Stray Shot 2007 by The Frederick Gunn School

STRAY SHOT 2007 Editors: Allie Early, Ian Engelberger, Jon Hartmann, Paul Henne, L. B. Schmidt Faculty Advisor: Mr. Benson

The Gunnery Washington, Connecticut

CONTENTS Cover by Allie Early Jesse Greenstein, Playing in the game....................................................1 Paul Henne, Johnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Story.........................................................................2 Illustration by Ronnie Balceda...............................................................3 Kirsten Cleary, Insanity..........................................................................4 Illustration by Ronnie Balceda...............................................................5 Ian Engelberger, Tensions increase.........................................................6 Dongju Yun translated by Hyn-Jae Shin, Tomorrow...............................7 Jamie Kruczek, Repeat until calm..........................................................8 Illustration by Lawrence Gregorek.........................................................9 Sam Hunt, Let it all out.........................................................................10 Hannah Mescon, Jamie stepped up.......................................................13 Illustration by Yumi Nakamoto..............................................................16 Georgia Buckley, Today........................................................................17 Jamie Kruczek, The second time...........................................................18 Allie Early, Four poems........................................................................19 Georgia Buckley, A spoonful of hope....................................................21 Alex Adam, Five poems........................................................................22 Illustration by Lawrence Gregorek.......................................................23 Illustration by Jessie Tsai......................................................................30 Hope Simpson, Three poems................................................................31 Jon Hartmann, I sat and once...............................................................33 Illustration by Ronnie Balceda.............................................................35 Shelby Sisco, You sit and watch............................................................36 Paul Henne, Three poems......................................................................37 Illustration by Ronnie Balceda.............................................................39 Annie Reiman, a sudden shift...............................................................39 Ian Engelberger, I walked through........................................................40 DJ Cingari, My friend Jack...................................................................41

Playing in the game The fans are calling my name Oh yeah – I am benched.

I don’t play the game I don’t even know her name Damn. I’ve got no game

It is just a game There’s no claim to gain fame However, we try...

(Jesse Greenstein, 2007)

John’s Story I sat next to John in biology and he always sported an uncombed head with a truculent visage. The only sense that I had of him, from being an insignificant passerby and remote acquaintance, was that he was a good story teller. He managed to speak fluently and beautifully, yet firmly, while conducting intricate plot and theme. Once, at lunch, he told all of us a story while we were talking about awkward and embarrassing moments of our childhood. “The door shut and the shades were all ready at a descent. Florescent lights shone on us, as if we were in a lab, being studied under a microscope, or some government scientists. Six or so of us were herded in and sat slouching and confounded. They told us that they had brought us in because we walked with our heads facedown, parallel to the floor. Later, I found out that they had observed our files and found similar family dysfunctions among us: I did not mind that because their intentions were good, but they made us join in that lab two times a week! They separated us from the other kids; we would eat our lunch in the lab with the counselors as all the other kids enjoyed recess, the lunch room and social interaction. As if we weren’t deprived enough of being children, they stole us from our classmates and deserted their promised assistance in helping us stand up straight and exist in, ‘the norm.’” He formed quotes with his fingers. “We sat speaking and dwelling on our problems” he spoke emphatically, “surrounded by lame posters that told us how to feel good.” “Yeah, I mean some individuals need assistance from a parent-like figure, but it was torture to sit there with people that I was forced into a friendship with exiled unwillingly. Just when I began to feel as though I could exist among students of my age without the distractions of my home life and bring my uniqueness to the community, they stick me in a room with five other kids that I couldn’t stand. I mean Danny Snider was there. I am glad that I got out of there when I did.” Of all his radical stories, I think that this was the one I most agreed with. (Paul Henne, 2007)

Insanity You’re thinking about how you’re cold when you’re sitting alone in a dark room, ironic that survival is what pops up in your brain when it’s pure emotions that brought you here. Nails pop out of the wood paneling, their edges chipped. The floors here lay untouched by any sort of stain. Everything made tile, making it easy to clean up your falls with mops and buckets. You’re feeling frightened however they can only monitor your condition for now. Someone forgot to tell you – survival is the biggest priority. They’re here, so are you, but you’re there now, so you’re alone again. There it is again, that bleak green shimmer, could be the absinthe abandoning your emotional system or even side effects of the eye drops, all they do is make things blurry and pink, illuminating the very shame you were trying to make subtle. Could be our father, he mentioned he bought a green flashlight that stretches for miles, this past Halloween. Run away, you want to be carried weightless by the wind, little and lovable once more. You can burn your third grade diaries, but there’s no shame in youthful lust or longing, it’s only time that makes it go rotten. Deciding otherwise, place it softly in the tweed lined knapsack; emotion is best kept in the safe of your own bank. You read this thought: ‘Every northern rift leads to my Atlantic’ and think it made sense to whomever wrote it, impacted the very hand that depicted its interpretation the deepest. ‘Direct me with sailors, we have no captain on board and they know I veer too far off the deep end to direct.’ I think AA group corruption; he meant the vanity of an oblivious jury. I can look at my parallel in reflections of the ocean, it’s deeper there, the things there, they are and they can be without alibi. Interruption surfaces: a vibration awakens my left pocket. A voice on the speaker, the one of my real father – his tone is indifferent, he tells me of his son. “I’ve taken his kidney for survival…” He is your junior still. You’ve done this, now mom lurks at home by our electric fire, forever nostalgic of bonfires and beach keggers. As for me, I am temporarily blocked. We all wait in rooms made for waiting. Everyone we love is here and we are all alone, I correlate this bitter flashback with our white picket fence and our rickety home, an airplane flies overhead holding my mother’s lost love. He chose the smell of bills and Japanese escorts, she puts out the fire he left

burning. Ashes to ashes, she searches for a vase to put them in. You left me singing in the shower, I didn’t know you hurt her, I didn’t know you had left. I pulled the sheets up over your face, turned my back to the outline of your snoring body and watched you descend from the skies; Japanese flight attendants assist you to your hotel. I taste salt. A splash from the ocean has unknowingly hit my left cheek: my parallel has shown itself at midnight. Sunday evening – no one rises. We wait, stagnant, molding: but it’s a room made for waiting, and the chairs here will do just fine. I hope my brother wakes up.

(Kirsten Cleary, 2007)

(Ian Engelberger, 2009)

Tomorrow People kept talking about tomorrow; So I asked them what it is. They told me that tomorrow would be When night is gone and dawn comes. Anxiously waiting for a new day, I slept through the night and woke up to learn that tomorrow was no more â&#x20AC;&#x201D; It was another today. Friends, There is no such thing As tomorrow.

(Dongju Yun)

(Translated from the Korean by Hyun-Jae Shin, 2009)

Repeat until calm Slow down; take a breath, count to ten, repeat. Do this until calm. Think before you move. Hallways close you in. Doors seal. Don’t panic. Close your eyes, remember the glance of sunshine you saw before your world caved in. Keep quiet. Stay awake… Stay alive. I was standard, I did well in school, I had an even temper, I obeyed my elders, and only on occasion did I make mistakes, like forgetting my daily chores. I veered off my ideal path when my parents died. Molly was yelling at me to take out the trash. I apologized for the inconvenience. “You would never pull this shit if mom and dad were alive” she screamed from the front porch, her words echoing for all the prying neighbors to hear. I told myself that it was only the heroin in her veins talking. They had been dead for years. “Now I know why mom killed herself” she said with a smirk that could make someone with a heart of stone shed a tear. I told myself that it wasn’t my fault; I repeated in my head what my father said to do whenever I was upset. Slow down; take a breath, count to ten, repeat. Do this until calm. All I could see was his plane crashing and my mom’s blood on the kitchen floor. He was late for his flight; he called to say he wouldn’t make it to my tennis match. I yelled until my face turned red. He was never home; he was always on business trips, leaving his family behind. I told him he didn’t deserve to be my father. He said he’d catch a later flight. I was happy I got my way… until his plane didn’t come in. His funeral was unbearable; I’ve always hated the color black. I cried by his coffin. I left before he was underground. Two weeks later I found my mother dead by the steak knives. I will never forget that sight. I beat my racket on my bedroom wall until the metal frame was bent and twisted and the strings were torn to pieces. I slept in her bed that night. The Vodka burned my throat like the salty sea after a shark attack. My eyes became blurry, my senses numb. So this is what it was like to drink? Suddenly my parents’ demise slipped my mind. The weight of their deaths no longer crushed me. I could finally breathe. Heroin soaked words and my parents’ deaths could no longer harm me. In my mind I knew I should be getting home to Molly. I had left the trash in the driveway. I grabbed the wheel, turned the key. My best friend was sitting next to me. She told me to find someone else to drive, I told her to buckle her seat belt. My vision was so blurred that I could hardly see the road, or the truck

in front of me. I heard my friend scream right before impact. Lights were spinning along with my thoughts. I could hear car alarms ringing. Stop the screaming, stop the screaming. The white light blinded me; were those the gates to heaven? No, just a nurse’s white coat in front of me; at least it wasn’t black. “You’re looking better” someone said to me. “Where’s my friend” was all I could say. The doctor looked down at me: “She wasn’t as fortunate as you, I am sorry.” Déjà vu, here we go again; another black wardrobe day. Only this time, it was my hands behind the wheel, not the pilot’s; there was no one else to blame. I couldn’t shed a tear, not another tear, I feared I had none left. Everything had happened so suddenly. As I sat in the pew, I could feel the vodka burning my throat, my hands gripping the wheel, the spinning lights surrounding me, that bitter night, my blurry eyes – I had to stop, I had to shut my brain off. Molly stood silently in the kitchen. Her stillness disturbed me. I longed for a word to come roaring from in between her teeth, but no, she just looked at me. I stayed in my room until nightfall covered my tears. Slow down; take a breath, count to ten, repeat. Do this until calm. Think before you move. Hallways close you in. Doors seal. Don’t panic. Close your eyes, remember the glance of sunshine you saw before your world caved in. Keep quiet. Stay awake… Stay alive. These words can’t calm me anymore. The knife in my hand… it’s starting to slide. It cuts deep, but not as deep as my guilt. So much blood has been spilt by my doings, so why not my own. Are these the gates to heaven? No… no, these gates lead to hell.

(Jamie Kruczek, 2009)

Let it all Out Government pigs run wild through the streets There’s a smell in the air, close to fire. Pushing lies down our throats so we can’t talk About what truth is left in the world. We’re faithful to what we believe in Death for “the man” looked down upon And “honor” gained from holding a gun, Mounted on our shoulders Society’s looking for answers in our child eyes Staring them down from left to right Hoping for a chance to give everything up to the weak. Floundering out of water, we’re out of our comfort zone No more bedtime stories, or kind kisses Twisting and contorting each little word from their mouths Begging and pleading for each second of life we have to live Watch out for the new generation. Breeding machines. Built to please. Lies. All lies. SYSTEMATIC PLANS to overthrow Everything that we’ve come so far from, Torn down in seconds. Years spent devoted to one thing. Peripheral vision shot. Straight, one look ahead. No turning back. 1...2...3... Another soul taken from what you’ve made up. 1...2...3... Again. Why continue. Why live with this burning hell. Shattered glass from riots in the street cut our feet. Homeless men and women running naked. Here we go again with… “it’s their own fault” Maybe they don’t have a choice. Maybe you’ve given their life away. Taken more like it. Jets fly overhead. Roaring engines symbolize future bloodshed. And fake tears. We’ve all seen in movies the “housewife” sitting home waiting. But really. She’s out with other men. Who’s going to stand around for that long. 10

Waiting for someone who could already be dead. Husbands. Brothers. Fathers. Sons. Off fighting, dying. Wives. Sisters. Mothers. Daughters. Out alone, pretending. Where’s the trust, the commitment? ‘till death do us part. I’ll wait for it to come. So far suicide is not the answer. Deserving of more than just a little, “are you okay?” Who cares the most? Not the African soldiers. Committing genocide country to country. Seeking out those who “don’t belong” Destroying families, raping men and women Breaking children Walking line to line carrying the guilt on your shoulders Eyes blackened out. No one can see anymore. We’ve made the whole world blind, without using our own eyes. Gandhi didn’t know what he was saying. We believed him. We wished it true. America, Africa, Germany. Plans to take over the world Top secret, they say. To the men in white lab coats. Tinted glasses. Greased back hair, sitting in their “head” chairs. Opening up to the public as “saviors” and gods. Revealed to the rest as murderers. Sociopathic beings. Poisoning our lives with images of violence With men falling to the ground, and women crying. You’ll never take me alive. I’d rather die than serve under a promise of false hope. Fists raised in the air, symbolizing the start of a new reign of terror. Hitler who? What’s been done here. To us. He couldn’t, not even now Think about it all. Manikins hold our flag high. Blank faces stare into the sky. Bull’s-eyes floating from target to target. Make your way down the gun barrel, tell me how it is. Fight for what you believe in, rise up. End all the lies and the pain you’ve caused everyone. 11

From the beginning. Putting “secret” messages in our Disney movies. Making Esmerelda choose the prince, instead of the hunchback. Romance and realty don’t mix well. It’s one or the other to them. Automatically men wearing pink are rejected from society. Women with short hair can’t be taken seriously Why treat them with respect when you can’t look them in the eye? Just take a look, deep down. Into yourself. Watch what happens. Picket signs are hanging out of their windows, drawing attention BETTER GET THEM DOWN DON’T LET ANYONE SEE what’s really going on. They swear it’s all alright, that everything’s okay and we don’t need to worry. I say we don’t have to worry when HELL FREEZES OVER. When I can go outside and not worry about being mugged When the crosses stop burning in the schoolyard When the SNAKES finally take off their masks. I’ll close my eyes once again And try to wake up to a new beginning It’s not likely that it’s going to happen. Breathe in the chaos we’ve been suffocating on for years Stand up and say we’ve had enough Pour out your heart for everything. Step up to top, don’t take no for an answer. Trample the enemy, close the doors behind you. Bring the fire that’s been building up. Imagine life as you want it to be.

(Sam Hunt, 2008)

Jamie stepped up… Jamie stepped up to the bouncer. Her sleek black hair was knotted loosely at the nape of her neck. A cream colored silk tank hung from her perfectly sunned body like it would on a hanger, and fell to about her hip. She was wearing black leggings that cut off mid calf and a pair of black, pointy, patent leather Jimmy Choo stilettos. A lemongrass green clutch was tucked under her arm and she jingled the gold bracelets on her delicate wrist, which she then put on her hip, smirked, and just like that - we were in. The sound around us quickly switched from the loud honking buzz of the sidewalks to the pulsing beat of techno music. The strobe lights illuminated the manufactured fog in short intervals. Celia spotted the bar, which was glowing with a neon cerulean outline. She ordered four cosmos. Perched on barstools, we scanned the club for anything interesting, anyone really. Our cosmos were taking an inordinate amount of time and I made a purposefully audible complaint declaring so. “Poor service?” A deep but soft voice delivered the words. I whipped around to see a rather attractive, older man. He looked to be in his late twenties and had an irritatingly attractive five-o-clock shadow. His hair was dark and messy in an “I spent hours making my hair look like this” way. His eyes were mocking but when you looked into them for longer their green cruelty morphed into a bluer kindness. I managed to keep my wowed reaction from appearing on my face. “Yes.” I was stern but calm and spoke the words in a matter-of-fact manner. “Very poor.”“Well, then. Maybe you should say something to the owner. You shouldn’t have to put up with this. Right?”I was confused as to why he had such an interest in the expediency with which we received our drinks. Nevertheless, I nodded in appreciation and acknowledgement of his suggestion.“I will.”“Okay then, let me grab a pen and paper so I can get a formal record of exactly what your complaint is.”I paused.“You... did want to speak with the owner, right? Well, you’re looking at him. Clark Cohen.” He stuck out his hand.“Oh, I see.” I skeptically shook it. “Well, the bartender is not very efficient.”“Mhmm. Anything else?”“In fact, yes. The lighting in here would lead one to become epileptic. And the music is in rather poor taste.”“Okay then. I will be sure to get these taken care of. Thank you so much for your input.” Our conversation was falling short of witty banter; I had definitely had more interesting ones at other clubs with other strangers. But I had never been quite so engaged before.“Now again, this is strictly in the sake of formalities. Ms...”“Todd,” I filled in his blank.“Yes. Ms. Todd, where exactly is it that you hail from? A native?”“I’m from Massachusetts,” I was starting to warm up to him. “I go to school there.” Truth. “Oh really? Where?”“Amherst.” Lie. I couldn’t tell Clark that I went 13

to a boarding school. He had already gained my attention to the point where I wasn’t going to blow a potential... something on my unfortunate high school background. College was much more respectable. Celia, Kathryn, and Jamie had lost interest in watching Clark and me talk, and were now in the center of the sweaty, dense, inebriated mob that occupied the dance floor.Clark and I relocated ourselves to another room which was covered wall to wall, floor to ceiling with deep pink, orange, and red iridescent fabrics. The only light in the room came from three candles on small, round, mahogany tables and a faux fireplace. There was a plush corner couch that blended in with the walls and floor where we continued to discuss our lives and as the drinks continued, discuss them more candidly. I noticed that the surrounding ambience had made my cosmopolitan almost invisible when I went to take a sip. As I drank it, I stared into the candle on the table in front of us, into its warm wisps and curls. By this time, I had learned that Clark was one of three children, with an older brother and a younger sister, grew up in Chicago, was superstitious, strongly disliked macadamia nuts, was a master at poker, and had an affinity for hiking and sailing. It was after he recapped his last adventure to Tahiti that I realized he still didn’t know much about me. He must have picked up on a stray ESP wave because almost as I had that thought he asked me where it was that I had attended high school. “Hindson Academy,” I told him.“Really?” He seemed to be very engaged. “Yes. Really.”“That’s interesting. My brother is on the board of directors there, and I used to work at Chelton, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it, I think they play Hindson in some sports. Before I came to New York I was on the faculty there. I’ve been with this place for a few years but I really want to go back to the country. Anyway, this coming fall I’m selling South.”I didn’t quite grasp it fully and then - “I’m the new academic dean at Hindson. Small world I guess.”My stomach dropped and my throat suddenly felt like sandpaper. “Small world,” I echoed. After the night in the Church, Celia and I had already sprung our plan into action. While the scandalous indiscretion I witnessed the night before was indeed a salacious piece of gossip to me, to Celia it was much, much more. She wanted her revenge, and as Celia’s best friend I felt that it was my duty to help her in her endeavors. Not doing so would mean I was not living up to my role as best friend. What Marci had done to Celia sophomore year ripped her apart. She was suffering in silence, quietly enduring the pain Marci had caused her by tearing Greg away from her. What Celia wanted now was to continue ripping Marci’s life apart, very, very, publicly. The situation did indeed seem too good to be true. The slut that stole her boyfriend was now sleeping with a teacher. It was if God had been watching 14

Celia and said, “Here, allow me”.While this was all true, Celia was not a malicious person and would not take any actions without first verifying that Marci was in fact, the promiscuous traitor she had known her to be. So, as our first step, Celia and I had to keep tabs on Marci constantly. This turned out to be rather simple. As a residential advisor in the dorm, I could very easily keep track of Celia’s whereabouts in the evening. During evening study hall, she would always sign out to the library from 7:00 to 9:00. To make matters even easier, Celia was prefect. While this did not give her immunity to run around campus yelling obscene things during study hall, if she were to be seen walking around when she was supposed to be either in the dorm or in the library, no questions would be asked. So, the Friday night after our Thursday night church scandal (as expected) Celia signed out to the library at 7:00. “Hey, Lex.” Marci came into my room. Her greeting was muffled by a hair-elastic she held between her teeth, and she was whipping pieces of her flaxen hair into a ponytail. She removed the elastic from her glossy mouth, secured her hair, and spoke again.“I’m gonna go to the library, ok? Make sure you get me down.” As roommates, Celia and I were sure to decorate our room to make it as homey as possible, complete with curtains, bedding, and even a couch, all of which matched. I was sitting cross-legged on our couch that faced the door, with the sign-out book on my lap.I glared up at Marci who was now leaning against my doorframe, staring off somewhere and twirling her bright green gum with her left index finger. She was giddy. Vomit.“Sure thing, Marci,” my voice was unintentionally cold. “Have fun” I added. While I took coverage in the dorm Marci was on Renga watch. Conveniently, Marci had had Mr. Renga for US history last year. She had gone over to his apartment (which happened to be in Matthew’s dorm) a little before 7:00 to “get his help on a paper she was writing for a history elective”. As teachers are expected to at Hindson, and as Mr. Renga always would, he happily obliged and welcomed Marci into his apartment. They sat at his kitchen table and Celia began explaining her fictitious assignment. She paused halfway through her description for a little investigating. “Where’s Mrs. Renga?” It was perfect. Mrs. Renga was the Drama department chair, and Celia had starred in last year’s production of Guys and Dolls so her question was neither peculiar nor suspicious. “Oh, umm,” he mumbled, looking awkwardly from side to side. “She uh, Mrs. Renga is taking a little time off. Vacation. Doing work... In London.” His response was so impeccably sloppy it was all Celia could do not to giggle with satisfaction at his gracelessness and discomfort. Just when Celia thought things 15

couldn’t get any better, there was a knock at his door. Mr. Renga had no response to this. The knock came again, this time a playful tapping.“Do you want me to get that?” Celia asked.“Uh, oh no it’s fine. It’s probably just one of the guys in my dorm coming to bug me. This is more important. Please continue, 17th century you said?”Before Celia had to come up with anymore phony explanations, she heard the door creak open and the sound of soft footsteps. (Hannah Mescon, 2007. Hannah is working on a novel, currently entitled Private, of which this is an excerpt.)

Today It’s windy and it’s raining as I sit and stare out the window. You laugh at me, tell me I’m strange. I agree; who just looks at things anymore? It’s cold out there and it’s ugly, if you can even call it that. You start laughing for no reason. I look at you and smile and think that you’re strange, But I don’t tell you that. Because it makes you more interesting. I like inside. It’s warm in here. Friends make things warm. And even if the leaves are orange not green, And it’s below zero in April I don’t really mind. At least not today.

(Georgia Buckley, 2008)

The second time Empathy – you know no such thing Apathy – the root of your being Vulnerability – a lesson learned Love – nowhere close to a concern You got out alive so for now you’ll just hide You have your excuses and you have your qualms Who am I to prove your attitude wrong? This notion to adjust you came as no surprise It’s always been in the rear of my mind Nothing is ever different the second time I do my best to make corrections But it’s tough to fix your insides ‘Cause its dim and I’m struggling to perceive It’s sinister and I just can’t believe All that lies underneath The fabrication astonishes me But who am I to prove your attitude wrong? I’ve got the rhymes but not a magic wand I’ve got my heart on my sleeve My mind on hold Open arms And a soothing tone But you can’t hear my voice over your constant drone

(Jamie Kruczek, 2009)

Woodstock Morning We are warm and awake at dawn; the frosty mountains a distant blue haze. We talk quietly and Frozen words fall from our lips Like mouthfuls of Uncut diamonds. They roll from seven thousand feet and brush by tufts of thawing grass.

Lodhi Lovers I am layered in dust and sweat, the hot hair sweet with flowers clovers...Lodhi Love. The sand is orange. Indian lovers seek refuge in the greenery but the trees provide little shade. We perch on the steps of Mogul Ruin and pass on these activities. Saris the color of limes and ideal skies they flood our vision with the air of regal birds. It begins to rain; big drops spot our clothes; we open our mouths to greet them. Thunder rumbles near; the gods have given their opinion.

King of the Working Class He sits in a throne of wood and newspaper above a grate and dirty street - above us. To the left of the tailor and the right of a well traveled hillside. I had met a cow on the way back from the villiage. A group of men lean casually against a railing. This man, he is surrounded by prints of Shiva, Laxmi, Krishna and Ganesh. Cuts of glass reflect light back like mirrors; blinding, his trade. Their frames are poorly made, images stained. The sunlight flies from each iris and shatters around our bodies. Is the seller of these prints not a god himself? Bloodshot and blue-eyed among a sea of earth? He is the quiet, wise king of the working class.

Untitled Strawberry pity deliriously gripping handfuls of fine sand. the grains will never stay for long. He begs them to protect him, save him, forgive him. The tide cleanses him of his safety; sand castle. His head bows to the power of a greedy, disturbed shore. Locks of her hair reach from the waves like tentacles and shackle ankles. they tug and sting; he will never be blessed by steady footing.

(Allie Early, 2007)

A Spoonful of Hope Within a spoon I held some hope That I’d see better days But the spoon just shook and the hope spilled out And I was left in bitter haze So I found a knife to cut some love From someone else’s heart But the slice I cut was lost too soon And silenced in the dark… Next I thought I’d use a fork To stab the courage deep, But little did I know that courage Was not for the weak… Then I went and found a spoon But this one was made of wood, So I began beat my fears right down As quickly as I could… I realized fast that what I needed Had to be my own That someone else’s love and courage Wouldn’t help me stand alone… I couldn’t try and use that which, Others tried to give, Because winning by default each time Gives one no cause to live… So today I stood alone it seemed, But I stood proud and tall Remembering to keep my head up So no one sees me fall… (Georgia Buckley, 2008. This poem was selected by ASAP and read by Mia Farrow at an evening reading celebrating young poets at the Washington Town Hall, April 2007.) 21

Here, where money is searching for bright ideas, and the bright ideas are searching for money. Where your sense of direction gets you lost, and ladies of 5th, Lexington, and Park look pretty… Whatever the cost. Where the city boys raised by women drown dreaming of men and the city girls raised by detestable men end up marrying them. Where cigarettes and stoops run subjectively free of society, And the gay petitioners of Union Square preach equal illegal rights, Where the smiles and frowns die of cancerous reality, And where every soul cries “Nothing matters more than me!” Where the queens of hookah spew their insanity! kissing knees! Begging “PLEASE! PLEASE STOP CUTTING DOWN OUR TREES!” Where the sound of a thousand worker bees drowns out your soul and won’t let you breathe. Where the sub-urban sub-human tourists go round and round the town snapping photos of Times Square! Times Square! I hate Times Square; there is nothing worth keeping there, Nothing but lights, cops, sub-human tourists, infinite billboards, and a nudist cowgirl guitarist with questionable motives… Then there is the center of it all, the ties and suits of midtown. BANKS, BANKS, BANKS, AND BANKS! There is nothing here but bankers and banks! I tell the hobos of insanity that midtown is good begging money, But the auxiliary police keep the hobos off the streets. …bad for the economy… Sons of bitches we are! Living in self-ordained luxury! You have got nothing in reality other than your family and yet you seem to think you can be happy with your infinite money? 22

your totalitarian currency BLASPHEMY! CALL THE POLICE! REALITY IS LYING TO ME! These plastic old folks, with their button down coats… I’m sick of it all. “Give me a cigarette, and let me breathe.” I inhale the hobo, and cry for the breeze as we float down through Bloomberg’s dream of tobacco free buildings as we write on the walls of our Babylon.

This old town, Filled to the brim and burning. No one left to say “here’s how to be, that’s where you go” Nothing left to learn, nothing left to know. What happened to this old town, This ancient holy city, Of black and white pictures Displayed on cracking white walls. What happened to everything? Everything that was so great, Was it ever so great? is it all just an intoxicated vision of spires, snow, spring, and stoops, of dark eyed Cleopatras who stop to lead you back to their rooms with a flutter (like a butterfly) of an eyelid. This town, This ancient holy city, Boiled to the boiling point With her tramps that wear oil barrels around their necks, Who sleep in Bergdorf & Bloomingdales, Who have a pair of shoes for every insecurity? Every lost lover, And every failed friendship, For every moment spent wanting and drowning in cheque-books. Or is it the imposter poets, Who try so hard to be poetic, and fail in their own eyes, But succeed in mine through failing. who spend endless amounts of money on cigarettes, who never sleep, always awake, infinitely dreaming. who fight to realize unreality, to re-build MacDougal and Bleeker street, to revive Washington square, who ride mule carts with saintly scenarios painted along the sides, who blow bridges, and fight fascists in the mountains of Spain, who fall in love with Marias, and Catherines, and weep at the inevitability of every Hemmingway ending. These are the ones, 24

The desperate to love, To be love, To hate, to be hate, To feel, to be feel Those raging hurricanes of a people With infernos raging behind thick impenetrable eyes. Who relinquish all they own, Screaming for socialism And inside beg at the steps and corners of wallstreet for something new, Something or anything. Those men of wallstreet, The hilarity of it all. (I once met a man who worked from 9 – 5 on wall street and condemned the congregation of religion, calling it “nothing but blind sheep who amass in one area and suck up all the oxygen”) Manhattan to the Vatican, Both holy cities in their own respects. filled with children, Endless amounts of infinite infants, Children who turn on TVs to watch the puppet show that is politics, who stubble and fall and dribble and cry who end up as one of the number of the hundreds of wives of “the man”. The man, The man that runs the world is a woman, GLASS CEILING! NO FEELINGS! I’M DREAMING? I’m stone drunk off the brandy that is morality and ethics. The addictive distilled liquor that is, good and bad, Right and wrong, these poisons and medications invented by invisible intelligences, prescribed to mankind by naked doctors of china, to cut him into, two easy to abuse, easy to excuse killable, and s-e-p-a-r-a-t-e- sides. believable lies, burning brown skies. 25

This whole scene is making me gloriously intoxicated, I’ve decided that Judas was the only human being in the bible, And everyone else must have been an angel Sent by god to test the depths of his soul, and the extent of his failures, Both in fact being one in the same. This whole world is beat, It’s people to meet, piss on the seat, It’s old negro prophets cleaning gum off the street. It’s guns and it’s bread, It’s alive and it’s dead, It’s a wondering corpse with no arms and no head. It’s everything you ever know, and everything you don’t, And it’s all coming crashing down through your TV sets, And there’s nothing you, or me, or anyone can do about it, There never will be and there never has been, All there is to do is watch… of course you don’t have to… but that’s just being a spoil sport. i’m not so sleepy as i am tired, tired of broadway its smiles when i say broadway i mean below 66th st with the billboards and smaller “we will not be silent” protests i’m tired of madhatters and sunglasses camera flashes tourists COME SEE NY! LOOK 42ND ST! I HEART NY! this town, this circus of clowns and pilgrims parkavenue tramps and tight pants and belts. no more velvets 26

no more poets all crucified for not wearing a burberry scarf and carrying a gucci bag can nyc be revived? i hope not. it would require the killing of too many innocent prosecuting dictators, and tourbuses. tourbussess... i’d love to see them shipped to south america, and the church of jesus christ of latter should be given tires and sirens and allowed to police and patrol washington square. can buildings be broken? watch out america! i’m a terrorist communists fascist doctor lawyer senator wool coat cigarette i’m cancer, and i’m aids. do all the subways have to screech? why can’t they arrange the tracks and wheels to make nice little melodies so i can hear the star spangled banner or gay rights or oppression while i wait to see my soul mate being an empty cold dictator of a step in union square. i’ve got longer thumbs than rockefeller the difference is i don’t own a building nor a wooden mansion on long island. 27

the julliard only requires 3 classical pieces for entry. who in their right mind plays classical, it’s not anyone elses to play. mozart does not belong to 8 year olds, impressesing opppressive parent-like vultures of a people at recitals it’s not right. kids should be naked, kissing riding musical subways saving spandex fur coat tramps who, blind, trap themselves in bergdorf and blooming dales. or they should be building statues and making prophets out of sugar plump musical expeditionary wild trapped caged wrenches that all play the same song. “i need a vacation: “hate the president” “not happy to be here” and screech and wail like the subways, and the bulldozing pothole fixing overweight iron trucks of the metropolitan opera. i’d like to give wings to all the madhatters of this metropolis so they could all get to where they’re going on time and leave room for me on the s t r e e t.

this picturesque vision of new york town, i’m capturin it ‘neath my eyes before hollywood steals it away. it’s spring time an my hearts so cold it’s freezing the rain and causing accidents. what ever happened to new york? it’s saintly art & music & fortunes inspired pilgrimages and now? it’s almost a whole different fruit. tourists power through subways, and kill all in their camera lenses. protests are run by the old while the young trap themselves on 5th avenue for shoes, and clothes, and burn cigarette clothes in their souls, so silky & pure with desire. this town is more dead than it is alive. this town is more alive than it is dead. this zombie filled necropolis. nothing but hand drawn taxis, and hand built towers, forged with iron & gold & blood, and want to be nothings, and passive observers who judge everything & anything without faults without the smell of rot about them, it’s like some kind of old well filled to the brim with corpses and blind darkeyes heart breaking queens, who arrive in disguise and fool all the men wwho beg at her heels, and whisper and kneel at her whim. the city is crying in labor for birth, of something much worse than her first, something decrepit and cursed something, like what i see today. 29

(Alex Adam, 2009. â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Here, where money is searching,â&#x20AC;&#x2122; the first of the five poems above, appeared in English Journal #7 (1/07). It was selected by ASAP and read by Frank McCourt at an evening reading celebrating young poets at the Washington Town Hall, April 2007.)

We ran through the tall grass, unafraid of the numerous bugs latching onto our tattered shoes and ripped blue jeans It seemed like freedom running on the open green in the warm air that lifted your soul and caught you with its sweet embrace. The sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gentle fingers touching your skin and sweeping you from here to the nearest tree. The day seemed endless. There was no purpose, deadline, boundary, no end to the story, a moment that could last forever. Nothing crossed your mind. Maybe it was the warm air that seeped through your skin and hair into your brain, stopping all thought, or the droning of cicadas in the late afternoon. The glare of the sun on the glass you call eyes. It is another unsolvable mystery. Do not dare try. Memories are pointless if they are meant to be solved. But that day, that day. As the sky began to turn to hues of orange and ripe strawberries, I lay in the open untouched field, vulnerable to the setting sun, and the unknown night hiding behind the last bit of calm, waiting to envelop the sun and its counterparts, bursting with millions of tiny diamonds spread out through the black spirit, comfort in our oblivion. I look at you, hope this never ends. We are the day, the earth, the night. As time goes by, through all things, the dawn will come, and shake us from these trees.

You show me four directions Such as the weathervane Yet again it seems like the wind has picked up Something from far away Some exotic wind whose hurricane wants to flood our TV screens Anything to talk about The radio is stuck on the weather station When the storm ends, we will still have to hear it The monotone version of outside information 31

Forget the creed The sharp weapon starts to bleed smooth black on the immaculate white creature, Once vast and na誰ve Never fret This demon has catalysts You will never forget Caused a distinctive taint A blank canvas you began to paint I am no longer afraid of the image you create As it becomes a lucid vision of fate

(Hope Simpson, 2009)

I sat and once glanced a boy standing so proud on his tall earthy steppe, in rough cotton costume then demanding, my eyes aversion to his strong footed steppe. And I looked to his outstretched hands bearing, some dead snake trapped tilling in his long shrouded steppe. And his old man said caring, compelled understandings of a village gift filled. If I walked a hut by in the wilderness, and sat with this lonely grey man, beneath gnarled green pines nonetheless in his fathers birthright land. In his fathers shady mountain pass found an illumination at last. ~ Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m wishing well sitting but someones flipping copper pocket coins Â Into some chlorine bleached pool on a polo cuff-link Sunday My seatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the same since I looked through a tower telescope to a bony hill side girl threshing in the dust and sun-blazed mountain path My gharwal guide laughs a smoky, toothless breath and points the ganges source. My new-york, Sunday pool glints another hand wishing ~ 33

I once swept out my room and found the caretaker picking candies from the dust among the rubbish I’d overlooked. He tucked them away in a grey pocket and tipped a wool knit cap his wife perhaps had made. I was walking through a rainy street when greeted by some white capped boys on their way to mosque who’d heard the meditation drones of a Veda-clutching sadu He beat a drum before Shiva while the incense smoke fogged his eyes and lingered in his wild locks I turned a hill and looked out to the rocks. To a cold, cracked, white cross wedged in the high earth. And tattered prayer flags waved wildly behind me. ~ A donkey sat next to me worn from trails passed. And I in this windy hostel spotted, through the its thinning tarp glacial waters lapping on a Hindu temple’s shore My barefooted man sat on sackcloth here by his fire fixing, chai in the glassy light. He told me “horse” in hindi and I soon forgot the way his matted green vest held division. 34

Tucking change away in threadbare pockets, while his peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s yurts stood empty in the summer.

(Jon Hartmann, 2008)

You sit and watch the clean lines of the steeple climbing into the sky reaching for a time when thoughts of God weren’t muddled – like your memories or scattered – like the cigarettes strewn across your floor It reaches for a time when life was as simple stark and true as that white clapboard church nestled on the town green You ask for nature? what other nature can I give you but human nature, the nature of words and fists and dreams and loss of talk and action of whispers and sighs I know nothing of open green hills or stagnant dark forests, but I do know these soft sighs You ask for revelations? how can I give you that? when everything I say has been said before, when everything I do has already been done, when even my thoughts are unoriginal You ask for fresh? fresh is church at 8 AM on a Sunday morning, or sun filtering through green leaves. Fresh is not booze driven nights or cotton-mouth-dry morning headaches Fresh doesn’t end

(Shelby Sisco, 2009)

Black Coffee Black coffee calor and cactus Salt, pepper, cup – Made in China – Sit on table made of Rosewood. My language follows fame from Many origins, the table Much the same. The building estranged And now I, most disembodied – Seeing myself but, in physical Juxtaposition to the green, The same – Or but, I – Feeling alien sometimes in The green outside the window of The neighbor’s house – am as black Coffee here on a decadent Table – Or building – which I have Not built, which I do not know. It is all Symbolic It is all symbolic Save your face in the eye Of a responsible Passer-by. No color, no book; them took No meaning in your eye. And maybe you would stand In disguise, But your face Juxtaposed To an old exit sign Or sharp rusty scissors Mean the same. The old man under the sun Greens, blues yellows combine Horizons and titles fleet: So it moves. 37

Wise Bob Wise Bob drew sharp circles and squares in the sand. He dug them out: stood superior and distinct. They were protecting his wallet, his watch and A ring â&#x20AC;&#x201C; one circle for his son â&#x20AC;&#x201C; in the sand. A day at the beach. Everything comes from the sphere. But he forgot about the wind, the birds and The tide, those women and men walking around Pacing, changing. Water wind and fancy dissolve Shapes in sand: edges become soft, fuzzy then Fluid.

(Paul Henne, 2007)

a sudden shift lurches me swiftly. hold on to nothing – gravity trumps desires anyways – everything will fall. let the screens filter. they say pollution affects your health – and it does. the air absorbs the whispers. they merge into murmurs. they swirl into screams. the air absorbs. breathing is difficult with such humidity. i let the screens filter.

(Annie Reiman, 2007)

I walked through the Delhi Train Station in a smiling haze. I smiled and it was all I could feel. I smiled at the men who fought to carry our bags. I smiled at the sea of blankets and faces whose waves pounded the train station walls. I smiled at the policemen blowing their whistles at the men they beat with clubs. I smiled and turned away from the man who told me how I was good and that he was poor. I got in the car and smiled at the glass that separated the mad hatter politicians and the hard gray walls and the invisible barriers. The car stopped and a fingerless man approached my window. I stared into his eyes and all I could feel were my hands.

(Ian Engelberger, 2009)

My friend Jack Hey Jack how you doin For tonight i’m fine You make me feel first-rate And the world looks right A little blurry But right in all senses of the word Jack you seem to have the answer To all of the strange questions in life like why a mother cries to a son and other assorted stains on a black sheet but as I sit alone here with you Jack I still cry on the inside My body numb my mind still aches Help me Jack But by the end of the night You’re empty No more answers You’re gone like everyone else in my life So I turn the keys And put it to the floor Here’s to the nights! I yell as the car glides Towards yellow barrels The nights with my friend Jack

(DJ Cingari, 2008)