A dock is built
on the shore.
A tall red cedar
is cut to form the deck, the sweet
scent wafting along
the water’s surface.
A strong manila rope
is put in as a mooring line, the sandy
brown complements the faded
red wood,
a fitting finishing touch.
It is used, day in, day out.
Swarthy sailors, casual yachtsmen,
and sun-bathing teens
all frequent the
penny-hued pier,
known for miles around as superior
to most.
But knots unravel, and boards come loose.
No blame should be attributed to
faulty craftsmanship—
the lines were clean
the tools of the highest caliber.
They were simply betrayed.
Fraying threads, once-shining nails,
now dull
and softened with rust,
weaken their hosts.
It was to be expected, really.
New nylon rope will be
tied, treated pine planks will be
set, and prove to
last much longer than their
predecessors.
But the dock will have lost
its beauty. The ephemeral stuff,
that was born from its
freshness, its
newness, the delight it
brought into the world.
The boats will still come
and go, its weathered
surface will continue
to bear the weight of jolly
sea-venturers,
but they won’t linger quite
as long as
they once did,
when the dock
on the shore
was the penny-hued pier.
By Mira Brock
Woe is me as grass is green and silly is string and time is all forever
Look to the sky there’re bears floating by on Imax screens
Middle class bougie pseuds smoke weed and think they’re so clever
I’m nothing like them! I’m a fucking artist! I EAT VACCINES!
EDGAR ALLEN POE MARRIED HIS COUSIN; HE WAS A HACK!
HOMER NEVER BRUSHED HIS TEETH; HE PROBABLY HAD PLAQUE!
SYLVIA PLATH? WHY DIDN’T SHE TAKE A SYLVIA BATH?
EMILY DICKINSON SHOULD PREPARE TO MEET MY WRATH!
I’m such a genius you can’t understand how smart I AM!
I could make a poem TALK if I wanted to but I DON’T!
I wanted to WALK to my job but it’s faster to take THE TRAM!
YOU MAY THINK THIS LINE WILL RHYME WITH THE SECOND BUT IT WON’T!
Sedentary zebras standing in their horseshoes clop
Fliggle-tropple clip clap, aren't they having lots of fun?
Lighthouse fish sex, scrimmlewriggle flat top
Shooting William Shakespeare with a ten inch stun gun
Bibble babble mormons
Wearing homoerotic turbans
Giving psychedelic sermons
Woopity woo, boohoo you!
By Miller Rawn
The fountain of youth is found in a desert
Finding it, now, seems far too much effort
No one has searched for it for a long while
No one but me, with time to beguile
With heavy shoes full of clear sharp sand
And the arm of a cactus clutched in my hand
I shouldered the desert’s cold nights of winter
And approached by myself all of time’s stony center
Full of desert grain, it rose up askew
It seemed to shrink the closer I grew
Each shore-found particle caught my eye
Though no water there, everything else lay inside
I picked up one grain, held it up to the sun
I listened as it sang of brutal battles won
It played me a song, tuned, tried and true
It hailed a tale of red, white and blue
I dropped the speck to pick up another
In it I saw a foreign girl and her mother
This grain spoke soft, though shaking with rage
Of the foreign girl and her mother in a cage
It jumped from my hand all on its own
I eagerly plucked another from the stone
The next spoke in riddles and rhyme
Hard to distinguish person, place, and time
It spoke of a resort surrounded by water
Where important men clamoured for someone’s young daughter
Disfigured decorations matching all the poor kids
As girls wearing nightgowns were put up for bids
Two terrible tunes, and the mound didn’t shrink
It’s far too much, all at once, to think
It’s easier to turn away, and so I did
Head in the sand, from the fountain I hid
The fountain of youth is found in a desert
With grains that chant complaints until your ears hurt
It’s all dried up, where once flowing it stood
Why return to youth, when it’s now nothing good?
By James Churchill
“Hey hon, is something wrong? You seem upset.”
If I slip up,
It’s all over.
No one can know.
My stomach knots—
A rope pulled tight.
My skin prickles
Like it knows I’m lying.
But what if they did know?
Would they look at me the same?
Maybe life would go unchanged,
Maybe I could get the help I need,
Or they might never speak to me again.
My fists tremble,
Fingernails digging in.
My heart hammers—
A warning, or a plea?
I open my mouth,
Words too heavy to speak.
Waiting for it to finally be over.
A breath,
A pause,
A lie.
“Uh, nothing. I’m fine.”
By Ella Fitzhugh
‘Twas the eve of woke Christmas, when all through the night
not a protest was stirring, not even gay rights
The pronouns were hung in the bio with care,
In hopes that woke Nicholas soon would be there;
The polycule nestled all snug in their bed,
While visions of lesbians danced in their heads.
By Miller Rawn
To the Tune of "Eleanor Rigby" by The Beatles
Mordecai Rigby,
Procrastinate in the park
to boss Benson’s fury
By Miller Rawn
Through the thin metal bars of my cage, I sit and stare silently up at you.
My claws have been clipped and my fangs have been pulled.
My ears have been cropped, braced and taped upright into the perfect point.
My shiny coat shimmers as you bend forward, your palm outstretched.
I do not move a muscle, with my shoulders bent back and my spine snapped straight.
Your nails dig into my muzzle, pry open my jaw and trace my whitened teeth.
Later, when your hand is gone and my mouth is closed, I will wish I had bitten you.
My jaw would’ve snapped shut, crunching into the bones of your fingers.
There’d be no remorse in my eyes, staring up as you writhe between my teeth.
You’d taste bitter and rotten; still I’d savor the flavor out of spite.
But I don’t bite.
By Emerson McElroy