Rachel Rosenberg….Fantasy Girl

 

Fantasy Girl

I have arrived.
I am what I have always wanted to be;
the fantasy girl of a man

with a cult of personality.

So while everyone gathers around him without even realizing they are doing it,
turning to him like iron shavings to a magnet,
I can sit smug.
I can lounge on the other side of the room,
secure in the knowledge that while every one of those people think they have a special bond with him,

I actually do.

But it is to both of our advantages to appear single,
playing on the hopes of those who think our sexy is something they could get
so they will give and give
for the privilege of pretending,
for the privilege of not knowing they are pretending,
because we are pretending.
I am the one he winks at from across the room.
I am the thought he touches himself to
when he is finally, blessedly alone.
Notice, he hugs me just a little bit longer than you.
Notice, he’ll make sure I acknowledge him before I leave.
He won’t do that

for you.

But now that I have arrived,
I start to wonder;
when fantasy becomes flesh,
does it make me any less
of a strong, independent woman
to want this?
Shouldn’t I want my own following?
Shouldn’t I have the self-respect

to wanna be equal?

I don’t want to be equal;
I want to be better.
I want him to visit me,
to come to me begging
to show someone the real him and he wants that,
he wants someone to force the truth out of him,

someone to whom he can show

trust.

Truth is, sometimes he amazes me…and I want that.
I want a man I find impressive,
because then it’s respect when he calls me impressive,
not the slavish devotion I have come to despise from weaker specimens,
those boys I end up chewing up and spitting out
because even when we both know I’m wrong,

they will not stand up to me.

I want a man with his own life,
not one who’ll make me his
because love is the icing on the cake
so don’t make me your insipid cake.
I will blow off the boy that does that like a candle;
he is the birthday.
The man will sneak into my room to share the tub of icing bare-handed,

making me giggle when he tells me about the party games.

I like being the lighter behind the flame,
not the fuel, but the spark.
I like having all the power
over all the power,
having him look at me
the way they all look at him.
I am the top of the food chain.
I am what I have always wanted to be;
the fantasy girl
who lives up to the fantasy
of the man
with the cult
of personality.

 

Rachel Rosenberg is a 25-year-old lawyer/recent graduate of Lewis & Clark Law School and an alumnus of Kenyon College. She has been writing poetry for 17 years and performing it for the last two. Her poems have been published in a number of online and print journals.

Copyright © 2014 by Rachel Rosenberg

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Due Tomorrow? …by Alexander Dang

 

Due Tomorrow?

From the very start, we were doomed.
Star crossed lovers on a messy sheet of bad math and eraser streaks

We weren’t meant to last.

We ignored all the signs and we blacked out our expiration date

with a Sharpie and tried to keep going

Driving along the coastline,
Giving ourselves completely to the sea and surf
We kept thinking

“There is so much ocean. This could never possibly end.”

It was like
The relief of hitting the snooze button on the alarm
or like

Knowing there’s a paper due tomorrow but there’s so much more important things to do today

Like the careless teenagers we are
We roamed the streets on a Halloween when we knew classes

Would resume in a mere 3 hours

I think
We thought we could beat the timer.
As if the sands of time didn’t apply to us because

Look at all that beach left to discover.

I’m left holding ice on a hot day:
It feels great in my hand but it’s melting so quickly.

I can’t save every drop.

Rushing into the amusement park an hour before the gates shut
Because, c’mon, let’s face it

We can get to every ride before it closes!

There’s so much shoreline left.

We were the bad choices you make
Even though you were acutely aware

Of the consequences to come.

Look into my eyes,

We’ll face those outcomes together.

But like how Sunday has an impending presence looming over
This time bomb of a relationship was reaching its end
Monday was coming soon

And we’d ignite.

Our alarm told us that we were an hour late for work and we got promptly fired
The teacher wouldn’t accept our rough draft and we should expect an email to our parents

We fell asleep in class and got sick from all the candy and the roller coasters in such a small time.

My hand is holding a small puddle and I let it slip
just
like

that.

Finally the road ended for us

And the beaches stopped at a jagged cliff

You, my love,

my August in a finite Summer

Let’s sleep a little earlier tonight.
We have class tomorrow.

 

Alexander Dang is an aspiring poet from Portland, Oregon. He has four things in common with Hamlet: Words, words, words, and an affinity for stabbing curtains. In August 2013, he and three others represented Oregon at the National Poetry Slam.

Copyright © 2012 by Alexander Dang

 
 

 
 

 
 

 
 

Who Knows Best… by Morgan Collado

 

Who Knows Best

They thought
They had trounced me
Forced me
To relinquish
My secrets
Bent me
To their blood soaked
Will
They thought
That their dun colored
Machinations
Could subdue me
Their corrosive pigments
Reduce me
Their all-too-human desires

Consume me

But I am forever
Dreaming
Of days filled with rainbow
Sunlight
I am forever
Sowing
Acorns of chaos-ridden
Rebellion
I am forever
Threshing
The chaff of stupidity

From the wheat of sagacity

Those children that resist
Exist
In the marrow of my bones
Gathering hidden
In moist dark corners

Growing

When seasons shift
Regimes die
And Mother always
Knows best

 

Morgan Collado is a queer Latina trans woman who lives in Austin, TX. She has a degree in Philosophy and hopes that her writing inspires radical action. She’s been published in QWOC Media Wire, xQsí Magazine, The Urban Resistance, and Northeastern University Journal of Undergraduate Writing. Her blog is www.atriptothemorg.wordpress.com.

Copyright © 2012 by Morgan Collado

 
 

 
 

 
 

 
 

Corner of Cedarwood and Northwest… by Matthew Brouwer

 

Corner of Cedarwood and Northwest

Almost finished with my daily walk
my head throbs meekly
like the closeted demands

of a passive aggressive in-law

Gray Holstein clouds munch upon the blue sky
excreting an unsatisfying

50 degree weather

Nearby, a group of teenagers
just released from school
patch their insecurities

with indiscriminate utterances of profanity

Somewhere a car alarm honks continuously
every two and a half seconds

putting everyone on edge

To my right a drunken homelessman

sleeps jaggedly in the grass

A mangy black dog eyes me queerly

from the back of a beat-up pickup truck

Suddenly I realize
I have had my shirt on backwards

all day

Before me a steady line of cars
drags like chains upon the roadway
the faces of their occupants look as if

they care nothing for the problems of humanity

The slogan on the credit union reader board irritates me
as I wait for the signal to turn to walk
I tire of wearing these pajamas in public

and wonder when my rash will go away

When I get home I think I’ll call my girlfriend
and tell her, yes, I still love her
even though last night I agreed, yes
it would probably be best for her to leave now
and ride her bicycle back home

in the dark

 

“Corner of Cedarwood and Northwest” was originally published in The Gospel According to Matthew. Poem by Matthew Brouwer. 2012.

Copyright © 2012 by Matthew Brouwer

 
 
 
 
 
 

Walt Whitman Fantasy… by Matthew Brouwer

 

Walt Whitman Fantasy

Six o’clock

January darkness

Rainclouds pressed
against the face of the earth

like a razor

I’m sitting in my room trying to remember

how to write a poem

Think about putting on some ambient music
to push me out into the deep end

of my mind

But really, has that ever worked?

Maybe I should acquire some shrooms

But I don’t think that’s such a good idea

Shroom poet says some crazy shit

Think maybe I should give all my money
to the Lighthouse Mission

that would put me out to the edge

Probably not such a good idea neither

I just want to be like Walt Whitman

You know

in love with Everything!

Virginal Indian squaws
gay looking school boys
Christ-like deathbed union soldiers
sagely bearded frontiersmen
shitty American street corner vagrants

whales, spiders, cemetery grass

Everything!

Though if I ever met the man

I’d probably be scared as hell

or just disappointed

Because just like Jesus
no one could really ever be

like everything they said

Just like how I hope someday
some virulent young college-age
neo-hippie fanatic
will show up at a reading of mine

and be disappointed by me

To find I’m not that mountain lion

stalking about in my poems

Just the dial on your stereo
every day fine tuning a little this way
then a little that

trying to get the treble just right

Just the dial on the radio in your car
for a moment
Mahler’s 5th symphony

Adiagietto

A parousia of violins

and then once again nothing

except static

 

Matthew Brouwer is a performance poet, peer mentor, teaching artist, and organizational consultant residing in Bellingham, WA. (To listen to Matthew read the above poem click on Walt Whitman Fantasy)

Copyright © 2012 by Matthew Brouwer