August 3, 2020

Posts from "Features"

  • Features | Feb.28, 2013

    Tiffany & Earl: Dorm Dilemma

        Dear Tiffany and Earl, I’m a freshman, and I’m a bit of a loner and really shy. I currently live in

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  • Poetry | Feb.14, 2013

    Sonnet of a God-Fearing Man

      A luminescent moon, the night’s raiment, A crown more fitting for an angel’s head. Long nights together, restless yet content, Under the stars we made our lovers’ bed. I crowned you Queen of Eros, Cupid’s wife

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  • Portfolio | Oct.04, 2012

    Under The Stars

      We met by pure chance on a warm summer midnight. I, once again, couldn’t sleep and had gone to the park as I often did when insomnia hit. He was sitting on one of the swings. I’d never seen him there before. The first thing he said to me wasn’t “hello” or “what are you doing out here so late?”

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  • Portfolio | Oct.04, 2012

    A Twitch Upon the Thread

      We were born without vision. Our eyes never saw the New York Skyline Shining with bright hope from across the river. We never saw the great rise and fall

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  • Portfolio | Sep.06, 2012

    Silly Putty


    Far from the shore we’d glide over the ocean tides
    And kiss the salted lips of Grace,
    As her golden face lights up the sky.
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  • Portfolio | Sep.06, 2012

    A Moment of Teaching

    I am not the man my father wanted me to be, but this is not a desperate attempt to elicit your sympathy or pity; it is simply the truth. I first realized this at age six when I was diagnosed with dyslexia. My father had hoped for the best and the brightest, but instead got a son who had to work at what came naturally to everyone else. I’m 18 now, so I’ve adjusted to my role as the perpetually disappointing son.

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  • Portfolio | Apr.20, 2012

    Pilate’s License

    “Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?”

    -Macbeth, Act II Scene 2

      “And he said, ‘These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.'” -Revelation 7:14   The shadow of the tree cuts across me Dividing, decrying, vivifying. “Are you the King of the Jews?” The question rings in my ears. But the cries from far off Cavalry interrupt my concentration as Legion pound nails into His feet, into His hands The spear-pierced side leaks water, and blood and I wash my hands of it. It stains the Gol’gothan sands below; my hands remain sullied. I believe that I had power to free or to crucify. I cannot blame the people for Barrabas. My appeals were not enough for this. I can blame no one but Pilate. I am no one. So recently I decried those fearful Sanhedrin yet their pharasaical concern for cleanliness seems all the more real now: How can I eat what my wife prepares? Days later, with blood-soaked hands, I throw the dinner to the floor, and leave my dream-suffering wife, and wander the still-hot streets of Judea. I hear cries about a torn curtain as it begins to rain. The quakes had not yet come… These memories, after that day long ago. The shadow of a temple now cuts across me a temple to the Goddess of Love; I turn away. Your followers eat your body, drink your blood. I hear such rituals whispered in the darkness and I wish I to join them. To wash your blood from my hands with your blood, to wash the invisible with the visible, to have your blood wash my robes clean. I tell no one, and yet I fear: Is this my own idea, or did others talk to me about you? Why do I come

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  • Portfolio | Apr.13, 2012

    Wedding Bells

    Let us not mince words. Howie was emotional napalm.

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  • Portfolio | Mar.22, 2012

    Drank His Blood

    It smelled like he drank His blood

    every day of my life for

    seventeen and a half years.

    He had his own Chapel

    down at a corner in town.

    You could spot his car in the parking lot

    from a mile away.

    There wasn’t a pastor at his Chapel.

    And my father did most of the talking.

    The Chapel was Irish, I think.

    And there were collection baskets

    that the men would pass around.

    Funny; they were labeled “Tips”

    The men bowed their heads

    at their own special times,

    slow, dipping low, just like

    in First Communion class when we were

    all trying to learn the rules for what

    we are supposed to do when the Pastor says

    this or that or the other thing.

    It smelled like he drank your blood

    like a goddamn Dracula

    by the gallon.

    And Jesus, you bled white.

    Jesus, you bled white.

    That made sense when I was a kid.

    You were pure, and your blood

    couldn’t be the same color as mine.

    Couldn’t be the same as the blood

    that dribbled down the side of my mouth

    when he slapped me for asking him

    why he left me standing in the rain

    waiting for him at school

    angrier that I failed the test

    than at the fact that the bus

    had left without me.

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  • Portfolio | Mar.22, 2012

    I Call Him Billy – Short for William

    My friend Billy is a bit rough around the edges. I would never call him handsome, and though he doesn’t exactly smell, he definitely has his own peculiar scent. He may not be the strongest, the most appealing, or even the most dependable. But what can I say? He is a comrade of mine-a darling, if you will-and nothing, and I mean nothing, can ever change that. Oh, quick author’s note: Billy’s a car.

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