W5Crawford

Dan Crawford

Christine Salvatore

Poetry Workshop

2/16/2018

After losing your rider at Blazer’s Mill

you are lost in a land

where the script has already

been written and

all things are coarse

and bare, yielded to an end

omnipresent, to cracked earth and bleached stone.

You wander riderless

past a desperate copse of chaparral.

You step over sand piper, sand dragon,

etch prints into crust

that are dismissed

with the next ragged gust.

Coal-fire Mountains teethe

a vacuous, hollow sky.

You walk amidst the dying.

You pad to a bedrock headstone

among the bleak grey bones of time.

You brush past saguaro that grinds

your unheard snorts, whimpers and whines.

You loll in a furnace wind unrefined

of the breezy musk of dampened corral grass,

the tanned rider’s whispered word and leathered lash.

It will come like sand brushed on crystal glass.

You will stop at last and make your peace

With an end born from memory of a ridered past.

gush 5

Gush

Getting Burgers in South Philly is Hard to do When a Woman in a Sudan Fires

(Part One)

9:43 P.M Cross Street

i brake at the stop-sign

for an orange and white cat

crossing the street.

i assume it's a ‘he’

by the way it meandered

past my car.

my headlights told me

that he was thin,

and had patches of hair

missing from his back.

before he stepped onto the sidewalk,

his eyes glared at me

with solar flares.

“Take me home with you, I won’t make the night.” - Cat

9:45 P.M The Cross Street Stop-Sign

i click my left blinker

into place and wait

for the cars to pass by.

the burger joint is on 10th.

i day-dream

of grease

dripping down my wrist

from a congealed patty,

accompanied by salty fries

and a dry cider.

one more car to pass.

tinted windows,

blacked out rims,

woman driver.

she slows down,

probably lost,

to ask for some directions?

maybe she is fantasizing

about beef and beer too.

her window is down,

something is in her hand,

black and familiar.

The sun was beating down on my legs, frying any whiteness I had left into crispy layers of bronze and peach fuzz. Mom said, “do you want to finish your macaroni salad?” and i said, “you mean sand-crusted noodles. Just give it to the seagulls.” She said, “But aren't onions bad for birds?” as she threw them the last of the cold salad garnished with billion year old emulsified rock and glass. I get up, smear sun-tan lotion on my shoulders, and run into the water.

9:47 P.M Cross Street - Inside of My Car

i open my car door

and step out

onto the cold ground.

my brain is oozing

onto the satin

yellow lines

of the charcoal colored tar.

red sticky plasma,

spray painted on my windshield,

my life's blood

inside of one automatic,

metal box.

my eyes blur

and spiral

into a  kaleidoscoped nightmare

of confusion and terror.

robotic sounds of metal scratching

on broken records,

faint radio music,

Elongated and slow-

the dance of sacrifice

around my ears.

i fall back onto the curb,

pupils dilated,

stomach resting on my kneecaps.

my toes are numb.

9:49 P.M I’m Not Sure Where

people are starting

to gather round,

covering the eyes

of their little clones

who will grow up

and cover the eyes

of their little clone.

i scream go away,

but no one listens.

red and blue

technicolored lights flash

onto my unrecognizable body.

i am no longer human,

just a science project

waiting to sit on ice.

the cat came back, and we walked down cross street,

heading home.

Old Woman's Wedding Song

by Michal

i danced around the holy man's land
laughing all the while
i called to him once, kneeling
he came, then I kissed his hand with a smile

a stranger here, but my home just the same
he's been awaiting my arrival
my slumber, his disdain, yet his patience remained
now he guides me to his aisle

don't worry my love, i'm plain
but yours, my soul you covet no longer.
i've lived good and well, as you can tell
and in readiness we both grew somber

If Thoughts Had Rhythm Judeaa Wright

Remember to point your toes

while Kant describes your every motion

as a maxim,

each strike kick

forming in your joint,

catapulting itself into the world

as universal law.

Pop your shoulders forward

fall like a swan and fold,

your feathers into the symposium.

Around a table of men

you move gracefully

your body knows more about love

than they could ever imagine.

Your feet settle comfortably

back into first position.

Standing tall you are the overman

Of Nieztsche’s dreams,

creativity dripping from your

wrist as they curve in the air

and Aristotle whispers,

“This is virtue.”

W5West

Blood & Sweat in the Age of 3D Printing

imperial measurements are beautiful,

archaic nonsense

obscure, obsolete, out of place

in the digital age

with its fractions & fold-out rulers,

conversion charts & longhand notation

it’s the treasure map’s 50 paces

            due east as the crow flies,

the call for eye of newt

in some ancient grimoire

for there is eldritch magic

            in imperial measurements

land surveyance in lost Atlantis

or brick laying in Camelot

passed down master to pupil

            halves, quarters, thirty-seconds

precision marked with a square pencil

not merely an early phase of production

            but a ritual

check the plans

stretch the tape

measure the board

note the length

mark the cut

confirm the span

measure again

& only then do we make the cut

W5-Thornton

Cory W. Thornton
Instructor Christine Salvatore
CRW 7121 – POETRY WORKSHOP
16 February 2018

Intimate

The gritty puddles splash
tinkling against the house that cropped
the alley too close but held, each time a car
raced the alley. Her palms hover dusty,
her smile one bowl ahead of hands drifted
above four, caressing measurements of salt,
turmeric, chili as powder.
How much tomato, garlic, and onion?
Even in asking I know, the question is no good.
She wipes condensation from the beer glass
from her hands, and clean-handed scratches my shoulder.
I watch her face as she shapes empty piles on the cutting board.

"Dwarf House" by Sarah Sawyers-Lovett

Sarah Sawyers-Lovett

Dwarf House

Jeremy’s sleeping on the floor in front of drag race

despite Glitter on the phone with her next ex-boyfriend.

His concave chest rises and falls rhythmically

through her peals of laughter and the threat of heartbreak.

James is making stacks of pancakes

towers of clouds he won’t eat

until he crashes, sleeps for a day,

wakes up jonesing.

You’ll talk about rehab then.

Tariq and William are flirting shyly

building something tender

you want to build a wall around

keep it safe from a world where almost nothing is.

Mark calls just to kiki for a while

he’s been lonely, bored

since Justin passed. (He’s a donor to the house, sure

but he’s family, too.) He wants an audience

sometimes, someone to bear witness to his grief

and remind him that life goes on.

Phoenix stretches out the i in girl

so long you’d have time to write a manifesto

about the gender binary they opted out of

but it wouldn’t be half as eloquent as the arc

of their body when the music swells.

There’s never enough room for all these kids

(and despite the terrible shit they’ve seen

and the awesome potential of their lives,

they are practically children) but somehow

there’s always room for one more body.

Or two. Or ten. The community matters more

than chaos or discomfort.

A roof, a meal, a shower, a bed.

there is no monetary value attached to a hug, your time,

a ride to the free clinic, a clean interview shirt, a smile.

But it’s what you can offer and hope that it’s home enough

saying: it’s okay, it’s okay

in the end, we are here

and you will be safe with us.

We will be okay.