I'll Be Your Muse, You Know You're Already Mine by Nicole Maulella

I lend you my voice to accompany your every word
& give you my heartbeat to keep perfect tempo
for my aching desire to break free.
You bring me closer with every strum of your guitar.
I'll sway along to the rhythm
and be your personal metronome.
Boy, I'm begging you to be the beating in my chest
every time you bang that drum.
If you just keep playing,
I'll give you all of me and more-
just for one chance to feel forever free.
I'm not alone in this ritual.
Crying out every word I know
with countless strangers beside me,
joining in the chant.
I'll barely have a voice in the morning
& I'm sure I'll hardly be able to hear
life's droning worries
because my ears will ring in memory
of your beautifully blaring bass
and that angel voice.
Being your audience is my favorite purpose-
I wish it was my only one.
It's the only thing that makes me feel alive,
the only place I know I belong.
You remind me of why I exist.
I don't think I could do any of this without
you.<3

Kay's Tattoo by Chris Gampat

En el cine by Julius Motal

Back and forth through the grain
A muddled view of the flat
Images on a grand scale

Epic sequences in motion
Devoid of all illumination
In a modern day Coliseum

The quiet commotion
Of heightened emotion
In a world of imagination

The Troubadour by Julius Motal

Blinded by the screaming lights,
the Troubadour is lost
in the flashing sounds
of interconnected steel.

At the weathered entrance
to the metal snake’s tunnel,
the Troubadour strums for everyone,
but is acknowledged by no one.

Over the roar of the metal snake,
He looks to me and screams,
“MY BROTHER! Have a good evening.”
The words echo everywhere.

Countless beings full of vitality
walk on past the Troubadour.
The sounds pound on their drums,
and seize control of their minds.

The Troubadour’s pouch lays empty,
the sign of another day gone by.
The Troubadour remembers nothing,
only to begin again tomorrow.

photo by Chris Gampat

Today before yesterday by Julius Motal

Let me run through the halls
of your memory-
your secluded maze
of countless thoughts.

Where is the key to your door?

When do I find it,
if today
is before yesterday?

Our conversations carry on
without sound
while I keep searching.

Speak to me,
but don't say anything.

I'll find your key
within me.

But when are we
if today
is before yesterday?

The Wandering Wizard by Julius Motal

The wandering wizard
had a very naughty dream
about the mistress
and the maiden
and the young bride to be.
He had dreams of such persuasion
when he slept on occasion,
and the only commonality
was that the girls were all Asian.

To not be by Alyssa Conigliaro

To be nothing to erase yourself into the void of unbirth celebrates a kind of euphoric liberation from the four walls from the physical entity. Welcome to the demention deemed delusion to the blind. Beyond the real suddenly silence speaks and you the space vagabond reflect back at the world as a phantom, a conversion of colliding colors that whispers in the ears of children that posses imagination blinking in and out of their so called “reality”. Looking down, you can’t help but smirk as they question “is this it”. My god, you want them to see as you see. To watch the dreams burst into florescent flower petals and purple paper suns. This is real or as real as it gets. Feel it feel it feel the spiral of the dawn and death of time ensare you from your Self and ride the electric breath of the open mind into the mirror- then you can see, then you are nothing.

Chinatown

Miss Tankerskank by Julius Motal

I resign myself to the tavern,
A small building in a large town,
At the corner of To and Fro.

There I meet Miss Tankerskank,
The mistress of timeless joy,
In pocketsize shape and form.

Miss Tankerskank unzips my pants;
A lion jumps forth from my loins,
A region of undying gratitude.

Hastily, but surely, I giggle softly
While Miss Tankerskank reaches in
To feel around the trees and grass.

Her hand clasps the trunk of elm.
Miss Tankerskank recoils quickly
As the elm bit her hand tenderly.

Gently patting her on the head,
I usher Miss Tankerskank inside
My sprawling forested loins.

Screaming as she goes in,
Miss Tankerskank stares in awe
As the heavens above her go black.

I sit down next to my lion,
As shades of green and blue and purple
Encapsulate my senses in a rush.

Broken Heart by Alexandria Venuti

There once was a heart so very big

And each little piece had love to give

Once or twice their love had been tested

But it was in a foolish girl’s chest they rested

 

Finally he came along, sweet and charming and caring

And so their love they did not mind sharing

They knew she had found somebody right

Because the heart grew more each time he held her tight

 

It didn’t take long before the heart knew

That the girl had found love that was true

Her entire heart this boy did win

And every little piece was devoted to him

 

But sadly he faded as time went on

Until one day the boy was gone

When he left the girl’s heart was shattered

And each little piece was empty and battered

 

It was almost impossible to repair the heart

Because she had to gather each little broken part

Eventually from the shards the heart was reshaped

But there was one piece that had escaped

 

There is a hole in this girl’s heart forever

Because leave that boy this piece could never

And so this is how from the moment you left I knew

That a part of me will always love you

Never Belong by Amanda Ivaldi

Sometimes, you just don’t fit in, you don’t belong, and no one will ever
accept you; no matter who you know or who thinks they can make the
others accept you.

During these times, it's best to put up a fake smile, laugh a false
laugh and keep your head held up high, cause you know that eventually
none of these people will matter. They are just waves crashing in the
ocean and rolling back out to the sea.

Hold yourself higher than you ever have. Keep a positive attitude and
most of all just let it roll off your shoulder like it was never there
to begin with.

Maybe someday you'll be accepted and they will love you. But even if
they don't, your better then they are, and you know it.

Keep your head up, keep smiling, keep them guessing. . . .

Words by Alyssa Conigliaro

God damn it where’s the ground I’ve gotten used to falling falling falling down this rabbit hole everything’s out of control but I gotta smile that shattered mirror smile with a vapid luster in my eye. Yeah they see through my little parade They know it’s just a ghost of the light they know it’ll be awhile before it shines as brightly as it did that day I wore the silver crown upon the center of the sweltering sun but now but now the voices, dear god the voices they whisper slithering secrets make my head swell and eyelids falter can’t see can’t see the sky from way down here everything seems so high you seem so high up away now. Not so beautiful now am I with flakes of raw skin peeling in the sizzling wind the sun is shadowed by the lingering winter misty gloom. Doomed doomed doomed unless I find a way unless the wind picks me up with her golden wings then I’ll float above myself into pulsing colors in the clouds. Mmm that’s where you can find me. Can’t hear them from here Their mouths move but their voices are lost by the whistling sea. Don’t don’t don’t want to know what they have to say can’t they see I’m just fine with the way the dream lies hushes my pathetic cries for just a moment. Just a moment that’s all I ask. Maybe maybe for an instant I wont be wondering maybe maybe it won’t matter what happens next. The voices say just let go just forget its easy its so so easy- then why have the clocks stopped and my delirium iced over reflecting that smile of one hundred suns. Maybe I’ve broken down can’t get around what needs to be faced- but god, if they knew that smile like I do they’d continue to follow the smirking death into the light too. Just please some one tell me where where is it. The ground ground the ground the-

Self Portrait by Alexandria Venuti

Your Guitar Stopped by Yesterday by Alyssa Conigliaro

Your guitar stopped yesterday just to say that the sun aint never gonna burn out. “nope never indeed,” the guitar cried. “Not as long as we all keep singing a song that sneers at how they were all so wrong.” Took a seat down beside the crimson fire place, and smiled feeling the heat that pulses at ease just like my heart beat. Then it played me a song you wrote the other day while you were waiting for the train to suck you away. It was pretty and ok- didn’t quite hit me the way it used to when you were sitting right in front of me- but I liked it anyway. Now I didn’t understand a word you wrote because darlin, I couldn’t focus not with the stray notes of your voice dancing circles around my head. But I liked it that way it felt and I’d like some more. Baby some say you’re not the best singer but write me another song and ill hum the tune all day long.

To be a dram by Alyssa Conigliaro

“You are are a dream wake up up
up its time to live to” right there
yeah just like that you close your eyes and mine open
reflecting a lazy stream of that
which lies beneath the blinds of
possibility. It was a mistake its all a
mistake for me to have been born into this
this this this
concrete sidewalk- hah! But you see look there
the cracks run deep for me to slip slip through feel
the rebirth the exhale of air beneath my naked feet. Tick
tock
you sing as you stomp to the beat but the pounding grows dull as I crawl up
and down I creep the song
fades as I travel through
sleep. I wont wake up I wont I
refuse you don’t get it you can’t to dream is to
live to live is to dream reality unravels at
the seams do you know what that means Do you know what that means?!

Dinner with Aliens by Alyssa Conigliaro

I can feel their eyes on me. It’s like they’re expecting me to respond to the drooling jumble of jigsaw puzzle pieces that spill from their parted lips. Glancing from the husband with his slick, raked hair and neatly trimmed mustache, to the wife with her foundation-coated skin, I simply smile. That’s what they want, isn’t it? Some kind of polite response.
All the food is set out perfectly on the table; the meat pie was precisely sliced and steaming ever so slightly, filling the room with a warm, fresh scent- A scent I found myself disgusted with. I stared down at my vacant dish, unable to bare the curious eyes any longer. The plate before me was so clean that I could see an image of myself reflected in it’s center. But it wasn’t really me.
It didn’t feel like me, anyway. Yes, the girl staring up from the plate had the same rain drop eyes and bushy auburn hair as I had- Yet she couldn’t possible be me. Just as I began to sink closer towards the plate, one of the family members obstructed the reflection with mounds of lumpy, fuming broccoli casserole. Immediately upon encountering the food, my nose wrinkled.
The husband was smiling warmly at me, moving his lips as he spewed out the meaningless mess of words that I couldn’t comprehend. I smiled shyly again and nodded without making a full connection with his eyes. I didn’t like responding like this. It felt wrong.
Everything was so clear.. Clearer than anything had ever been before. I could see it all… Every lump of cheese, every faint odor of each dish set upon the table. The daughter with her bumpy side pony-tail was staring at me differently than the others; she watched me through slightly narrowed eyes, as if suspecting something.
‘Why am I here? Am I even here?’
Everything before me was so intense and vivid, yet I found myself feeling fuzzy and far away. I held my steely form fimly in my fist as I went to stab the casserole, but I had to force the movement. I had to encourage my wrist towards the plate. After all, I was expected to eat, that’s what you do at a dinner, isn’t it?
My heart began to throb as my eyes switched from the husband, to the wife, to the daughter, husband, wife, daughter, all of them eating and talking and feeling at ease. They weren’t fuzzy, they weren’t anxious- they weren’t pretending- I was. The reflection in the plate.. it was a lie.

Evaporation by Christopher Lucka

Sitting by a bonfire on crisp sand
I whisper shades and shapes of stress
If we die
Will our love survive?
Or will we die
Our love just a long long lie

Sitting above a brilliant bonfire on crisp concrete
I know my answer
As we gaze at the spark that will consume us
Our hearts had no time to die
But as this city evaporates, so shall we

As I hold your hand
I don't have time to blink
Our ashes are swept away
I'm glad this happened today
When I still had something to say

Life Isn't So Bad by Chris Gampat

<0> <0>
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....i...........
..f.............
...e...........

............i..
...........s..
..........n..
...........'..
.........t....

....s........
...o........

bad

when you see
someone else
........y........
......r...i......
......c..n....
.......g.........
on the phone

to a friend

or no one.

Chris Gampat © 2009

South St Seaport by Chris Gampat

I took this photo while at South St Seaport in New York City. Everyone tells me how much they love it but they can't find where I'm focusing on. It's the chair closest to me. Afterwards, I let people know that this is how I actually see if I take my glasses off.

That gives me mixed reactions.