by Kelsey

Jammin' - by Kelsey


Splatter steamy
poppling pot
blopping sticky
sugary hot.

Ladling jammies
simmering stop.
Cooling jewelies
lids go pop!

by Vera

Blird - by Vera


I hate how
no matter what I do
she's way in the background
fuzzy and washed in my memory now.

I was thinking for a long while
that it was just because
immediate life is so sharp

that by comparison
Amy is distant,
indistinct,

but no.

Even if I focus on her
she's caught in haze
beyond
what is
life now.

Anger flames me
that I seem to be moving on,
my lens of life
trained on beef jerky and silent packages and
arguments with Lon and
this wind-scoured scrub and
a mining town
this far from what was home.

I still see her.
Amy fading like background.

But if I don't see her at all,
my sister'll really be gone,
and I can't let that happen.

So I'll keep my eye on the blurred distance
and remain angry.

by Effron

Order - by Effron


Sequences
tightly wound round
arcing out
losing ground
charged with gold
guilty found
florets angry
bursting soundless
pollen chaos
shoved and tumbling
sidewalk bound
homeless landing
face down.

by Manny & Patricia

Porsche - by Manny & Patricia


"She was hot once."

"She?"
He invited me here
to talk about another girl?

"The 914. The car."

Hot in the sun, maybe.

Hot like you are now.

Pale teal and lime green -
who knew they'd paint the inside
like that,
where no one can see it?

She's leaning in.
Inspecting the engine compartment.
She's really interested!

And the shadows waving over
the curves inside,
hash marks on the cords.
Ropes?
Cords.

"You know about electrical stuff?"

What is he talking about?
"Electrical?"

"The wiring."
She's wrinkling her freckles.
Love that.

"Cool shadow pattern."
I move my hands,
sprinkling lights-and-darks.

Damn.
What is she talking about?

He's running his work-rough fingers
through his dark hair again.

Hot out here in the driveway.

A halo around him,
the sun at his back.

Wrinkling her freckles at me.
Makes me wanna
take her face
in my hands.

I wonder what those hands
feel like.
On me.

by Patrick

I Madonari - by Patrick


Well I'm not sure
what it is
I'm supposed to see.

A woman dead?
Posturing Native American?

I don't get this kind of art
much.
Huge colors
people stuck in poses
black furry background
like those velvet paintings in Grandda's garage

But it's not a painting.
It's chalk on pavement.

A festival of
hundreds of chalk drawings-

and I don't get why you spend
three days on a masterpiece
and let the fog come in and dull the edges
let cars park in the parking lot again
let dogs walk their people over it,
smearing all your work,

the sharp clouds holding the sky,
her smooth skin,
fabric folds,
one-by-one blades of grass,

and then it's gone

and you have to do it again next year
for the show.

Now that I'm really looking,
amazing.

But I still
don't get
that it's not
permanent art.

Or is that the point?