Pendulum 2009

St. Luke’s School 377 North Wilton Road

New Canaan, CT06840

(203)[email protected]

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The Pendulum2009

IntroductionKara Clark

The procedure is simple. Wednesdays during our Lunch Pe-riod, The Pendulum Staff meets to review the work of our peers. We’ve seen poems of all forms, stories, critical essays, even collages. The following pages contain works that made us feel or think about something you should also experience:

Interpretation is everything. What we perceive and what you perceive can lead to completely different conclusions. This is especially true in literature. While you might think I am speaking of love or beauty, I may actually be referring to heartbreak and bitterness. Literature and art are the trans-formation of events in reality to written word or an artistic medium. But what happens when the creator of art transposes his work in a subjective way? This is a form of distortion. So distortion is the theme of this year’s literary magazine.

Prefaced by the ambiguity of a Presidential election, and sustained by economic and ethical uncertainty, this year, has been unique, and we have been fascinated by the way our writ-ers and artists have transformed or distorted the things they have written about or depicted. Outlandish poems, humorous prose and manipulated photos make up this year’s issue of the Pendulum. This array of creativity is yours for the taking.

So read on and be entertained, baffled, or even slightly dis-turbed by this year’s Pendulum. We know you’ve been waiting for it.

Printed by Allegra Printing, Westport, CT

The PendulumStaffEditor - Kara Clark

Business Manager - Alyssa Ericson

Artistic Editor - Maren Engh

Literary Editors:Alex PolyakovAnna Van Munching

Staff Members:Connor StirlandCooper BaerJake PressmanSam FomonEmily BergmannZoë PanopoulosFaculty Advisor - Stephen Flachsbart

Layout Design - Jon Salamon

11 Boy Kara Clark12 Enter Theodore Teddy Benson13 Seventeen Joe Tedder15 My Dear Goon Carrie Osborn16 Destined for Success Chip Larsen17 Porcelain Library Sam Fomon19 A Darkening Sky Alexandra Jaffe20-21 SHUT UP AND DRIVE Ryan Giggi22 Just So You Know… Erica Cross23 The Accident Kim Callaghan24-25 The Closet Quest Ellie Werner29 Something Insane Olivia-Rose Tow35 Mr. U.S.A. Glenn Champion36 Just the Way It Is Clara Xie37 What is Bad Weather? Kara Clark38 Grendel’s Revenge Chris DeMond39 In a Stuffy Restaurant Alex Polyakov39 Where Is Hollywood? Will Clayton41 Same Old Story Will Delano44 Naïveté plus Rocks plus Cars Jon Gestal46 Heaven Maren Engh46 Hell Matt Connors47 A Human Dilemma Jessie Haims48 Why? Zoë Panopoulos49 Sorry Katie Kelly Sullivan50 The Snuggy Glenn Champion51 Game Over Will Clayton51 Do Not Eat Carrots Maren Engh52 Night Alex Polyakov53 Grandfather Kara Clark54 Rhetorical Musings Billy Prince59 A Lithuanian Summer Jon Salamon60 If I Were an Instrument Beau Duncan60 Unsettled Anonymous61 The Odd Couple Emily Bergmann63 MCMLXXVIII Billy Prince

InventoryLiterature

10 Manipulated Photograph Chris Santoro

13 Photograph Conor Swanberg

14 Charcoal Priyanka Bajaj

15 Pencil Dominique Bandoo

17 Photograph Gabrielle Levion

18 Charcoal Jacob Parker-Burgard

21 Photograph Maren Engh

22 Photograph Andrew Veidenheimer

23 Marker Priyanka Bajaj

25 Silk Brocade Jacket Dominique Bandoo


27 Photograph Maren Engh

28 Photograph Conor Swanberg

28 Photograph Cole Bishop

29 Pastel Dominique Bandoo


31 Photograph Cole Bishop

32-33 Photograph Cole Bishop

34 Photograph Zach DeVito

37 Acrylic Priyanka Bajaj

40 Photograph Carla Savino

42 Collage Maren Engh

43 Collage Chip Larsen

45 Manipulated Photograph Amy Brown

45 Photograph Amy Brown

47 Manipulated Photograph Chris Santoro

48 Photograph Carla Savino

51 Mixed Media Dominique Bandoo

52 Charcoal Dominique Bandoo

53 Pencil Jack Henson

InventoryArt

54 Pencil Alex Fomon

55 Pencil Alex Fomon

56 Photograph Zach DeVito



61 Photograph Alie Smith

62 Charcoal Emlyn Hilson

63 Manipulated Photograph Andrew Veidenheimer

Cover Art - Zach DeVito (Photograph)Inside Cover Art - Alie Smith (Manipulated Photograph)Back Cover Art - Jon Salamon (Digitally Manipulated Image)

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Chris Santoro Manipulated Photograph

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BoyKara Clark

Popping Primary Colored Pills &

Dating a girl with a face for radio

Would only feel this good for a moment

In the dull neon TV-light he

Ate the popcorn carelessly

And wondered if Angelina Jolie

Would ever kiss him back

But he would have to try

==ca==

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O, what a prisoner am I!Indomitable is the oppressorThat condemns all who think with hands,All who feel with minds. But vanquishThe incentive of the soul he will not,For ‘tis ubiquitous – it lives in the Glands used to breathe, in the earsThat hear the songbird sing.Birth into this suppressive era makesIdealists of us all –but is it notA natural flaw that gives a womanHer internal beauty, a writer his Distinct style, a painting its racy aura?Will these shackles that forbear hands from prayerBe released before Athena is awokenBy the collision of Cloud and soil?Or must the battle cries of artists alikeSound from the hilltops as the draconianElites scramble into formationIn the valleys below? Ay, but theMind and immediate worth of creationPerish with time, and one must examineThe value of his existence against The gravity of his own emotions.

He exits.

Enter TheodoreTeddy Benson

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SeventeenJoe Tedder

I am seventeenI’m on top of the world

I know everythingTwo plus two equals four

Bunny ears, loop, swoop, and pullI can drive a carI can parallel park

Well no, sometimes it doesn’t workBut, I can see an R-rated movie

I want to be a teacher and help the worldNo...

I want to work on Wall StreetI want to live a life of luxury

How do I write a check?

Conor Swanberg Photograph

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Priyanka Bajaj Charcoal

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My Dear GoonCarrie Osborn

An endearing gap between your two front teeth

And the fact that you are slightly cross-eyed.

Your collard shirts and giant, goofy, glasses,

You swim with dolphins while only wearing tie-dyed shoes.

Spiky hair and scruffy five o’clock

Cocking your head to the side, puzzled.

Ties that are too bright for a funeral,

And your eyebrows raised in a boyish smile.

Sometimes you make up funny accents,

And create your own make-shift dances.

Your favorite band is Russian Techno

And you live to wash the dishes in slippers.

Only making me love you more, my goon.

And so I will take my chances with you,

And ask you in a Russian tone,

Will you be mine, my Valentine?

Dominique Bandoo Pencil

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Destined for SuccessClayton Towers Larsen, Jr.

Even for this WASPy area, my name is a little over the top. It

just reeks of fancy boarding schools and private yachts, trust funds

and the Ivy League. I’ve always hated it; it made me feel like a snob.

The last name is fine, but Clayton Towers sounds like a stuffy Englishman

from some boring Jane Austen novel. How in the world am I supposed to

live a normal life with a name like that?

It was never easy; I was always the only “Clay” or “Chip” in all

of my elementary school classes. That’s not an easy thing to be in a

room with three Steves, two Johns, and an assortment of Bills, Wills,

and Billys. Sure it’s nice to be unique, but at that age all I wanted

to do was fit in, and how could I do that when I was up against an army

of peers with cookie-cutter first names? If I were a Clay I was teased

for being rich and stuck-up (of which I was neither), or worse yet, a

form of Play-Do. When I was Chip I was subject to comparisons between

me and a multitude of popular snack foods. At that age, I just wished I

had been given some generic biblical name: Peter, Paul, Matthew. Even

Ezekiel would have been better, in my mind.

The crazy part of the whole business is that my family is the last

one you would expect to bestow such a name on a child. My father, the

original Clayton Towers Larsen, was the son of teachers, second-gener-

ation immigrants. My father graduated from Yale and did pretty well for

himself afterwards. So when my dad got married and had a kid, he assumed

that the name would bring similar success. So far it hasn’t worked.

Although I may have wallowed in self-pity over my unconventional

name, I think I received more ridicule about it from myself than from

anyone else. But having a name like mine isn’t all bad; every once in

a while, sounding important can be helpful. And if I ever achieve much

success in my own right (though some would say that this is a doubtful

prospect), “Clayton Towers Larsen, Jr.” will look great on the brass

nameplate of my mahogany desk in the corner office.

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Porcelain LibrarySam Fomon

Gabrielle Levion Photograph

I like reading in the bathroom

Perched cross-legged on the porcelain throne

Tired and uncomfortable

Where the lights are bright and the air is thin

When I don’t know what time it is

And I can’t tell that the night is getting older

Never look at the clock

Never really look at anything but pages

And I don’t really care what time it is

I don’t feel tired enough to stop

The book isn’t bad enough to put down

And I guess I’ll finish it before dawn

Just to know I did

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Jacob Parker-Burgard Charcoal

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A Darkening SkyAlexandra Jaffe

He sat in the roadwith thousands of othersin the summer of ’68.Refusing to moveout of the road; out of the country,across the oceanto fightfor the egos of men with starched ties and American flags pins on their lapels.

Then he grew up and forgot those childish things.Finished school, raised a family, got promoted to “regional manager”He walks through the factory day after dayHe seesHis successShadowed in the coal and Reflected in the oil That powers the machines.

Where did the boy goWho stood up for what was right?Why did that generation disappear?Or maybe they just grew up.

The factory runs all day and all night.The smoke and smog rise into the clouds.The sky darkensThe clouds cry in protestAnd scar buildings with acid burns.The world is on fire.The earth moans, exhausted by the fight,Too tired to continue the struggle.

I sit in the roadAloneRefusing to moveInto the darkness.So I look up at the skyWatching the clouds fly by overheadCasting shadows on the earth.

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SHUT UP AND DRIVERyan Giggi

I consider myself a sports fan. Whether I’m watching a game on TV, or even better at the event itself, I have great fun witnessing the prowess of the athletes on the field, not to mention telling anyone near enough to listen how much smarter I am than either of the coaches on the field. While I have my favorites, I find myself able to get into watching nearly any sport that I find on TV, or that I may happen upon in real life when going about my daily endeavors.

That is to say, every sport except NASCAR.

Whenever I encounter NASCAR fans in the world, I am forced to scratch my head. Really, what is the appeal of watching cars go around in circles for hours in one sitting? I have tried personally driving around and around the cul-de-sac on the road I used to live on, so I can say from experience that playing the sport is no fun. All it is, is monotonous motion; around and around and around in the same circle, over and over again. And this phenomenon draws thousands of already-sunburned masses to the track every time it happens, with still more watching it on TV. Outrageous!

By far, my favorite part of all these shenanigans is when they call in the “expert analyst” for the segment on NASCAR when I watch Sports Center. Often times, these analysts have valuable information to offer. A baseball analyst, for example, may shed light on why a particular player is not performing this week due to poor mechanics in his swing, or why another team may be ready to make a run for the playoffs. Given the mind numbing simplicity of NASCAR, what is this analyst supposed to point out to us? “Well, if this driver wants to win the race he’ll have to drive his car faster than everyone else,” or, “if he runs out of gas he may just lose this one.” Anyone with an IQ over 70 and a toddler’s command of English could point out as much, and this guy is being touted as an “expert analyst?” Are we kidding here?

The last detail to behold here is the collection of unwashed hoo-ligans who go to the sacrilegious extent of calling themselves “sports fans.” To my bewilderment, every time I flip past a NASCAR race on TV, the track is always packed with spectators who are so invested in the race itself that I sometimes wonder if the constant motion around and around hypnotizes them. They get emotionally behind these cars, and the drivers in them, to the point where spectators will actually fight each other over who’s favorite driver can keep the car floored and turn left better. They would be better off fighting over whether Mac comput-ers are better than PCs, as it would have just about as much relevance

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to the real world of sports, and would accomplish just as much in its resolution.

Even more outrageously, these people are hell bent on justifying their “sport” as legitimate. I’m sorry, but the word “sport” by defini-tion requires some sort of skill, and there really is none in NASCAR. The guys don’t need to go fast, they have machines to do that for them. The guys don’t need to be in shape, their machines are worked on in-stead. The guys don’t even need to know how to fix the machine they depend so heavily upon, as they have other people hired to take care of that for them. And think of the money these drivers make; they are made famous for effectively sitting still and letting machines do their work for them. Unforgivable.

I consider myself a sports fan, and as such I am insulted by the inclusion of NASCAR in my daily dose of sports intake. I am insulted that such a lowly group of miscreants insist on being recognized as sports fans, and I am doubly insulted that I must share such a title with said miscreants. And lastly, I am insulted that NASCAR as a whole has worked its way to national prominence. Congratulations, now you may bore the world with your monotony.

In parting, I would like to offer some sound advice to all those who support this ridiculous ritual: Please, seek help immediately.

Maren Engh Photograph

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Andrew Veidenheimer Photograph

I took the green rain jacket

from your closet

that you probably

Needed later

because it is

rainy, cold

and blustery

outside.

So I’m sorry,

but it looks as if

you might get

a little wet.

Just So You Know...

Erica Cross

(A tribute to William Carlos Williams)

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The AccidentKim Callaghan

He lay motionless at the foot of the stairs

While his girlfriend sobbed at the top.

In his hand was a golden ring

And blood poured out of his chest.

While his girlfriend sobbed at the top.

The banging on the door persisted

And blood poured out of his chest.

Commotion was all around

The banging on the door persisted

Commotion was all around

And the neighbors barged in

Then silence filled the air.

He lay motionless at the foot of the stairs

In his hand was a golden ring

And the neighbors barged in

Then silence filled the air.

Priyanka Bajaj Marker

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The Closet QuestEllie Werner

I shut the door just loudly enough so my mother could hear my an-noyance in the slam. Spending a Friday night cleaning out my closet was not my idea of fun, but since I wasn’t allowed out of the house unless I did, I guess I had no choice. I grudgingly dove into the challenge and swung open the double doors to a vortex of clothes and random knick-knacks. Here is what I came across:

In the drawers running down the center of my closet was an overflow-ing plethora of clothes. In the top drawer was an assortment of socks, not one of them having a matching pair, and an old Snickers bar stuffed behind them that I had been saving from last Halloween. In the drawer below were T-shirts I would never wear out of the house from school events, sports teams, or running races my dad was in, all of them be-ing at least 2 sizes too big, and almost all of them having some sort of stain. The next three drawers consisted of pajamas, dress pants, and clothes with tags still stuck to the sides that fell into the category of “I bought it because it looked great on the mannequin, but when I got home and tried it on, it looked horrible on me.” I found a sky blue glove in the drawer filled with dress pants, and a pair of matching socks in the pajama drawer. I took out the dress pants and refolded all them, finding in the pockets: a hair clip, a coupon for ten dollars off my next purchase at Old Navy that expired five months ago, a receipt from CVS, a ticket to the movie “Twilight” and six dollars and thirty-seven cents.

I moved on to the shelves surrounding the drawers. On the barely reachable very top shelves were my riding boots I only wear in the sum-mer, baseball caps, a tin box that contained a two-dollar bill and old jewelry, a deflated beach ball, a water damaged alarm clock decorations from the 4th of July, cans of silly string and hair dye, and a deck of cards with pictures of sailboats that was missing the Queen of Hearts. On the rest of the shelves that were actually in my reach were more piles of clothes. On one shelf was a bunch of sweaters and brand new long sleeve shirts that had only been worn or twice, and mixed in to those was another sky-blue glove. The shelf below was composed of many different articles of clothing thrown together, including 3 scarves, 4 long sleeved shirts that I bought so long ago I don’t even remember where they were from, 2 skirts, fishnet tights I had worn last Halloween (when I got the snickers bar), and a bathing suit top, but no bottom.

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The last and smallest shelf contained multiple belts and purses, a figure eight ball, my kindergarten yearbook, and a small stuffed-animal monkey my brother won for me the first time I had been to a carnival.

I did not bother with the hanging clothes, for while they were a mismatch of dresses, oxford shirts, jackets, and sweatshirts, they looked neat enough to pass my mother’s inspection. My final challenge was the closet floor, mostly consisting of mismatched shoes that simply needed to be straightened and paired, the floor also was a home to other items such as a very old Britney Spears CD, a pair of pink shorts, a pillow case I used at camp over the summer, one of those portable fans that also sprays water, and old head phones that you would never see anyone with today.

After I disposed of anything I could live without and straightening up what was left, my mom checked my closet, gave her approval and I was out the door just in time for the 9 PM showing of the new James Bond movie.

Dominique Bandoo Silk Brocade Jacket

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Gabrielle Levion

Photograph

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Maren Engh

Photograph

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Conor Swanberg Photograph

Cole Bishop Photograph

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Dominique Bandoo Pastel

I saw people playing Quidditch

– or trying –

On the shafts of mops.

Mops can’t fly.

Some things are best left to the imagination.

Something InsaneOlivia-Rose Tow

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Gabrielle Levion Photograph

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Zach DeVito Photograph

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Mr. U.S.AGlenn Champion

If I were king of the United States I’d declare that…

I would have the rights to any house I want

I would wipe my self with a Phillip Rivers Jersey

All schools and Universities would have mandatory 3 day weekends

Prime Rib and Mashed Potatoes would be a national symbol

And Canada would become the 51st state.

The people of Quebec could no longer speak French because they butcher it

We would no longer waste our money on Prisoners,

Instead we would let them fend for themselves on some God- Forsaken Arctic Island

In the new 51st state.

Last but not least, my birthday would be a national holiday focusing on self-righteous behavior and would be known as Ganoog-a-Palooza.

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Just the Way It IsClara Xie

Everyone has a Dream,

Deserves a chance to dream.

Dirt on the road or diamonds in the crown;

Sand on the beach or pearls around the lady’s neck.

Day by day, year by year,

Generations continue the journey

Of the American dream.

Come from nowhere, start with nothing,

All we have is a dream,

That shines with sweetness of lollipops or the kisses of heaven.

But it tastes like a piece of old, dry bread,

Stuck in our throats.

And the journey feels like hell.

The devil lives in heaven but cruelly tramples upon us,

Laughing,

As if he’s never been there

Just like us.

It is just the way it is.

Dream big and work hard,

Like working in hell for the devil.

And then,

Day by day, year by year,

Dirt may become a diamond;

Sand may become a pearl;

We may be in charge of the hell;

Laughing at the new comer’s dream

It is just the way it is.

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What is Bad Weather?Kara Clark

Sunny days are bad days. Heat radiates off the pavement, making

anything above it blurred. It hurts my eyes, makes them water violent-

ly. But it’s timely: I won’t have to see the people. Sunny days have

been decreed as “outside days,” precious days that mustn’t be wasted.

Everyone is out, children running through sprinklers, men laboring in

the yard or on the roof; women in sundresses gossiping over their sweet

tea.

But what makes sunny days the worst of all is that they gather

people together. Away from me. And it’s days like these that awaken the

animal within me.

Priyanka Bajaj Acrylic

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RevengeChris DeMond

I should have taken more, 30 being far too easy to slay. The songs

are unbearable to listen to as they speak of God and his abominations.

They drink and laugh heartily, leaving me, Grendel, holed in this cave

filled with nothing but darkness. Alone I am, with only my mother watch-

ing over me. They still cry, many hours since I last tore through Herot,

making them regret their celebrations. Grendel can’t be stopped; the

King and his last fools will know that soon enough. The taste still lin-

gers, but it will not last. What am I to do, as nothing but the sound

of water dripping from the withered trees to the murky pools is heard.

No other of my kind exists; a demon of the evil Cain. I had resisted

the urge to tear through the kingdom for so many years as their vic-

tory songs and bellows assaulted me. I had slain many beings before

them, never showing remorse, for they showed none to me. The Danes had

bellowed great stories of God and the fortune he bestowed upon them,

and my fury was unleashed. God had banished my ancestors and made me a

grotesque being, looking nothing like the humans that now fear me. I am

an outcast just as Cain was before me and I will not listen to them any

longer. Songs of joy will be replaced by hymns of mourning, and laugh-

ter will turn to tears. Herot will be devastated at my hands and none

will be spared. When the sun has gone down, the King will surely know

my wrath. My attacks will not cease until all life in the kingdom had

been taken and I have my revenge. I am Grendel and no man shall silence

me.

(Creative response to Beowulf)

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In a Stuffy RestaurantAlex Polyakov

As I sit at my table,

I see men in club jackets

And women in pearls.

They’re drinking wines they can’t pronounce

From years they can’t remember.

Smooth jazz wails over the speakers.

It’s lost in their slightly drunk conversation.

The waiter brings me my cranberry juice.

With a straw in it.

What the hell.

Where Is Hollywood?Will Clayton

If Paris Hilton gets paid millions of dollars

just to chow up at nightclubs,

If Britney Spears has millions of adoring fans,

And all she does is sit at home,

If Lindsay Lohan is on the cover of every magazine I see,

And is in rehab more often that not,

If Matthew McConaughey makes millions for every movie he makes,

Even though he has the acting talent of a bumble bee,

If Spencer Pratt can take out any girl he wants,

But I still have no idea what he’s even famous for,

What am I doing wrong?

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Carla Savino Photograph

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Same Old StoryWill Delano

Same old story

A boring routine every day

I need something more

But what can I do to satisfy this void?

A boring routine every day

I have to spice it up

But what could I do to satisfy this void?

Something crazy, something stupid.

I have to spice it up

I could just jump

Something crazy, something stupid

Panic takes over, as doubts fill my head

I need something more

I could just jump

Panic takes over, as doubts fill my head

Same old story

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Maren Engh Collage

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Chip Larsen Collage

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Naivete plus Rocks plus CarsJon Gestal

Just after tennis,

I was foolish, a youth,

My comrades and I resolved

To throw stones over the hill.

To the best of our knowledge,

We were doing no harm.

The small rocks that we threw,

Flew sleek and true.

It was all fun and games,

Until we heard a sound.

It was not pebbles hitting pavement,

No. This was something different.

The sound of a rock

Piercing a car window

Followed soon by a blasting alarm,

And the pitter-patter of young, frightened footsteps.

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Amy Brown Manipulated Photograph

Amy Brown Photograph

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HeavenMaren Engh

HellMatt Connors

Between two grassy hills is a town, seemingly taken right out of a simpler time. Lacking big industrial megaplexes, the town boasts its small cabin-like homes and the boardwalk situated on the bay. Seagulls sing the song of summer while dogs rest soaking in the sweet sun. Cobblestone streets wind through the small alleys that smell like the sweet bakeries that line them. The sea breeze blows lightly through the streets filled with pedestrians picking up their beach necessities. The soft noise of laughter and clinking glass carries along the boardwalk and the boats bump gently into the docks. The July sun fills the open plaza with light where vendors call out to pedestrians, offering deals for their sweet berries and fresh cantaloupe. Musicians strum their guitars harbored in the cool shade, entertaining passersby. Kids laugh, running with their kites in tow, chasing the birds picking up pieces of pastry left behind in the streets. The summer days seem to last forever; and as the cool evenings come, the clinking of glass gets louder and banter and song emanate from the cozy valleys.

If you were to try to find civilization by opening this unforgiv-ing door, you would not find anything pleasant. The dirty floors star-tle you as you step into the tiled room. Grime and bodily fluids coat the walls and ceiling. The stench hits you like a punch in the face, stinging the nostrils. Nothing is clean. There is no light. You go to do your deed, trying not to make eye contact with the figure next to you. Your conversation is short and stupid. All the while you want to flee for your life, hoping to never see that person again. Chunky soap and a lack of paper towels force you to use your shirt as a towel. Just to top things off, wandering eyes make the experience uncomfort-able.

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A Human DilemmaJessie Haims

If I could hear the thoughts of everyone’s privy mind what kind of danger could I be in?

I would know everyone’s deceit, horrors, fears, and more,

But would it help me forget the past?

Humans crave feeding off the pains of others, reveling in that deathly glow

Would it make me feel better to know the suffering of another?

Everyone judges, everyone talks, and no one knows the truth.

If I could hear the thoughts of everyone’s privy mind I would learn their story

Learning their pain

Without judging them

Without treating them differently

Discover the real meaning in that miscreant smile

Truthfully…no one would know anything

But me.

Chris Santoro Manipulated Photograph

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Why?Zoe Panopoulos

Carla Savino Photograph

Why?

That’s the question

Burning at the back of my throat,

But you’re not here to answer.

I could have stopped you

I saw the pain in your eyes

Chose to ignore it,

Told myself it was nothing

And started to believe it

Now I ask again:

Why?

But you’re not here to answer.

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Sorry KatieKelly Sullivan

She was eating my special snack, my butter popcorn

My mom only made it when I was a good girl

I demanded that she stop

But she wouldn’t listen

I devised a plan to punish her

I placed a Barbie stroller

Beneath her feet, next to the couch

Knowing she would fall

She put her foot down

To get another handful

And she slipped on the stroller

And cut her head open

I asked her what happened

Even though I knew

An hour later

My sister came home with seven stitches

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The SnuggyGlenn Champion

The Snuggy. What the hell? Have Americans really entered an era of consumerism where they would actually pay for something like this? The world may be ending.

For those who don’t know, the Snuggy is a fleece blanket that has sleeves and looks similar to a robe. The TV commercial pitches this item in a way that makes it sound like your life is meaningless unless you own a Snuggy. Now people can read, change the channel, or use the phone with the blanket that has sleeves. Hooray!

Do people really get frustrated enough to buy a Snuggy because they have to move their hands from under the blanket to perform routine tasks (changing the channel, etc.)? For heaven’s sake, it’s not that big of a deal! The fact that people would be willing to blow 25 dollars to own a blanket with sleeves is beyond me.

The commercial shows a happy family all wearing Snuggies to a foot-ball game on a brisk autumn day: unbelievable! They look like they are from some obscure cult rather than a happy family trying to stay warm. Next thing you know the happy family dressed in Snuggies will be sharing mysterious Kool-Aid within the fans and we will have a national tragedy on our hands.

But maybe, in these dire economic times, Snuggies are a practi-cal solution to get through the bitter winter. One can save energy and money by wearing one; go green and save money all with the purchase of a Snuggy.

That is why I have a message for Barack Obama: forget the billions of dollars the country would potentially waste of the economic stimu-lus package; the Snuggy IS the new economic stimulus package. If the President addressed the nation in a Snuggy he would start a national phenomenon. Snuggies would spread like wildfire, saving energy and heat, and bringing money into the economy; hence rescuing the country’s citi-zens from this financial nightmare. Kill two birds with one stone: res-cue the economy and reduce energy consumption by cleaning our planet’s air. Genius!

After President Obama’s soon to be world renowned State of the Snuggy Address, the Snuggy will be the new robe worn all around the world. I can see it now, from the Buddhist Monks in Tibet to the Roman Catholic priests in the Vatican, Snuggies will be worn everywhere. Even the Supreme Court justices will be sporting the new robes. Ruth Bader Ginsberg is going to look damn fine in a Snuggy. Come to think of it, I would look damn fine in a Snuggy…

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Game OverWill Clayton

He ducked in and out of buildings, trying to find cover from the barrage of enemy fire. He took up a position, reloaded his rifle, and started to shoot at the oncoming Nazi soldiers. Then his mom told him to shut off the game and come to dinner.

Do Not Eat CarrotsMaren Engh

Susie’s favorite food was carrots and she ate them every day for every meal. People used to tell her that she shouldn’t eat them because they turn you orange. She wanted to try so she ate 200. The next morning, she walked out her door for school and a rabbit ate her.

Dominique Bandoo Mixed Media

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NightAlex Polyakov

Hopping along, we felt pangs

Of unsatisfied hunger.

“This place looks good,” You informed me.

I decided to concede to your desire

And to settle for the dim beacon.

Seemingly simple, so far as we saw,

The waitress looked at us with

Hesitant welcome.

The man at the corner

Seemed contented,

Cold malted milkshake in hand.

I wished we’d hopped farther.

Still though --

At three AM, anything tastes good.

Even if it looks like a shoe.

Dominique Bandoo Charcoal

-53-

GrandfatherKara Clark

With a mermaid on his chest and an anchor on his arm,

The sea captain flew his family to the West,

Where he would guard a parking lot,

While his patient wife cleaned toilets,

And his maiden daughters danced and married one by one.

And after all of them were gone, with old age on his shoulders

He smoked Newports and played Zelda, the only real adventure left.

Now that he is gone, the grandchildren remember him

By smoke scented hugs and Mortal Combat.

But most prominent, the green dinosaur at Burger King, the invisible one,

They always passed too fast while on the bus.

Jack Henson Pencil

-54-

Alex Fomon Pencil

Rhetorical MusingsBilly Prince

Good leaders

can be like undistributed Middles.

They taste exactly the same.

passed opponents on the skyline,

We’re messed,

we think that’s funny!

You rest your replay and share.

-55-

Alex Fomon Pencil

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Zach DeVito Photograph

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A Lithuanian SummerJon Salamon

The metal octopus always dances,

but never on Tuesdays because tea is

served late in the day.

Mother arrives home before dawn

and always sews the mud between

the wretched ones and the disciples.

“Rest, rest, rest!” shouted Adam

on the eve just before the metal octopus

received the grant for his research

on why butter tastes so good.

It is with this that

Permafrost based his whole documentary on,

it won many awards but

never ventured into the forest

for more than a decade’s time.

The metal octopus took a class once,

Opera, was it?

Its voice ricocheted

causing problems for the neighbors.

It wasn’t worth the money,

But nothing ever really is.

-60-

If I Were an InstrumentBeau Duncan

If I could be any instrument, I would pick the plastic “Rock Band” drums, where 12 year olds become YouTube celebrities and pro-fessional musicians fail to play their own songs. Here, music-reading skills are optional, and the glorious romance ballads of the 80s can be played without a single lesson. The plastic simulacrum allows grown man to go back to the days when they slammed their fists on Tyco toys, and rewards them for such regressive behavior. In a miracle of engi-neering, an impressively simple creation can evoke the strongest of emotions. The rush of performing in front of thousands is now read-ily available to anyone who can get his hands on it. The item is the perfect manifestation of the increasingly popular American mindset of instant gratification and entitlement. No longer does one have to in-vest his soul in what used to be an art, the art of musical mastery, to feel the satisfaction of being a rock star. This sentiment is now readily available at Wal-Mart.

UnsettledAnonymous

The jaded onlooker that has stopped bothering to look

You feel your surroundings frozen in a mundane cycle

Numb to the outside, overwhelmed by internalities

Your senses dulled by time, you look inward

Your organs feel twisted like your thoughts

Both churning and boiling within

Can’t move, Can’t stay still

Can’t eat, Can’t be silent

You want them to understand but can’t explain

Forced upon you, like a victim, unable to escape

Trapped with a heavy body, a vacant soul and a racing mind

Your circumstances grip you tightly as you remain

clamped in your seat.

-61-

The Odd CoupleEmily Bergmann

He walks in, disheveled and confused

He coughs, peers through the haze of cigarette smoke that has been there for hours

His suit is tweed, mousy looking

The pants are too short, the sleeves are too long. He fingers the frays.

Freshly polished loafers make a path that only he knows

She sits silently

Stilettos tap on mahogany

Her dress is hot pink, low cut,

Disastrous-like her.

She picks at a steak, runs her finger around the rim of a wine glass

It’s merlot-she prefers chardonnay, but she didn’t cause trouble.

Their eyes meet, and they know.

He remembers, she thinks

He wants, she needs

He feels, she loves.

Him and her-they-walk away

Loafers and stilettos side by side

Alie Smith Photograph

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Emlyn Hilson Charcoal

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MCMLXXVIIIBilly Prince

In the middle of the night,

A Pentecostal Crayola of unabridged fame

Dug Deep in a series of aviationary revolutionary change.

It’s been four years of evolution in this world of words.

It’s the Dictionary of Art,

It’s the Art of the Dictionary.

It’s always a challenge to be first and last without looking like a jerk.

‘Cause hate and animosity can be vaguely insulting

to the kind eye.

Reese’s pieces never looked so facetious.

Andrew Veidenheimer Manipulated Photograph

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Where are you?We lost you in space,You are non-existent

In this distorted world.

What are you doing?We need you;We miss you;

There is little time left.

Come back,Please.

This is our plea:To Allie Lee

Pendulum 2009

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Transcript of Pendulum 2009