If, on certain nights at Carlilse Meat Markets, one was to wander out behind Quad Ten, one would fine a rather large group of CTYers engaging in a very interesting activity. No! I'm not talking about PDA! I'm talking about Poetry Readings! Lead by the Poetry Goddess, CTYers present their poetry and other creative works. Though poetry is typically better when read aloud, the On-line Poetry Reading does it's best to celebrate the creativity of CTYers through virtual print.

Oh shiksa, my shiksa
with hair all gold and gleaming
My parents disapprove of you
I can tell from their incoherent screaming
By contrast yours are dignified
They never shout or scream
No kugel on your holidays
You eat chipped beef in cream
Your brother plays varsity football
Your mother makes apple pie
And you cutely wrinkle your perfect nose
At the smell of matzoh brye
You can't even spell kvetching
I think some credit is due
'Cause your what makes America great
I thank Jesus for shiksas like you

i am afraid
i am angry
i am voiceless.
it's time to speak,
to stand up for me
but i am voiceless.
i want to speak
to make myself known.
i am voiceless.

Imitated infatuation
Slipping through the waste of sands
Twisted phantom trees are gripping
Lost you in your nightmare land
Apocalyptic seasons bursting
White with darkness leaving dew
Dancing in the labyrinth
That is all that's left of you.

Distance is a thoughtless lover
Leaving memories created
Giving thoughts which another
Time you will or would have hated.
Is this all that's left of us now?
Daydreams of time never there?
I can't see you, I can't hear you,
Can't speak evil to empty air.

Loss of self into this nightmare
Torturing so sweet I stay,
Relaxing into your arms softly
Smiling as you gently flay
My skin from bone my mind from heart
My soul from love, and all I know
Is every moment we're together
My torment, and yet my love, grows.

Her chilling stare throws
benevolence to ashes
and she pleas for the safety
of men from their dreams
and belittles ignorance
through taxes of shame
she throws unto the floor
the souls of her disciples
seeking a return to her home

I remember, most of all, the smell:
Plastic gauze antiseptic stench of the old
Lining the hallways,
Creeping out the doors with the wheelchairs.
The floors
Were neatly polished.
It was odd, I felt guilty
When I looked back and saw
I'd left a scuff mark.

When we pulled up
In the rusting blue pickup to visit,
There were two old men,
Draped out in lawn chairs in the front.
They lay there,
Awake but silent.
Too busy, I suppose,
Trying to figure out how long
They'll have to wait there.

Looking back,
I must have known,
It would be the last time alive.

Walking out, it seemed almost
Shorter than the way in.
I walked close by my father,
And we didn't speak.
We barely even thought.
As we walked,
I couldn't help but notice,
The scuff mark: still there.
I remember, I tried to rub it out.
But some things just won't go away.

Night shrinks the fabric of the city.
Rhinestone streetlights flare,
Like sequins on a stripper's costume

Tanned and toned Phaetons in Armani skins
Drive their feline luxury chariots, vanishing
Into the distance leaving tail-light fire hanging in the gloom.

And when they vanish, Mephistophilian,
In a cacaphony of chrome and bass,
In unison they turn and cry,
'Too fast to live, too young to die'

words weave their twisting lies
throughout my confused head
pulling me two ways at once
i stand still my feet stuck in the
thick mucous of life only a fleeting
moment in time the quicksand is
pulling me under and my mouth
burns with the bitter taste of
emptiness smoking it stings my
eyes squeezing the tears out drop by drop
they leave their golden tracks
upon my cheeks i reach my hand up to wipe
them away they wet my hands heavy
w/the weight
of the world and the hump on my
back
its still there

I leave my skin behind
And join the line of pearls,
The endless chain of lights.
I thing I can't be found
But I have ceased to worry
Here are the eyes, the lights.
I have joined the cattle
So loud and frantic,
Hurried.

she bends over the rose, soft blushed white by the winds
she raises her clippers and snips off a dead leaf, all the while singing
to herself a soft singing, songs of fairy tales and dreams
the leaf falls lifeless to the ground, black and bitter, cold and aged
she reaches up to pet the rose, to kiss it with her fingertips
to catch a whiff of nighttime perfume and starry skies, of romance
she draws back a pricking, blood falling, thorn broken
and goes about to the next flower... singing

the pounding drums penetrate the air
as i lean up to your ear but
you can't hear
me through the noise and your ear plugs
so instead i settle for bouncing next to you
hoping that the beer bottle in my bag
doesn't break
even thought it really isn't mine
i still carry it as though a child in my womb
and the crowd goes wild
i stagger back praying not to feel
the pain of slivered glass in my back
but i crash into the wall
my warm blood stains my
already soiled shirt to a deep
crimson
the smell of beer fills my nostrils
i cringe and recoil in disgust
and your hand brushes mine
bloody
a spark when they touch
you catch me when my legs buckle
and pull out the slivers
one by one
while the band plays on
filling me up w/dead noise
my forehead is smeared w/blood as you
brush my hair back

she walks wrapped in colors
her eyes moist with rain
her smile drowns in sunshine
emerald green on clouds of skin
red sings in her voice
and blue in her manner
while the weather reflects on her mood.

Poems,
are like watercolors
in the fact that
both my paintings and poems
end up looking like
blotches,
pimples,
genital warts,
upon the venus of the page.
However,
Unlike venereal warts,
my poetry is getting better.
I hope.