California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Mendez, Stephanie

English

The Middle

goli, sam

mother

Centurion, Sophia

NR
The Obvious
Reality doesn’t smack, it pierces:
a needle pushing through folds of brain
like breaking blackberry skin, a familiar rip
as flesh makes way for metal. No one 
told me it would act as an antenna
picking up the buzzing of a voice you don’t want
to hear. No one told me that getting older meant walking
past convenient cliffs on the road back home,
and that most adults spend their nights
licking their wounds alone. 
But even ghosts have a forever home. And we know gravity will 
never fail us, even when choices 
hang like nooses in our empty tombs.
The more empty we are, the higher we bounce 
up. When the world you’re surrounded by
becomes oatmeal, eat in fistfuls until you are sick,
full of sludge, but can hear a faint       I’m proud.
It will come from the wet fire pit of ideas you don’t bother to believe 
anymore. But it isn’t charity, it’s competence, it’s an assignment; 
it is ripping out the needle, and living with the gaps.
Sop
h
ia C
en
tu
rion
16


The Obvious

Williams, Emma

God Of The Air Hose: a mircoreview

Bermudez, Bianka

|  27 |
B i a n k a  B e r m u d e z
o v e j i t a
. I
When you were little
you never wanted to hang out with
boys,
but neither did I,
those totems made of mud,
cracking to dust
beneath my gaze.
It didn’t mean anything then.
It didn’t have to.
Fourteen years old,
five years and six hours away from me,
I was playing dress-up online
and you were playing dress-up
for your parents.
You would have rather been playing
with the girl who smiled at you,
twirled her hair,
and your stomach, in
bathroom stall confessionals. But.
We were taught to love a God
mighty, and big, and bold.
|  28 |
ovej ita |  Bermudez
Unlike yours,
mine loved me back.
Here is the apology
he’ll never give you:
You didn’t come out,
you were hunted.
(I’m sorry.)
Hands all around you
(I’m sorry.)
locked in a room
(I’m sorry.)
for hours
and hours
(I’m sorry.)
with only shadows of your
mami and papi
(I’m sorry.)
trying to pray
their daughter
into their hija.
(I’m sorry.)
Yes, we were taught to hate
but it was far too late,
far too late,
the words that went unspoken,
festering,
cavities in our teeth,
leaving us
aching.
|  29 |
ovej ita |  Bermudez
They’d say
resa por tu prima
she’s a little bit lost.
But what is there to pray for
when there’s nothing
wrong?
And would you pray for me?
Would you pray for me, too?
Ovejita,
They think you’re a bible verse,
about going astray,
painted themselves as shepherds,
but they’re the crooks.
So, I remember
how mami always says
no sabes buscar,
feel the words tumble
out my mouth like yarn
from wool,
because if they’d been looking
just a little harder
they would’ve found
you had never
gone away. 
|  30 |
ovej ita |  Bermudez
. II
Ovejita,
you are not unforgivable;
there is nothing to forgive.
But,
I’d still wash your feet,
I’d still bless you,
even though it doesn’t mean
much to you anymore,
I’d still look at the first person
with poison on their tongue,
and let he who is without sin
cast the first stone.
Know this. Know this. Know this. And:
I hope you never regret a single thing,
I hope you hold your wife’s hand every day,
I hope the weight is comfortable against
your own,
the easiest thing in the whole world,
worn with time.
with affection.
lines tracing from one palm
to the other,
without seams.
I hope you know
I love you.


ovejita

Sun Kwon, Han

“참다참다” : Korean Word for "Endure"

|  31 |
B i a n k a  B e r m u d e z
I . C . E
a Black Out Poem Set to the Hip Hop Classic: “Ice, Ice, Baby” by 
Vanilla Ice
Yo, VIP, let’s kick it!
Ice Ice Baby, Ice Ice Baby
‘All right stop, Collaborate and listen
Ice is back with my brand new invention
Something grabs a hold of me tightly
Flow like a harpoon daily and nightly
Will it ever stop? Yo, I don’t know
Turn off the lights and I’ll glow
To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal
Light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle.
Dance, go rush the speaker that booms
I’m killing, your brain like a poisonous mushroom
Deadly, when I play a dope melody
Anything less than the best is a felony
Love it or leave  it you better gain way
You better hit bull’s eye, the kid don’t play
If there was a problem, yo, I’ll solve it
Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it
Ice Ice Baby Vanilla, Ice Ice Baby Vanilla
Ice Ice Baby Vanilla, Ice Ice Baby Vanilla
Now that the party is jumping
With the bass kicked in, and the Vegas are pumpin’
|  32 |
I .C.E|  Bermudez
Quick to the point, to the point, no faking
Cooking MCs like a pound of baconBurning them
they ain’t quick and nimbleI go crazy when I hear a cymbal
And a hi hat with a souped up tempo
I’m on a roll and it’s time to go solo
Rollin’ in my 5.0
With my ragtop down so my hair can blow
The girlies on standby, waving just to say, “Hi!”
Did you stop? No, I just drove by
Kept on pursuing to the next stop
I busted a left and I’m heading to the next block
That block was dead Yo
So I continued to A1A Beachfront Ave.
Girls were hot wearing less than bikinis
Rockman lovers driving Lamborghinis
Jealous ‘cause I’m out getting mine
Shay with a gauge and Vanilla with a nine
Ready for the chumps on the wall
The chumps acting ill because they’re so full of “Eight Ball”
Gunshots ranged out like a bell
I grabbed my nine, all I heard was shells
Falling on the concrete real fast
Jumped in my car, slammed on the gas
Bumper to bumper, the avenue’s packed
I’m trying to get away rs jack before the jacke
Police on the scene, you know what I mean
They passed me up, confronted all the dope fiends
If there was a problem, yo, I’ll solve it
Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it
Ice Ice Baby Vanilla, Ice Ice Baby Vanilla
Ice Ice Baby Vanilla, Ice Ice Baby Vanilla
Take heed, ‘cause I’m a lyrical poet
Miami’s on the scene just in case you didn’t know it
|  33 |
I .C.E |  Bermudez
My town, that created all the bass sound
Enough to shake and kick holes in the ground
‘Cause my style’s like a chemical spill
Feasible rhymes that you can vision and feel
Conducted and formed, this is a hell of a concept
We make it hype and you want to step with this
Shay plays on the fade, slice like a ninja
Cut like a razor blade so fast, other DJs say, “Damn.”
If my rhyme was a drug, I’d sell it by the gram
Keep my composure when it’s time to get loose
Magnetized by the mic while I kick my juice
If there was a problem, Yo, I’ll solve it!
Check out the hook while D-Shay revolves it.
Ice Ice Baby Vanilla, Ice Ice Baby Vanilla
Ice Ice Baby Vanilla, Ice Ice Baby Vanilla
Yo, man, let’s get out of here! Word to your mother!
Ice Ice Baby Too cold, Ice Ice Baby Too cold Too cold
Ice Ice Baby Too cold, Too cold, Ice Ice Baby Too cold, Too cold.


I.C.E: a Black Out Poem Set to the Hip Hop Classic: “Ice, Ice, Baby” by Vanilla Ice

Romberg, Aundrea

|  34 |
A u n d r e a  R o m b e r g
Meet me at the crossroads,
where all manner of people come through.
My companion who sits with me each night is a vampire,
who points out Greg the werewolf and tells me about their bad 
blood.
I met Shelley, accidentally and awkwardly, as one night I had been 
sitting where she had been
clawing out from her grave.
There’s a ghoul whose name I can’t catch,
muttering about how hard it is to get flesh.
It took me a while to realize I was dead,
my companion telling me that not many ghosts linger like I do.
Each night, there’s someone new to meet that’s passing through,
each night, I stay there, still undecided on which direction to take.
Meet me at the crossroads,
where it can get pretty lively.
T h e  C r o s s r o a d s


The Crossroads

Baiza, Tomas

49
FEEDING HAND ( ROUTE 15, TEN MILES TO 
VICTORVILLE)
TOMAS BAIZA
The hand that feeds me has dirty fingernails, broken cuticles, 
and smells of unfiltered Camels.
 
That hand has worked smooth and shiny the steering wheel of a 
1972 Ford Econoline van which knows better than any hitchhiker 
or coyote the highways between Bakersfield and Yavapai County.
 
From that hand, I accept fried hash browns, palmed 
from an aluminum tin, wedged between thighs which also prop up 
a battered plastic Prestone container half-full with piss 
that I'll have to empty at the next gas stop.
 
That hand is hard, calloused, and unskilled in gentleness or 
caresses or anything resembling love. That hand can give you 
the bird both ways—full extension or three-fingered fold.
 
Just north of Victorville, that hand gestures for the cigarette 
lighter on the vibrating engine shroud.
 
I hold my breath against the smoke.
 
The hashbrowns are slippery between my fingers and I try to 
look forward to what my own hand might one day feed.
 
Dark grease wicks into my jeans as a gray-brown coyote 
darts across the road ahead.
 
Panting or grinning,
 
I can't tell. 
 
 
A


Feeding Hand (Route 15, Ten Miles To Victorville)

Mejia, Ellen

|  53 |
Dead siblings are roses wilting in May.
Green thumbs reach
for stems and snip air, bacteria
and abnormal cells secreting through
thorns that cut palms
with each damaged malignancy.
Pesticide, Azacitidine, Decitabine injected into
marrows of shriveling bones to
mend the terminal grief of roots clinging
to lost blooms. They continue to wilt, the poison-cure
prolonging consuming white sheets,
glass vases displaying faded petals
until they die in July.
E l l e n  M e j i a
R o s e s  W i l t  i n  M a y


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