she'd told us saw much about, saw . She motioned for her TA to take over while she lead me to the back off the room . Bending down to my level she sweetly asked me what was wrong.
In my five year old mind I knew a simple answer of “ I don’t know” would not satisfy her and would cause her to pry further. Maybe even take me to the “everything is sunshine and rainbows” guidance counselor who might have caused me to cry for real. I looked her in the eyes and simply replied “ My bird died”
She bought it. She gave me a hug, handed me a tissue and told me everything would be okay. At the end of the day she even told my mom, who offered the same support.
It hadn’t been a total lie though. My bird had died. A week before. And I wasn’t really upset about it. I actually didn’t care that much. But for the moment everyone was satisfied and I saw no reason to ruin
that.
Afterwards I often thought about telling my mother the truth, but as we walked home together I thought “its not like she’ll ever remember....”

An Old Man's Ramblings, John Zurz

I’ve been alive eighty-two years and I seen everything. What, are you waiting for someone? I remember when I was waiting for someone. Had to walk fifteen miles uphill to get to that dog gern restraint. It was this lady I had met the week before, we was gonna have dinner. Where was we gonna—right at Uncle Bill’s Steakhouse Beefatorium BBQ and Grill. They made a good salad. I remember the first time I ever had a salad, musta been—well I can’t remember. I do remember my mama made it for me. My daddy was sitting there next to her and after I was done they made me go upstairs so they could have a “talk”. I remember the first time they ever talked; it was at Uncle Bill’s Steakhouse Beefatorium BBQ and Grill. They made a good salad. Why that reminds me of the time I was meeting someone there. Had to walk fifteen miles uphill, didn’t even show so I had to walk thirty-five miles uphill to get back home. Then my mama called up and asked me to pick up her medicine, reminds me of that time…

Memoir, Daniel Metz

“Lucy and Mario were like another set of grandparents to me”, I loved them both. I was at Lucy's funeral saying my final words. “Although they have passed we still have their memories. Dinner at Jonathans, the dancing, and many others.” I am sure that you all know how hard it is to let go of a loved one” I said to the teary crowd. “But now we can be happy that they are together forever. Whenever I hear the song “I’ll never smile again” I remember the fun my old neighbors used to have dancing. They were at least 80 years old each and they still loved each other. When Mario died and I didn’t hear footsteps I got worried so I ran upstairs to find Lucy sitting where Mario used to sit. I asked what was the matter. She said “his is the day we used to dance”. I held her hand and said even though he’s gone you still have his spirit and the music” and on that note I pulled her up and danced, we danced to all the oldies and had fun. It was the most fun I’ve had in a long time and I think she had a good time too I remember that my family went out with the Mondells every month to Jonathan’s restaurant. I would always have the grilled cheese sandwich, my brother and sister with the chicken fingers and French fries. “You’ll both turn into chickens one day” my grandma would always say eating her tuna platter. Lucy and Mario would always share a Tuscan chicken sandwich with barley and mushrooms I still remember the smell and whenever I smell it that always cheers me up inside. Whenever we have happy memories we try to pencil-sketch our previous life so we can contrast to the Technicolor of the moment. I think it was the saddest day of my life when Mario died. All others days seem like a cakewalk but if I had to relive it I wouldn’t be able to handle it. Some say that your brain twists and bends to deal with the hardships of life I think on that day my brain snapped in half. The year was 2002 it was nearing the beginning of summer and I had just been let out of school. I jumped from the bus and was in a particularly good mood because extended day was cancelled that day. I after school I would always go upstairs because nobody was home by the time I got there and they had cable TV and soda. After watching a little “Hey Arnold” I called “Mrs. Mondell…Hello…Mr. Mondell…Are you there?” so I walked towards the back of the house and I saw Mario sleeping on the sofa. I thought to myself “He never sleeps on that couch it hurts his back”. I went to wake him up by tapping his shoulder. It pains me even to write this. I remember after a while I knew something was wrong I ran down the hall and grabbed the phone and gravely dialed my moms cell phone. 1516…6? I couldn’t remember it so I did the only thing I could do dial 911. I hysterically plead to the emergency hotline to “come over quickly please I think my grandpa is dead” I didn’t know why I called him grandpa it just seemed right. When they finally came, along with my parents they rushed him to the hospital but there was nothing they could he’s been dead for 3 hours. I don’t know when I stopped crying that night but that night I had a dream of one that afternoon me and him were standing in the sunset and he turned to me and smiled and for one brief moment all was right in my world.