Lately, So Much Wallpaper’s Stuck on Things that Aren’t Walls,
The news networks blink in code,
send out psychic flare guns.
“Help. I’m an illusion.”
At a high school desk last week, in
a black and white TV static sweater,
a girl peeled an almost clear,
empty plastic cup of water into bits.
Why don’t more people question object permanence?
Everything else vanishes.
She set them down to make a nest
of realities, organised like clementine segments.
But still: quite the mess.
I’ve never seen my face before.
All my parallel universe selves,
who’ve given me that “I get it” look,
from my mirror’s off limits side,
I miss knowing what was real,
back when I was wrong.
I miss having ethical precedent over people.
I wish anger was a real feeling at least once.
Been punching through my room’s walls,
to get the cosmic surveillance rig to reveal itself.
I cut my arm open, again and
again to find some source code.
There’s someone on the sidewalk.
I want to rip all that gift wrap off,
fall to my knees
“So that’s what you look like.”
Daniel Kuriakose is an 18 year old high school senior who loves poems and is scared of dying. He lives in Woodbridge, CT.
When he had finished writing, and crossing out
and standing and rewriting, and looking
out his window, and feeling the sun
I stood and watched you sleeping, had
stood there watching for nearly five minutes in
the shadow of the
hallway for nearly five minutes of circus
time before I dropped your purse on the chair, quiet as death
If I could, I’d use
my recently purchased cell phone
to call the pay phone outside
the community swimming pool
in Fairview Park, Normal, Illinois,
that summer when I was eleven,
and the country 200.
It was the night we were told we couldn’t pretend we were Catholic.
The priest turned only toward you and said, “It’s between you and God.”
And you cried.
I dream of her,
childish and illogical,
straight hair and tiger-eyes.
My punk-rock gothic-pixie little sister fourteen fresh faced
We listened to The Cure during art class Made bongs and pipes
out of ceramic You taught me how to kiss people who could
never love me
Supermassive Black Hole swallowed your cackle-low
Cosmos whisper pretty Come here darling and you come
I hope I never forget that pack of middle-schoolers
at the playground near my house, how they acted
like middle-schoolers, shouting their conversations
across the neighborhood as if showing off new sneakers,
the boys doing mean things to the girls,
the girls saying mean things about each other.
head, right arm
behind the back, fingers
curled around the left arm’s inner
We all live on the Hudson, America’s only true river. It’s
a driveway, a landing strip, and a dead end. The Hudson is not the only river
to become a school, but it is the only one once beheld by the likes of George
Washington, Melville, and Sir Winston Churchill.