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The Write Stuff April 9th Edition

tsande21@uic.edu (Tavon Sanders) — Fri, 09 Apr 2021 09:15:00 CDT

Photography by Jessica Yim

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Welcome readers, to the very first edition of The Write Stuff, an online collection of artistic and literary work by our very own student body! We asked students across all majors and grade levels at UIC to submit their work to us so that we can have a space to share the collective voice of our incredibly diverse campus. We are proud to say that the submissions we received were most certainly not lacking in quality, and consisted of many different genres including poetry, creative fiction, academic essays, photography, and more! And it's also adorned with photography and visual artistic work submitted by students! Due to the overwhelming amount of amazing content we received from our students, we have divided our first edition into three segments. This first segment contains academic work and creative fiction (excluding poetry). The second segment contains samples of creative fiction writing and can be found here. The third segment, containing poetry submissions can be found here.

Essays and Academics

Photography by Jessica Yim

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For our first edition, we collected a few academic works from interested students. Most of these submissions are essays previously submitted as part of the submitting students' academic coursework, and they cover topics important to them that they sought to share with the UIC community. Jessica Yim shares difficulties she faced as a child of immigrant parents when she moved from the States to live in Korea and attend middle school. She shares how she was judged on her skill level in speaking Korean, the hardships she faced feeling stuck between two cultures, and how she used those experiences to build confidence in herself. Xiomara Demarchi shares close readings of two different texts she read in past semesters, one regarding the experiences of Cristina García, and the other on an epic by Rodolfo Gonzales. Lance Nwokeji also shares a profile feature on American writer Kate Silver and Madeline Pimlott honors the memory of Doris Fleishman by sharing how she shaped the history of the public relations field!

Jessica Yim

Bending the Mold for Myself

Bending the Mold for Myself
For the first thirteen years of my life, knowing only the English language has never been a barrier for me even though my parents were Korean immigrants whose primary language is Korean. My dad recently told me that when I was about four years old, my pediatrician did not want him to talk to me in Korean. He recommended that I converse with my dad in English and with my mom in Korean if I were to become bilingual. Contrary to many parents’ expectations with their bilingual children, it is a rather massive feat for children to master their second language especially when their primary language is English here in the United States. This was the case for me and so I should clarify that during my childhood, I actually spoke to my mom in “Konglish” (English with broken Korean) due to my bare minimum Korean skills. Although I was forced to attend Korean school every Saturday to improve my reading, writing, and speaking skills, for the young and naïve seven-year-old me, the institution was just another place where I got to meet other Korean American kids, not to necessarily get serious about learning the language. On top of that, since my family had never made ritual trips to visit their relatives in Korea, in my small field-of-vision my parents’ home country was as foreign as any other country I have never visited before. Going to Korean school every Saturday, hearing my parents talk to each other in Korean, or catching glimpses of Korea through our living room television were not sufficient enough for me to gain any kind of mastery in the language. I was unable to fully comprehended the language nor the culture until about a decade later when my five senses were completely immersed in South Korea.

The nature of my dad's job is what caused our family to move on a yearly basis. Saying goodbye to my friends was the most excruciating part of it all, and sometimes the move would be so abrupt I could not take my school supplies with me as I had to transfer to a different school the very next day. Out of deep anger and frustration, I cried my lungs out in hopes that my wonderful acting skills would prove to him just how agonized I was, and that that would somehow magically change his mind. This phase did not last very long as I had to cut out the act in 2013, which was the year I finished the seventh grade. This was not because I was scolded by my parents for throwing temper tantrums, but because my two younger sisters and I were struck by the news that, instead of moving to another state as we always did, we now had to catch the plane to move to Korea. This all happened in such a whirlwind that I had neither the time nor energy to throw a good tantrum to change my dad’s mind. This was extremely pivotal in making me become a more resilient person as I learned how to better adapt in new and strange environments in the following years.

Sending three kids to an international school would cost an arm and a leg, yet the rebellious me was resistant to the idea of attending a Korean middle school. This may have been because I identified more as an American than Korean because of my upbringing, despite my Korean phenotypes. I convinced myself that I could not assimilate into a regular Korean school since I was more comfortable with English, and more importantly due to the fact that I could get bullied by other kids for not knowing Korean like them. To make matters worse, the idea of wearing school uniforms made me cringe all the way to my guts and so I was stern in wanting to get home-schooled. All the while my two younger sisters were already enrolled and attending the local Korean elementary school, while the rebellious me was on an unintentional hiatus from school as my parents and I tried to figure out where in the world I should be getting my education from. After much consideration and much to my dismay, my parents have decided to send me to a regular Korean middle school; not only was this more affordable, but it would fulfill my dad’s desires since he always wanted me to learn his native language. Now that I was forced to live under such new circumstances, it was necessary for survival rather than by desire for me to learn Korean if I wanted to make new friends and understand what my teachers were saying.

Throughout my seven years of living abroad in Korea there were just as many rough patches as there were enlightening moments. One rather unpleasant memory was when I would constantly be judged for not knowing “proper” Korean since my appearance suggested that I was a native, just like them as Korea is an extremely homogeneous country. During my commute to school in which I would take the subway or bus, I found myself in uncomfortable situations because of the gazes I received from strangers. Whenever I talked to my sister or friends in English, many people (especially the elderlies) would stare at me throughout the whole ride because they were perplexed by the fact that the words that were coming out of my mouth were not Korean. On top of that, for better or for worse, my own relative considered me an uneducated person as she muttered under her breath that I could not even say goodbye properly: I could not differentiate between the honorific greetings “ann-yeong-hi-ga-se-yo” or “hello” and “ann-yeong-hi-ge-se-yo” or “goodbye” and so I would just use the former term for both situations. I was dealing with a new kind of racism I have never encountered before as people treated me with scorn or disrespect whenever they picked up cues that I was a foreigner in disguise. Despite these tragic difficulties, this did not stop me one bit as I became more persistent in mastering Korean. Contrary to popular opinion, my desire to learn the language did not come from a place where I romanticized a country or in which I had a deep passion for discovering my roots. The build-up of all the microaggressions I had faced from living in a country first-hand counterintuitively inflamed my desire to learn Korean so that I could stop being judged for being “too foreign” in native Koreans’ eyes, and live a normal life without having to explain my shortcomings every time I would stutter or pronounce words with an American accent.

As a result, after several arduous years of traversing the terrains of Korea with my dictionary and grit in hand, I became proficient enough at Korean to be able to trick some of my fellow high-school classmates into thinking that I was a native who also happened to be pretty darn good at English. It is easy for one to think that I can now finally throw my dictionary away and never have to worry about going through that immense ordeal. However, after several years of pondering and reflecting, on one hand, although I did feel a sense of pride (since all those years of burrowing my nose into books for nearly twelve hours a day paid off), on the other hand, there lied a sense of dissatisfaction deep inside of me like a stone I could not digest because I was not showing my true colors. This was because I was too occupied trying to hide my foreign identity as an American to avoid any sort of mockery as it gave me a sense of shame and guilt, especially after the traumatic incident I had with a particular family member. I constantly had to put on a mask which made me forget about my Americanness, making me become more homesick without ever knowing the real reason why I was feeling so discontent. I was now faced with an identity crisis where I was too American to be Korean in my parents’ homeland, and too Korean to be American here in the States. Despite the myriad of psychological struggles throughout my adolescence, my experience living abroad has taught me the art of resiliency. As I broke down the brick walls that come along when one lives in a foreign country, I realized that there will be no mold that will be ready for me to fit into; instead, I will have to go out and create it for myself. To this day, I am still in a place where I will perhaps have to forever navigate what it means to embody both aspects of Korean and American cultures. Nonetheless, with my higher sense of confidence and self-esteem, I can better express both sides of my upbringings as I remind myself every day that I must take the road not taken, in hopes that I empower not just myself but also those who are in my spheres of influence.

Xiomara Demarchi

Close reading (Dreaming In Cuban, Cristina García)

Gustavo,
…If I was born to live on an island, then I’m grateful for one thing: that the tides rearrange the borders. At least I have the illusion of change, of possibility…Don’t you see how they’re carving up the world, Gustavo? How they’re stealing our geography? Our fates? The arbitrary is no longer in our hands. To survive is an act of hope. (99)

These words were taken from the letter (a younger) Celia writes to Gustavo on May 11th, 1945, several years before word of the revolution found its way onto Cuba’s public sphere. The manner in which she writes highlights issues concerning the fate of Cuba as she knows it, using metaphorical borders to illustrate this loss of voice both her and other Cubans experience at the hands of corruption and tyranny. Arguably, she even insinuates the revolution as she writes to Gustavo, “To survive is an act of hope,” because hope is what builds a revolution. In this vein, such a distinction must be observed when comparing a younger, more malleable Celia—open to social and political changes—to a present-day, unadaptable version of herself.
Along these lines, it is important to consider the addressee of the letter, Gustavo, who is Celia’s lost love. Although she never sends them, Celia writes many letters to Gustavo over the course of twenty years, sharing bits and pieces of her life—almost like a personal diary. In a way, it is possible that these letters do serve her that purpose. Celia and Gustavo’s affair reigned a heavy influence on Celia, and in a world filled with constant changes, perhaps her letters to Gustavo are what sustain her. But it is also possible to suggest that the style and tone of these unsent letters are what reflects her lack of fulfillment in the way her life has panned out, especially with regard to her mental health.
Ultimately, these lines from Dreaming in Cuban (1992) not only give readers a glimpse of Celia’s earliest engagement in Cuban politics, but they also intertwine with a sense of identity, or lack thereof. From the moment Celia begins writing to Gustavo up until 1959—marking the end of the revolution—Celia’s letters, which cover crucial moments in her life, noticeably fluctuate in tone and style and allow readers to vicariously live through her character’s transformation as a result of the revolution.

Close Reading (I am Joaquin, Rodolfo Gonzales)

My land is lost
And stolen,
My culture has been raped.
I lengthen the line at the welfare door
And fill the jails with crime.
These then are the rewards
This society has
For sons of chiefs
And kings
And bloody revolutionists,
Who gave a foreign people
All their skills and ingenuity
To pave the way with brains and blood
For those hordes of gold-starved strangers,
Who Changed our language
And plagiarized our deeds
As feats of valor
Of their own.

This section in Rodolfo Gonzales’ epic poem “I Am Joaquin” (1967) powerfully magnifies the tensions of life as a Mexican American in the United States. Moreover, the speaker intends to inspire their readers and emphasize a part of their identity that remains neglected. Before the Chicano Movement, Mexicans were aggressively pushed to assimilate towards a white identity by deconstructing any sign of their Mexican roots in language and culture. In the first three lines of this segment, the speaker highlights this deconstruction as a form of decolonization: “My land is lost / And stolen, / My culture has been raped”. Namely, the speaker is reflected through the history and horrific experiences of his indigenous ancestors in an effort to understand his own identity.
As a Chicano activist and a civil rights leader for the Chicano Movement, Gonzales radicalizes the poem, particularly in this section, through the eyes of a revolutionary. In the next set of lines, Gonzales paints several contradictions that address the struggle of self-identity as a Mexican American, and he does so by making connections to the past and comparing them with the present, “I lengthen the line at the welfare door / And fill the jails with crime. These are then the rewards / This society has / For sons of chiefs / And kings”. Here, the speaker seemingly combines two timelines in an attempt to unfold a new perspective of his identity, which is that of the Chicano. Furthermore, the text lays out the paradox of being forced to assimilate into a white-American society, which thrives on stripping other cultures of their “skills and ingenuity” all the while facing ostracization and enduring unequal treatment as second-class citizens.
Ultimately, the lines’ dark overtones, diction, and imagery attempt to serve the difficult task of fighting for liberation and social, economic, and political change. By highlighting Chicano exclusion and the demoralization of Chicano culture, the speaker demonstrates a literary act of protest of a society that lacks a sense of unification and historical recognition of Mexican Americans. In the final analysis of Gonzales’ “I Am Joaquin”, the message demands for a cultural rebirth of the Chicano identity.

Lance Nwokeji

The Freelance Plunge - A Profile Feature on Kate Silver

For two decades, being a freelance writer has led Kate Silver on many unexpected adventures. In
her career she has slept in dozens of hotels around Chicago, driven through the same city’s
streets on an e-bike, walked the slowest marathon in the city, and even met with a
self-proclaimed hit man to discuss crimes.

However, she didn’t start with these adventures. Silver got her start in Las Vegas, having grown
up there. She spent her time on staff for Las Vegas Weekly , writing news and various features.
Her job before 2007 kept her secure. She had money. She had her ideal career. She had plenty of
awards. Out here in Las Vegas, there weren’t many distractions to get in her way.
Unfortunately, Silver began to notice she was missing something. Over time, feelings of
loneliness became more persistent. Her family was nowhere to be found in Las Vegas. They
were all the way in Chicago, more than a thousand miles away. For Silver, a long distance
relationship with them wouldn’t cut it. “I felt isolated.” She commented.

Yet going to Chicago would be hard, and Silver knew this. When she graduated from college,
she managed to rise into the position of a staff writer. Along the way she learned valuable
lessons as a writer. “I learned to take criticism when I wrote for anything public.” She said.
Silver would have to review these lessons if she were to succeed with a career in Chicago.
During college at Las Vegas, Silver started out as an English major. She wanted to write, not
only because she had writing skills, but also because she enjoyed it. Then, she narrowed her
interest down to journalism. “I found that journalism had my interest more than anything,” said
Silver. Writing about current events seemed to her a necessary task. She always knew the news
as something that enlightened people from all walks of life.

Early on, Silver found out quickly that having the desire to write did not mean she’d get taken
seriously as a journalist. Getting into big publications was incredibly difficult. First, she had to
build her credibility. Eventually, she learned of a couple editors while living in Las Vegas. She
proceeded to write letters to them, pitching ideas for stories.

“I did a lot of pitching early in my career,” said Silver. “Making myself stand out was vital.”
To ever get a position on staff for Las Vegas Weekly , Silver had to gain experience as a journalist
over time. She worked with multiple editors, slowly establishing herself as trustworthy. Silver
developed good relationships with credible sources. This took time, as those sources were not
available to her right away. Over a long time period she proved her professionalism through trial,
error, and most importantly, patience.

“A big part of the journalism game is really just being patient,” she remarked. “You have to wait
for editors to respond, and you have to be patient with yourself.”
After gaining enough experience, Silver got hired into Las Vegas Weekly . After almost a decade,
she wanted to move away to Chicago and build her career all over again. This time however, she
would face more of a challenge. She wanted to do freelance writing. Unlike staff writers,
freelance writers found it harder to get ideas approved by people. 10 years ago, she left her city
behind and moved to Chicago.

Silver was not surprised when she found that it was hard to break into the local market in
Chicago. Yet she knew what to do. First, she had to get a foot in the door of local journalism.
She wrote a guidebook about the city. As a bonus, writing this guidebook helped her learn all
about Chicago.

“I’d say one of the biggest challenges is having thick skin,” she remarked. Not all editors said
yes to her ideas, and at times she would repeatedly get turned down. Luckily, being a generalist
writer helped her greatly. She could write about many things including business, culture, and
history. This made her adaptable, and appealed to some editors.
Journalism as a career has changed around Silver in the past decade. The rise of social media
accelerated this change. When she started journalism, there was no expectation for her to be her
own photographer. Now she could take her own pictures. People are less interested in longer
pieces. Instead they want easy, quick information. To her, journalists are more desired by
companies than before. After all, information flies fast in the social media age. “There is a new
respect for journalists to be hired for public relations, and most industries need strong writers.”
Said Silver.

In addition, Silver gets more exposure.
“A story I write for the Washington Post might get to many other publications,” she said. “The
other publications pay for the story and I get credit. But it doesn’t really benefit me beyond that.”
Despite what people commonly think, she has found that writing earns her a lot more money
than she could ever dream of. She does well for herself with her career, earning six figures.
However, money isn’t the most rewarding part of writing for Silver. Writing helps her connect
people and their stories in a deep, meaningful way.

Madeline Pimlott

A Short History of Doris Fleischman’s Contributions to Public Relations

Though some may know her as the first woman to get a passport with her maiden name
after marriage, New York City native Doris Fleischman made significant contributions to the
development of public relations. During her marriage and business partnership with Edward
Bernays, she was equally responsible for the success of the Edward L Bernays, Counsel on
Public Relations firm. Though the company was created by her husband, Fleischman soon
gained equal partnership. Her work behind the scenes led to the expansion of both the company
and PR field. Susan Henry writes that the couple were “among the handful of people who
invented the field of public relations. They operated one of the country’s premier public relations
agencies from the 1920s through the 1950s” (1997, p. 51). Their partnership wore two faces: one
of romance and one of professionalism. While working as a part of a couple, she demonstrated
how to be a strong teammate without sacrificing individuality.
Though often associated with her husband’s success, Fleischman as an individual offered
critical contributions. Specifically, a major contribution to the profession included the
development of Contact, a newsletter that outlined the value of connecting with the public
through the then-unfamiliar field of PR. After being sent to about 15,000 professionals, Contact
drew attention to the firm and became what Bernays described as “the single most important
activity in advancing our cause” (Henry, 1997, p. 53). Along with this creation, her writing and
editing for organizations such as the Lithuanian National Council, Lucky Strike, and the U.S War
Department set the tone for future PR writing. After writing for several years, she took on
“management-level functions” such as strategizing and planning for a number of campaigns
(Heath, 2013, p. 345). While Bernays was the face of the company, Fleischman was often the
voice. She wrote speeches and press-releases that connected with audiences, truly embodying
what it meant to work in PR (Heath, 2013, p. 345). Though often behind the scenes, she wasn’t
lacking in interpersonal communication skills. “Equally useful to the new firm was Fleischman’s
ability to judge and understand people quickly and accurately… she could sense the strengths
and weaknesses of individuals she had only met briefly” (Henry, 1997 p. 52). Overall,
Fleischman used her many communication-based abilities to develop and expand the PR
profession while driving her husband’s company towards success.
Fleischman found meaning in her work, exhibited limitless potential in a single field,
held leadership roles in many organizations, and created a space for women to work as PR
professionals. She found meaning when creating positive publicity for the first convention of the
NAACP, expressing that “No work I have ever done has had so deep and lasting effect on me”
(Henry, 1997, p. 52-53). In addition, her work in feminism not only gave her meaning, but
encouraged other women to join careers in public relations. She wrote multiple articles in
magazines such as Independent Woman, ultimately leading to more women working in the PR
field (Henry, 1997, p. 57). Without Fleischman, the world of public relations would look
incredibly different today.

References

Heath, R. L. (2013). Fleischman, Doris Elsa. In Encyclopedia of public relations (2nd ed., pp.
345). essay, SAGE Publications, Inc.

Henry, S. (1997). Anonymous in her own name: Public relations pioneer Doris E. Fleischman.
Journalism History, 23(2), 50–62. https://doi.org/10.1080/00947679.1997.12062467

The Write Stuff April 9th Edition (Part 3)

tsande21@uic.edu (Tavon Sanders) — Fri, 09 Apr 2021 09:15:00 CDT

This is the final portion of our first edition of The Write Stuff. Here, we have compiled a selection of poetry submitted by students. If you wish to view the first or second sections of the April 9th edition of The Write Stuff, which respectively contain academic work and creative fiction writing (non-poetry) you may find them here and here.

Creative Fiction (Poetry)

Among the submissions we received in poetry, there were many standout pieces. One in particular that stood out to us was a submission by C.J. Garrett, a senior majoring in English with a concentration in creative writing. C.J. describes their work as an ambitious and experimental poem that reimagines the epic as a modern construct exploring the spiritual and metaphysical relationship of poetry. We also have had many other compelling entries touching on the topics of love, depression, and identity from several other talented writers. Michelle Garcia even combines the visual and the literary in her work, using collages with thoughtful choices on color and imagery to convey the feeling and theme behing her words.

C.J. Garrett

Noiseless Andromeda

3D modelling sci-fi concept art by Matin Firas.

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I am a global radius
Without orbit
Without climate
Without orientation
Without vertigo
Or a lyrical apparatus.
- Noiseless Andromeda
Through my telescope's lens,
I tumble my gaze into the night sky.

A world of fog, troops of specter
clouds swath pillars of stars:
the city's bustling scuffles,

adulterated radiance, empty
circadian of a city that's depleting
rumbling ignitions of souls:
metal cars clinging to cobblestone.

Towers cobbling ditzy light.
Titanium chimneys sputter pollution:
satellites churn their emissions:
sonar droplets of tamed electric pulse.
Broken ozone, moon frolics glow

squeamished by neon buzz of bars
and lit steps of a stadium's sidewalk.
Trampling the raylets of concrete
with a pure artifice and pixel silhouettes--
streams of light like acrylics
obscuring murals shaped by moss

And I gaze into my telescope
at a dusky night sky
bucking my axis
with the flourish of outer oceans

swallowed by manic
spectral steam of a city
that still won't drown out her light.

She who tugs on my island,
pulling it with the tides of her barreled arms.
She who laments on the infinite
for having no end.
She whose freckles appear as
radiant dust clouds.
She whose nightgown flows
like rudders of comets.
She whose voice must be with
out sound orientation.
She whose face must embody
a galaxy with the pulsing
of trillions of stars tunneled over
the mirrored seas of my telescope's aperture.

2.5 million light years away she hurdles her
light of polygons and shuddered ellipticals
and I collect the flashes of her body
tracing every freckle and pore across the sky.
From above my flat terrace, she shimmers
cloaked in the lantern valley of suns
dragging the moon with the soft brandish
of her snow-capped teeth, a smile that
crescendos before a billow of my telescope:
a virgin with lunar hair who hangs her
expression to her side like a fiery ampersand.

2.53 million light years away
she lives, encaged by a halo of hot gas
whose luminous piranhas swarm invisible
with serpentine scales and ultraviolet teeth
snaring, circling a fortress, a collapsed quasar
spinning its fractal beams inside a blackhole
where she remains chained to its apocenter
singing of ensnared stars gurneyed away
as wreckage of torn torpedoes.

2.537 million light years away
she remains as a prisoner,
her laughter and tears
becoming vibrations
nesting in the foothills of my ears.
Her soundless whispers
follow me and I chart their
lost vapors like seeds in a crater.

************************************

Let us go then you and I
Across zodiacal summits of our zenith.
Let us go then you and I
Coupling wings of our worded clouds.
Let us go then you and I
Leaping aphelions of our armored love.
Let us go then you and I
Across margins of our marching songs.

Let us go then you and I.
We can tune each-other's lyre
crescendo nature's duets,
break the ribcage
of dawn
unloop the knotted streams
of constellations,
scooping their rivers,
tracing their symmetries across
the spine of the universe.

Let us be that bit of sky, sky
That never washes the helm of its spark.

Let us be that bit of sky, sky
That fortifies the mantles of all worlds.

Let us be that bit of sky, sky
Your sapient kisses tracing my auroras.

Let us be that bit of sky, sky
As we orbit each other as double moons.

Let us be that bit of sky, sky
As we join our bodies in an ambit menagerie.

Let us be that bit of sky, sky
Your earthly hands sketching my azimuth.

Let us be that bit of sky, sky
Your fingers strumming my inner walls.

Let us be that bit of sky, sky
As we relight the nucleus of every star.

So come starseeker and free me rom this interstitial imprisonment.
The castle guards its sounds
with vials of creation, frozen
debris of a previous existence:
that flings back into itself like the broke phylum of a ghost.
While niveous tongues of comets
and the bastioned beams of piranhas
swaths all its defenses and traps
but they are no match for the wanderment of your telescope's gaze.

So come stargazer, kiss my hair and mark my body as your canvas.
Here I've been trammeled for all of
eternity because of my allurement
of that of a siren without talons
or a harp without its strings bolstered by the venom of a basilisk.
For I am a pure flame of carbon
singing only of its only element
and this song sung is as sweet as
a rose without red or vermilion or of any frolics of a spring's drizzle.

*******************************

And as morning fissures all the stars away
from a city that never reels or evinces
the slosh-rot of their ersatz beacons,
the virgin with lunar hair's words
continues pivoting towards me, calling

upon all their elements that advances
their errata designs
like a pottery of nerves,
starking my mind's intravenous landscapes.

All its deltas, mesas and archipelagos,
are fumbling wings of her loftless voice
tied to susurrant bursts of stamina--
cornered by my telescope of a night sky.
As I sleep listening to currents of pedestrians,

her words follow me and I chart their
falling whispers like the veins of a hurricane.
"So let us go now, unclung from shuttles:
untethered from mental decays:
eternity soothes as a counterfeit elixir:
entropy beckons like a comet's core

opening as a clam with a pearl as a star
that smears the sky with radiated
rays of our crescendo that's a museum:
A stadium where our doubles meet:
I want to meet you as my own true self.
You whisper to roll-rocks of dusty clouds
Lapping a moon with noise-bound thoughts."

**********************************

And so now our nights are
summed out;
and thrust upon themselves
in satellites and
the slashed mosaics
of an insomniac city;
the archaeology of our fates,
uncoded
and
threaded through
the ruminations of our souls
like whispering climates inside
the bottlenecks of horizons,
uncaptured,
unmendering,
all the tear-sloshing of our
770,000 per parsec gargling sounds:

let us weld together
harmonies
into one another:
no divisions between the
heartbeat
of an inert petal in a
haphazard monsoon
and a gestating sunbeam
on the metal bars of my lurking city balcony:

my telescope and my
pillow head,

scoping ahead prairies
spawned from your taller incandescence:

here you leave the imprints of reticent songs
mapping all my colliding neurons
and I nimble towards
their descents
with haste from
famished cheetahs--
imbued with your essence,
launching the reams of
my melody, galloping towards
rearranged elements brisking all your sagas:

the city becomes dilapidated
by the synergy of your muted flamelets
like a lion with its mane
doused in seeds of backwashed helium:
and the sky ratchets its pride
through aureate stubbles of your flocculents:
beautiful woman with
eyes from ungazed blueprints and a voice
unclaiming birth, serenading
impotent cores--soon ripened comets--
how the cosmos gurgles
its rhythm to hearken your halo,
arresting my telescope
with stratified storms of castles--
I glide my overwhelmed
telescope towards the aphonic jaggering
unnoising your staccato--
how you hurt and weep, these gone vocals,
they are what now number me:
I the starseeker, with your tears thunder to my throat
like bolting jaguars
and now from my terrace's pit,
I wield my telescope as an undomestic magnet.
a wild, unreefed instrument,
finching at the ledged sky, punctured by
mechanized swimmings made by artificial light:
break away all that's familiar:
All I want is to enshrine your radiating voice
and swallow it close to me as a stroke symphony.

Let us scope the parliaments of stars
and unmender their staged laws.
My island, the afterglow of andromeda's
diaphanous,
progenitor
back
wards
spin.
There's no time to waste.

Death gurgles the seams of dreams
and enchants the cerebral of lifted verse--
imagination touches gravity from its other side
and transfixes your balcony's voiceless spirals.
They move my satellite without friction,
pampering me by the orbit of your flexes.

Your knuckles crack and my zodiac grins.
Your hair unfastens and my rotation excites.
Your smile loosens itself and my telescope
captures waltzings mirroring our synchronicity.

How beautifully you render yourself
Hoisting my shadow to dance along your contours.

How beautifully you render yourself
Bejeweling me by the tarot of your bolide clutter:

Let us go: a barometer of frenzy atmosphere
Let us go: a telegraph of furbished artifacts
Let us go: an almanac of thermoluminescence
Let us go: a weathervane of changing seasons
Let us go and chart the warmth of our atoms
smattered between us--a breath between stars.

You hold up the other half of my sky
Ensnaring me, latching me to your lashing arms.

You hold up the other half of my sky.
Embraced. Nurtured, cycling towards your apogee

reclaiming indexes of clouds, depositing one cloud.
I am planted. This plateau of my terrace,
scoping ahead these brackish stummerings tossed out
gyrating citadel-flames, a far flung disk--

There's no time to waste:
and so now I leap from the silence of my terrace--dauntless of death/
telescope belted to my waist like winded loops of Altazor's parachute.

I'll protect you....

Andromeda
whispers
as I
fall.

Michelle Garcia

Bugs

"Bugs." Artwork and poem by Michelle Garcia.

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so when you feel the bugs crawling
On your arms and back and neck
call me
when your throat closes up and the
World is too loud
To let you cry in peace
Call me
when the warm cocoon of your bed
Is cold and the blankets begin
To stick to your tired body
I’ll be there
Close your eyes and rest on me
or we can stay awake
I’ll hold you gently
I don’t have all of the words but maybe
We don’t need any
Soon you will be yourself again
Bring back color to your cheeks and
Stars in your eyes
You will feel at home again
And I will be proud of you

Blue and Grey

"Blue and Grey." Artwork and poem by Michelle Garcia.

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When the world gets too loud
And you feel lost again
I will be your blanket and cover your tired body
Here you are safe and warm
Here you can rest
When the dark circles under your eyes are too hard to look at
When your skin no longer feels like your own
And your legs can no longer seem to hold the weight of your shell and all the things you carry
You can rest and lean on me
Here,
You can close your eyes even if just for a minute and rest
Rest peacefully and deeply
The dawn is no longer bed time
It can be a new start
Or we can fall asleep at dawn and try again tomorrow

Sammy-Jo Lueg

Untitled

I used to look at dead winter trees,

and see them barren with no leaves.

and I would cry-

how could something so beautiful just die?

I used to wish, and hope, and pray

that summer blooms would just stay.

but fall comes like a thief in the night,

leaving no warmth for us in sight.

and it would bring me so much sorrow

to know the leaves would fall tomorrow.

when winter came I felt even worse,

It felt like earth was under some curse.

The trees reached to the sky with their wretched hands,

begging to replenish the barren lands.

but our creator looked down and they said “no.

it's just the way things have to go.

It’s all a cycle, if you must know,

things must die in order to grow.

The birds still sing with winter blues.

so can I and so can you!”

Now something’s changed if I must say,

I think it happened some time in May.

as I saw spring flowers bloom,

I suddenly felt another doom.

I came to miss the cold winter air

and that’s when I realized, I’ve had an affair.

I feel this every seasons end,

mainly when the weather blends.

I begged the season, “please just stay”

but like the others, it made its way.

I now sense that it’s all a cycle,

each season waits for its own revival.

hot, then cold, then hot, then cold,

in with the new and out with the old.

That's just the way life has to go.

seasons come and always go.

Now when I see dead winter trees,

I no longer fall down to my knees.

I thank the season for its coming,

no longer finding it quite as numbing.

Jessica Yim

One last wish

I don’t wish comfort nor pain on you child
With no pain you will live with no flower
Foreseen pain will not harden you the same
Don’t let your body get used to the degree
Quiver and surrender ‘fore you feel free

Pickled Reality

It mustn’t lie in reality
let it ferment in its jar
sour in their own dungeons
its new taste so pungent
it can cleanse out your guts
Dreams can only remain
a lie to unwanted visitors

I Have a Story to Share

I am not
Who I think I am
Nor what you think
I am supposed to be

In this world stands
Million other versions of me

Which is why I shall
Treat you with
All due respect

A Broken Foot and Its Owner

How did your foot getting broken
cause you to think about your race
again, you tell Dr. Gutenberg that
dad wants you to see a chiropractor
“You wanna please him, right?
Then by all means please go.”

Treating your own foot now has now become
A familial act even though you are not familiar with
As if servitude is the only thing you care about
Have you not owned your dreams and doubts?

Your skin color automatically renders
affinity towards your family, cancelling
Erasing the thoughts and doubts
as they urge you to “Go on and keep smiling”

Now you unpack your therapist’s unsolicited advice:
“By all means you must cut them toxic family out”
You have already attempted but later realize
cutting one of your limbs means all of the
seeds you have planted are to be extracted
from its very roots of this entangled land

You pull off the band-aid
Perhaps putting it back-on
If it means blood shall not be shed

Joey Liang

The Loving Boyfriend

When he first met her,
She wore a scarlet silk gown
that fluttered with her every movement.
Her smile would even make the sun frown.

They often went to the beach together,
the waves steadily coming onto the sand.
The weather was hot and humid, but
bearable as long as he had her in this grand land.

The color of her skin was a snowy pale, and
her eyes sparkled and made him feel alive.
Her fingers were warm as he held them to his lips:
She was the reason that he would survive.

They watched the news together-- the world became
hotter and hotter. The resources are running dry,
but he was alright as long as he had her by his side--
even when Mother Nature started to shout and cry.

Now she wears a pool of red.
The same scarlet as her gown when he first met her.
It does not flutter, nor does she move--
The color of her skin, a ghostly character.

The beach is no longer there, the hot weather
has dried it bare. The sun was scorching hot
on his skin, hot enough to fry hers as well.
He knew it was time when her skin started to rot.

Her eyes have lost their sparkles and her fingers
are cold against his lips as he pulls her pretty
tanned fleshy thigh to his teeth. She will be
the reason he survives in this famine society.

Words to Myself

When night falls and all is in slumber, only the mind
wanders and repeats each memory, vividly. The
memories that want so badly to be left behind.

In the beginning, it collides like a tsunami. But as time
goes on, it hurts less. However, it still treads lightly
sneaking when it is unsuspected; it comes at any time.

The vanilla ice cream is no longer sweet. It slowly melts
and the favorite food no longer brings a joyous smile. Even
with the warmth of the sun shining down, it cannot be felt.

The leg steps forward, but something holds it back. Afraid
to turn around, I look forward to where the sun shines:

One day I'll be happy.

Xiomara Demarchi

Love Garden

i met you when the
winter melted into spring,
and all at once,
the ice in my heart
soon watered the flowers
you planted inside of me

A Modern Tragedy

my ears bleed from the siren of your absence;
my heart beats the saddest melody
whatever the gods may be
i know that they are punishing me
when you seep your way into my dreams;
my heart beats the saddest melody
Pain is known to have many faces—
yours is all of them.
perhaps Sophocles once felt then as i do now:
alone, and in love with all things unbearable.
my heart beats the saddest melody

Depression’s Lullaby

there i was, heaving my lungs out on the bathroom floor,
tears cascading down my cheeks as the shower head ran—i
did not know where the water began or where the tears
ended. for months i have been swallowing cigarettes whole
and staring down at the bottomless pit of my morning
coffee. as i stare at the swirling madness of my reflection, i
attempt to search for peace in a world full of insanity, to
find meaning in my meaninglessness. long nails and flaky
skin begin to pester me when my brain speaks the loudest; i
peel away at the surface of my fingertips, hoping that the
stinging sensation will snap me out of my misery. what
does it matter to live when all i’ve ever felt is death? i ask
into the abyss of my morning brew. i am left without a
reply. but somehow i am full of answers.

Interstellar

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