*these are all created by humans at my school

el 15 de abril, 12:15 a.m.
yesterday, as you painted my nails the color of fish-scales, i had this thought that felt like a refugee from some overwhelmed recess of my mind: how much will a day sustain before it grows dim and frail, weary from all the time we compress? i had to pause and consider it, sitting indian style on the corner of your bed, while blowing vainly on my nails (you do spoil me). i must have taken too long, though, because like chords do to chords when a coda is closer than eminent, we were all over each other. and its a humbling fact: your mouth muffles reason. but i had just a few more minutes, i probably would have realized that in the short time i have known you, only a handful of the days have truly been uncanny, most are just plain un-days. days reaming with incredulity.

case i:
its like that old friend whos determined to have you remember that amusing incident that happened that night at that house back then, just you two, late. only you swear you dont have a god damn clue what hes talking about, you werent even there and you tell him so; you were washing berries with your grandma or something, you know it. but your friend keeps insisting and insisting you were there and it was just so hilarious, and hell always remember you that night at that house, just the two of you, late, because it was so damn funny, even though you were NOT there. well its like that, anne, only the old friend happens to be reality, his tongue, time.

and i want to savor the seconds
as a bad poem would
with no need for shame.


The Seven Cinders

flowing like a bell over
the banister through the
sawdust into your liver
past her jealousy beyond
the camel ripping like
warmer than dandelions
louder than turquoise swifter
than loquaciousness heavier
than virulence stronger than
translucence up above the
purple within her parasol
before the after quickly
burnishing speaking like
cinnamon with an
azure vocabulary no
more serenity in the
attic window as i
devour her idiocy with my
caustic quivering tongue

-ryan gannaway


epiphany of grace
how lithely you move
with your body of rain
and streams of legs
that from your feet
flow unto the
humbled earth

epiphany of grace
how gently you move
with your svelte shoulders
and arms of soft
that lift to the sky
the clouds of your hands

epiphany of grace
how beautiful you are
within your lily skin
lapidary breast
and consummate
of serenity

epiphany of grace
dance for me
for your body of rain
has seized my soul

-andre` rodriguez

*words misspelled done purposely...


idol is my mind to thoughts of religion
only my spirituality comes into play
eye sea a glimpse of my inner self
floating motionless in a see of calm
still i cannot wrest in this mysterious lo-cal
food does knot concern me
in my tangled web of conch-isness
murmurs are all i hear
i survive on almost-forgotten dreams
semi-conscious thoughts
images i cannot identify with words
only with emotions and intuition
serenity is my sustenance
surrounded i am by pink haze
outside is a black rolling netherworld
where homophobia snears
where "what i heard was written
in the bible" defies logic
where evil savagely destroys innocence
here i am safe in the midst of this black ocean
seperate from a world that does not understand
that doesnt care about anything
that wants to take each individuals
precious shining soul
and smash it to pieces
melt it down with everyone else
and come up with
a big homogeneous pile of dogshit
i will never sell my soul for acceptance
in my haze i will remain
sending out small pink ripples into the darkness
and i think my ripples have turned the water
a lighter shade of black

-ryan gannaway

...That's what Dean was, the HOLY GOOF...he now fell silent himself...his bony face covered with sweat and throbbing veins, saying, "Yes, yes, yes," as though tremendous revelations were pouring into him all the time now, and I am convinced they were...he was BEAT - the root, the soul of Beatific. What was he knowing?...I looked out the window. He was alone in the doorway, digging the street. Bitterness, recriminations, advice, morality, sadness -- everything was behind him, and ahead of him was the ragged and ecstatic joy of pure being.

Jack Kerouac, _On The Road_

Ode to Jack and Neal

when will i seekfindreveal my own
who allows me to let go
who lets me ride shotgun
who takes charge even tho' he dont know what the hell hes doin,
but hes got IT
who actually plays the piano while i sit and meditate and my fingers move
who leaves me alone to think in the forever night,
--but love him just the same--
my muse of life
of go
of be
of do
through fields of oaTs
to the horizon which seperates the elements in gods own centrifuge;
i find him sitting at my desk
i glimpse him as i sit drinking coffee
he becomes my soul in sparrow flight
flits through kingdom come what may and in the calley of kings of nothing at all

being "HOLY"
and a "GOOF"
he leads always
--i do the next best thing--
sometimes he notices,
usually not
hes done it better without even trying
"they know not what they do"
--hence, he knows not what he does
hes out and out mad kicks he is
lands on sprightly feet
cat falls back flat
leaps over box top lids of wood grained eternity
supe eats the dust, smacks down on concrete

when in rome
HG eats sweet vidalias
has life in one
all life in one --"hes just like that"--
trawls back
forth trawls
snores epiphanous hubcap
how did it get here? it did, just did, just does, just was
san francisco hear me
baby here we come.

-craig lawrimore

The Avenue of the Righteous

stare into a mirror and watch yourself cry watch yourself weep a river of golden years that falls like a frightened rain down the avenue of the righteous through the houses of the holy tears that dont require an apology to you or anyone else especially not the people who dwell in such houses letting their anger consume them a rabid angry blaze who paint their masks with gold and diamonds with Bibles and Torahs with paint and oils and who cant stand to see the little ones cry and we ask how do you raise a child in a world where the angels are carved in stone on the side of buildings and demons wear childrens clothing and carry handguns in little pink backpacks hold your head high dont let the world catch you off guard where children are the mothers and love becomes an emotion that translates angrily to an uneasy peace and the tears of the people shake the foundations of the houses of the self proclaimed saints justify your life with money and guns and drugs proclaiming that life has ripped you off fear soaks into the hearts the knowledge that everything you once loved and everything you once lived for has been taken away forever rests in the arms of the children shut the windows lock the door do your best to keep reality on the outside dont see anything dont hear anything dont feel anything numb from the darkness numb from the silence numb from the emptiness let the world take care of itself the world is out there and we are in here the world is out there and we are in here the world is out there and we are in here legislate morality on a technicality sweep up pieces of a mans heart from the street nobodys innocent except the guilty maybe you can save yourself there is a chance take your lifes savings shut the windows lock the door buy a house on the avenue of the righteous the world is out there and we are in here the world is out there and we are in here the world is out there and we are 2/14/97, 2:44 pm

-whitney cox

~more to come~