Sub Par
A voice comes to me,
slick and smooth,
like vanilla colored wax paper.
Every crinkle of imperfection
making it that much more stunning.
I don’t have to try to know,
I can’t respond in kind.
I’d stutter and babble,
the words lacking meaning
that I search for anyway.
Already, my mouth submerges
in its own moisture. My tongue is
heavy with indecision.
I can’t bear to face my
insufficiency.
I pretend I don’t want it to,
but I know it all fits together
in whatever logic I lack (hide from).
It’s not all right if I try (It’s ridiculous).
Divinity
is not attained by grabbing for the Sun.
Reaching skyward and staring,
all you get are sore arms and
blinded eyes. I’ll stop kidding myself
now.
American Dream
What’s your point? You go through life drinking your
café latte,
Building your empires to the clouds,
Praying to your corporate god,
Sacrificing virgin secretaries to increase revenue,
Beating your coked-out,
Botoxed,
Money-grubbing
Ex-prostitute wife because you caught her fucking your stock
broker on your velvet sheet Covered bed again,
Screaming about the dry cleaning bill and you’re convinced
that there is no better, more Important person on the planet
then you,
With your hair plugs,
Skin tightly pulled back from your face,
Designer clothes,
Imported cigars,
And yellow, shit-munching grin. You clutch to your bullshit
legacy, subliminally advertising Your seizure inducing messages
of godless debauchery to fatherless children being raised
by Cartoon characters and Ritalin, breeding consumerism
from innocence and naivety. Below the Mounds of lies you’ve
told yourself exists a nightmarish reality that you will
die and be Forgotten. And no one will care.
Cyclic
Wading through the endless sighs.
Taking in the absence of serenity.
The neural impulses of rabid slaves resonate in steady beats.
Their cumbersome chains bounce and rattle as the distant
thought of escape slips by like frigid blood through the
newly broken bone of a mindless insomniac.
The mere idea of revolution is their solace.
Their heaving chests threaten to rip open, exposing strained
ribs. In the end, the fattened stomachs of their masters
seem like the final destination of an eternal quest.
River Bed
I’ve been thinking so hard
that I can’t remember
the thought that got me started
in the first place.
You told me once that
my affections would get me in trouble.
I laughed and kissed your red cheek,
not truly understanding what you meant.
Yesterday I watched them
pull you from the river,
your dark long hair matted
to your puffy skin.
Watching the men wrap you
in cloth and take you away,
your words came to me again
to remind me to cry to them,
She was my affection.
Brian Lowe, 22, lives in New Jersey where he attends Fairleigh
Dickinson as a Literature major. He grew up on the Shore amid
a multitude of clashing cultures, from which he draws much
of his inspiration.
