Emissivity describes how much heat
an object gives and receives.
Takes a value between zero and one,
either reflecting or absorbing energy.
I see a dark sword, surrounded by flame.
It’s handle of steel, though it might be sun
it hurts to look, but the blade hurts to feel.
It is one.
The buoyancy force pushes up against
fluids. The more fluid displaced,
the more mass can be lifted, or floated.
The less dense, the better.
I see a silver ship, an oblong orb filled
with nothingness. Orange clouds buffet
it five Earths below the Red Spot.
Eat your heart out Hindenburg.
Friction is always with us, but sometimes
we pretend, or ignore if we have to.
Ice has friction, else skaters couldn’t
start, but it has little enough.
I see a line of men in white suits and skates.
Behind, an arena of stars, watching
as they push off against a ground that isn’t
and then no slowing.
Sanctuary by: Sandra Haubein, Acrylic on canvas, 2014.
Color Box by: Alex Perez
Who needs a time machine when you’ve got an old box of crayons?
So strongly scented I can taste the stale wax on tongue.
Crumble the hues with my teeth and I’ve de-aged to a child.
Withered with age, this sparkling box no longer shines.
The Pokémon sticker that made all the difference between the others
Has torn down the middle to read “Pomon”
Beside it lay untouched all the creatures that fascinated me as a kid.
Animalistic mutations that withstood a decade’s passing.
But inside this worn out chest lies the real treasure.
Crayons and pencils in wildly vibrant assortments.
The old colors sticking to the torn wrap have become fragile.
If I color, I fear I might break their bodies, but I can’t resist.
I’ll take the red and peel away another layer of its skin.
Leaving it exposed, perhaps I’ll cerulean instead.
Or silky violet with its wrap so damaged it’s unreadable.
Maybe I’ll take the rarest of the lot, untouched gold.
No, it’s much too valuable to waste, alright, just a little bit then.
I bring them closer to my face and take another whiff.
For a second, I hear my grade school teacher from a distance.
“Stay within the lines, we’re not monkeys, we have thumbs”
Urban Sunrise by: Al Nash, Acrylic on canvas, 2008.
Nirvana by: Jessica Fultz
Alone in this coliseum, over-flowing with fans
Here i am, forsaken.
there’s a hole where my heart should be,
and the needle in my vein is the only thing keeping me alive.
Love you so much it makes me sick.
it’s eating my brain, becoming my infection.
fuck some kind of redemption.
i have Love in my life
a daughter of my own
i know how fucking disappointing it must be to have a family but no home.
when the applause gets louder than the pain, i think i might have finally pushed it away
but it lashes out once again, more excruciating this time than the last
slurring my reality
it Loves the taste of my anarchy
i thought i was strong but my temptation is stronger
i’m worse at what i do best
Here i am, isolated.
the barrel coaxing me to finger its trigger
Here i am now,
forever in debt to your priceless advice
the crowds still rocking out in honor of my name,
Long Live Kurt Cobain.
He sits cold, hungry, and alone in his tiny apartment room staring vacantly out the frost coated window. A rose withers away in one corner of the room. Patches of mold grow rampantly in the walls. A thick layer of dust covers everything. The only source of light is a small candle in the center of the room that looks as though it might go out at any moment. The December snow lay blanketing the city of Chicago in a death-like grip. People pass by, always huddled together in groups of three or four. The world is silent as he counts the falling snowflakes and in the distance he hears a pack of dogs barking. Glancing at his cheap watch, he noticed it is almost 7 o’clock.
Quickly he opens the window and begins reaching for the fire escape as he hears a loud banging at his door. Making his way to the ground below, he hears an angry grunt as keys begin opening the lock to his room. Closing his eyes in a moment’s reprieve, he takes a deep breath and breathes in the frosty morning. As with each morning, he begins his somber walk down the block. Looking to his left, he notices the bakery his mother took him and his brother to when they were kids. He remembers the small sticky bun his mother would buy for them to share each week. Walking over he peers through the glass, marveling at the small store. He could almost feel the warmth of the lights seeping into his skin through the old, thin jacket he had worn for years. His nose pressed against the cold glass, he tries to imagine the sweet smell of the freshly baked goods until the store owner notices him and waves him away like a stray dog.
Stumbling onwards, he looks up at the morning sky and says hello to the sun as it struggles to rise. We’re not so different, he thinks to himself. Both struggling to awaken to a new day. His thoughts are abruptly interrupted by a rock that hit him square in the head. Glancing in the direction it came from, he sees the neighborhood boys across the street staring at him. When they noticed that he saw them, they scatter to the four corners of the earth like the cold bitter winds of the Arctic. Laughing to himself, he continues walking with no particular direction in mind.
His head hung low, while his eyes gaze at the sidewalk as if it were a compass guiding him somewhere important. When he did decide to look up, he notices his steps have brought him to an abandoned building. Looking through the broken glass and feeling the rotten wood door, he finally recognizes the dilapidated looking building and he remembers where he is. It is the small family owned market where his mother took them every week to buy groceries. He could almost smell the racks of choice meat sizzling on the stove, and remembered that they could never afford them. One day though, his mother had talked to the kind old woman who ran the meat department, and after a few minutes brought a piece of freshly baked glazed ham for him and his brother. He wasn’t sure how his mother had gotten it for them, but that didn’t matter as they bit into it, the juices dripped down their chin and their eyes briefly connected as they shared a quick thought. They’d never forget that taste for the rest of their lives.
A low hollow rumble erupts in his stomach as he thinks back to that memory, and a tear runs down his face as he remembered the rest of their lives was painfully short for his older brother. Not wanting to dwell on that tragic memory longer, he leaves the sad building behind and continues walking. He decides to cross the street and head for the old park in the distance. As he begins to cross, a car speeds past him angrily blaring its horn. Upon his arrival in the park, a lone bird begins chirping in the trees above. He begins to whistle through his cracked lips, imitating the mourning dove’s sad song. While he whistles, he wonders why the mourning dove was mourning, what caused its sad song? Perhaps he thought, it’s because it was alone in the world. A tear falls from his other eye, as he mourns with his new friend.
For the second time that day, he is interrupted and brought back into the reality he so desperately sought to escape from. This time it is the sound of children’s laughter that interrupts his thoughts. Turning in the direction the sound came from, he again saw the mob of children from before, only in larger numbers. He reasons the park must be their breeding grounds, as more slither from behind every nook and cranny the park has to offer. He is quickly surrounded by the children and their harsh sounds which soon turn into taunts, jeers, and then clenched fists. As the blows rain down on him, he closes his eyes again and remembers.
This was the park his brother had always taken him to when they were younger. He remembered their laughter as they played during the summertime. He remembered one time when he was playing in the sand pit and a group of older boys surrounded him, separating him from his brother. They began making fun of his poor clothes and soon began beating him. As he cried out, his brother came to his rescue. Fighting against the horde of bullies, his brother held his ground, until one of the kids pulled out a hidden knife and thrust it into his brother’s stomach. The blood began spewing forth like a ruptured pipe, the bullies fled in every direction, the blood soaked knife left behind. Running to his brother, the tears streamed faster and a hole opened inside of him as he helplessly watched his brother dying.
When the children finish beating him, they waltz off feeling powerful and leaving their victim dazed on the ground. After some time had gone by, he slowly picks himself up from the ground and begins the long journey back home. As he walks, he coughs up blood and his vision grows blurry. Hearing laughter, he looks across the street and sees a father walking with his son. The boy is holding a toy and smiling at his father, who is glowing with pride. What’s a father? He thought to himself as he struggles to remember a time when he had anyone like that in his life. All he could bring to mind was a memory of his mother crying at the front door.
She was covered in bruises and had her arms wrapped around a shadowy figure that was opening the front door. As light came into the room, he could make out what he assumed to be his father leaving the family behind. His mother begged him not to leave, and he shoved her hard towards the ground. As she fell, her hands ripped off the jacket he was wearing as she crumpled to the ground, utterly defeated. The memory faded away and he was brought back to the present, he noticed the jacket he was wearing must have belonged to his father.
When he reaches his apartment, he looks towards the sky again, just as the sun is setting. We’re not so different he thought, both going home from a long, tiresome day. Maybe we’ll see each other again tomorrow. He climbs back up the fire escape and peers into his room and after seeing that the coast was clear, creeps back in. Peeling off his jacket, he crawls into bed. As he closes his eyes he notices the small candle in his room dying. The once bright and cheerful flame has diminished to a weak light, and in moments is snuffed out by the darkness for good.
Dualistic Essence by: Carlos Tiznado, Acrylic on canvas, 2014.
Alone in a Corner by: Mike Troxell
Alone in a corner I sit with my gun.
The evil I fear is that from within.
In this moment I become defined.
I sit in the corner holding on
to memories long forgotten.
When childhood dreams turned to passion
and my world became a towering inferno.
Thrust into hell by forces unholy
I came back forgiven, yet not released.
Forgiven by those who could not save.
Forgotten by those who could not imagine.
The horrors that escalated
into a nightmare within
defined my passion
and tortured my soul.
Alone in this corner I sit with my gun.
A round in the chamber and a bottle of strife.
The evil within stirs my dreams
creating a slideshow of my horrific life.
Life full of wonder and mystery,
Clouded by nightmares and misery.
As I contemplate the true meaning
of my desires,
I bring back the hammer
and the bottle expires.
Untitled by: Crystal Waters, Marker on wallpaper mounted on panel, 2013.
The Young Poet by: Trevor Bolin
The young poet sits in his dim lit room
Drinking cheap wine and wondering.
He knows it could all just be bullshit
But oh how he wants to believe himself.
He takes another sip and sparks a cig
Then you start to hear the clicks.
Suddenly there’s music in the air.
He can no longer feel his room around him.
We see walls. He sees anything. He is free.
Losing track of his typing, he only has to think.
His fingers now move with his thoughts.
Clocks spin and his attention is never broken.
Then it ends and he sits depressed at the foot of his bed
With his head in his hands wondering when he will do it again.
Sanctified by: Douglas Vo, Acrylic on canvas, 2014
Divine by: Lauren Hendon
The wave washes over me to cleanse my open spirit
Clouds collide, making clumps of cotton
Soaring along far, far above my head
Cold, calming water seeps into my pores
A ritual ablution as the sins float atop the water just like oil
The wave washes over me to cleanse my open spirit
Uncovering the brightness that was buried so deep
Sinking heights taking me lower, I watch the clouds
Soaring far, far above my head
Collapsing inside these walls, I can no longer hear the sky
Speaking loudly could have saved me, but my thick soul
Gets washed by the waves, oh so thoroughly
Pressure is released from my chest, pulling me up and out
Sucking in air, air as a new person
The wave washes over me to cleanse my open spirit
The strength now within me, I am capable
Of nearly anything, as long as
The wave washes over me to cleanse my open spirit
It is rich black coffee,
Dark and warm and energizing
It is a woman
sitting on the back porch
of a house on a hill
gazing at a dogwood tree,
smooth pink and white petals
against a blue sky,
her milky pearl skin
reflecting the sun.
A bucket of beer on ice
she shares with her companion.
It is a late night drive,
Long and random and peaceful
It is a man
lounging in a woven hammock
hung upon his back porch,
absorbed in the sight
of rays of brilliant sun
kissing radiant pale skin,
singing a soft and gentle song.
A voice of silk and heavy cream,
like all soft and flowing things,
he shares with his companion.
