WORDS: RICK MANAYAN '17
"SHE PAINTS WITH ROPE"
WORDS: DANIEL POPE '16
The flowers die in the winter but she paints them from memory. Growing she paints them, growing, she paints them growing.
She doesn’t paint flowers. The flowers die and she paints ovals, from memory. She paints eyebrows. She paints soft. She paints, soft.
She paints metal.
She paints rope, because that’s what they found in his car. She paints bound and gagged. She paints hell.
Trees send forth their probing green leaves in the spring and there are a lot of trees around her house. Outside it warms up and tentacles of gold touch dew droplets like God caresses and penetrates every universe. Like God has his hands on his hips and looks like he’s in charge, like a man.
She paints courtroom scenes. She paints her mother. She paints herself and her mother on television, a local channel, and she paints him, and she paints him as he is: normal.
She paints the way her hand would have looked after the rope. She paints the rope as it would have looked around his neck. She paints him in jail. She paints him in broad streaks of red.
She paints angry. She paints, angry.
She doesn’t notice the next season, she only sees the yellow ceiling in her bedroom. The sun does not pierce the invertebrates that drag their dead splinters across the walls.
Stepping back and admiring her work, although maybe admiring isn’t the right word, it occurs to her that she has painted someone’s world within her nightmare, and that she has lived a world of nightmares in her soul since waking and walking and running from school back home.
And when she’s older, it occurs to her that nightmares can drive Buicks.
The flowers die in the winter but her memory lives on, a tainted paintbrush dripping car trunks onto yawning walls.
"CHRONICLES OF THE WITCHING HOUR"
WORDS: ANNA SANFORD '18
Nothing heals the wounds of broken thoughts
like the deepest hours of the night.
It is a cold compress for itches that percolate
in between the lackadaisical movements of being awake.
cradles ideas that cannot be seen in light
by neither denying their validity
nor exaggerating their importance.
In the twisted folds of enduring gyre,
a contorted and skewed sort of understanding
pushes its way forward. The palpability of
awakens an unhindered perception
that has yet to be defiled by the critics of judgment,
which control and direct the conscious mind.
Self-awareness in a stream of loosened arms and shifting bodies
ceases to ignite shivers in the earliest hours. The frenzy to connect,
to gain attention from an unforeseen source,
diminishes. The semi-inebriated mind begins to breath;
it recognizes its aloneness.
The day exists for the night to be all the more curious,
just like I wear flannel and listen to Elliot Smith
for the soft fabric and soft voice.
When the light peeks through the blinds,
the day can be entered with a new self-possession,
for time is additive and one experience is sure to catalyze the next.
"Words For You to Never (someday) See (hear)"
WORDS: YAEL FISHER '18
To whoever’s thoughts are paralleling mine
A thousand cobwebs whose spindles criss and cross and crisscross back
Through each other’s holes and balanced atop the dew that settles
As if to say
I am here
Like I try to remind you when you pretend to be asleep
To whoever’s delicately firm thread of thought is thinking what I’m thinking
That you don’t know how much you need me
That I think you need me more than you know you don’t
And can’t tell if its projection
Or maybe we’re scared that we’ve made a giant mistake
Because sometimes the best things in the universe feel like they can’t be made for us
A maker of webs like I am
Isn’t supposed to find
The missing piece of her breath
In someone else’s lung
To a spinner of string, that breath is always missing
It reminds you of the permanency of imperfection
Like a Beach House song reverberating off collage-coated walls in a dark room that you should really be listening to with other people
Or cold pizza
When your insides give me air
I forget that things fall apart
And when physics reminds me that they do
I’ve forgotten how to breathe alone
To whoever’s thoughts are on a joyride
Cruising across the yellow line
On the highway between me and him
And you and her
Promise me that he needs me as much as I think
And I’ll put down my spindle
And wrap my arms around his knees
Until my lungs aren’t my own anymore
And I’ve forgotten how to web