The student center is buzzing with activity. The smells from the kitchen permeate the air. The line at the cash register is long with many people ordering their noon meal or snack. As they step away from the register clutching their lunch tickets, they are anxiously searching for places to sit down.

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There is a land.
A barren land.
Where many stories told
of badman's bullets and devil's gold.
Timeless.
Wasting.
Footsteps in the sand
echo grief of death in this land.
Waiting.
Perishing.

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I watched a spider stalk a moth
Idling away my lazy days.
To and fro he followed it
Across his gauzy maze.

My eyes were glued upon that beast.
I could not look away.
His eyes were glued upon the moth,
Fluttering gaily in its play.

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The shriek was a meat cleaver severing the torpid flesh of night. It cleared my groggy mind in a hurry. I couldn't tell for sure where it came from, but it was so close it must have come from the apartment next door, the one recently rented. What do you do when someone screams, wait to see if they do it again? The quietness of death reigned.

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Kindergarten, first and second grade I struggled under heavy, dark water. My limbs were lethargic and mired in the weight, the pressure of being underneath, and my mind was clouded from the lack of oxygen. I could hear voices calling out to me from above—my teachers, other adults and children—but the individual words were indistinguishable and muffled, unable to penetrate the thick water. I was drowning.

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awkward shadows
not the art
cling in straight edges
to the squares
why the squares?
if it's not in the boxes
it's  not art
are you disturbed if it implicates you?
are you impressed if it replicates your reality
which is a destination
of the consensus
of that which all of this is supposedly attempting to make look deeper
more meaningful?
when does it become art
when is it  important and why is it collected?
Christie Scott

"Oh, come on, get over it," I tell myself. A teddy bear? The most important object you own? Well, discounting such valuables as my grandmother's pearls, my cat and my passport, yes.

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I wake in the morning with an anvil on my chest and fine haze before my eyes. I haven't opened them yet—the eyes. When I do, the haze does not lift. The anvil is large and black and invisible. The haze has a slight greenish tinge that is more than a little nauseating.

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You are too perfect
for words
yet
I try:

round pink cheeks
peach fuzz hair
dark brown eyes
so serious
so deep
and a laugh
that sets
my heart
free.

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I was looking out my bedroom window one morning when I observed a strange woman ringing my next door neighbor's doorbell. She looked like one of those women of the night, you know, the kind that traipse up and down the street.

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