
A photograph of art work.

 Free fantastic, student-created magazine
Group Poem by: Jason Kolodzyk Brandon Haut Tasha Levy Hollerup Richard Plevak III Elise Boucher
“Narcissistic_culture.com”
1. He writes his own news with large, sullen eyes that swallow
whole towns, larger than lives,
   And blends what he “knows” with the things that he thinks through the
headlines and news-feeds and patterns of ink.
But it is nothing, in the scheme of things. Nothing that his sullen eyes
have seen and nothing that his clouded ears have heard.
That make him write with such fervor,
Such passion as the candle burns down to dim.
2. She smells his passion, inhaling fumes from the soaked, bleeding coffee filter,
discarded with his crumbled thoughts, his day’s work undone.
What did it all amount to? They, the people, read him, but, she thinks,
do they hear his empathic scream? Is it worth listening to?
And yet, she sits–day in, day out, scratching notes, messages, tapping keys,
Focusing on the dripping clock, on her taxi and her fiancée. And she thinks,
Is this the only place I’ll go? Or can I upturn the shredded paper soil
and late-night roots, and grow beyond the page’s fog?
3. Â They stumble in circles like whirlpools, pulling the mists behind, eyes clouded and cold
and drowning in the ice they make, the shards that stab their hearts
Life-force dripping into the soft snow forms the words of their struggle:
This cycle will not end
It will be born again with you, with another, unknown
Pain and love will always be visible to us
   It is the pattern that pulls them together, threatening to tear them apart– again
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Hope is Gone, by Kwame Grayson

Crashing Whitecaps, by Brandon Haut
I stand at its edge
While its powerful show
Comes to lap at the shore
With its ebb and its flow.
Sometimes it’s stilled;
Others unrest.
Quiet as it’s kept,
But lurking between
The in and out tide
Hides a force to be reckoned with.
And the sea calls my name
With a vigorous plow
Of violent winds
And words not shallow.
It thrashes its fists against the coast
And hisses a storm
And beckons me
Forward onto the surf-tormented shore.
“Sail on my wings,†it bellows within,
“And be free of your life of trivial things.
Come sail in the deep and breathe in the blue
For a day and a year or a century or two.
I am old, but can you not see
The likeness between you and me?
I crash and escape
While my mouth is agape,
As do you, who knows not what there is
To really see of me.â€
My humble tears
Fall like rain;
Away with all
Forgotten pain.
My memories
Are far and near
Amidst a liquid
Crystal clear
That is the air
That moves the tide;
The atmosphere
I hide inside.