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Student journal editor-in-chief shows off poetry skills

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Grass Matters

The wind waves 
over taxidermied trees; 
Leaves and berries pop 
like Technicolor 
and rays ultraviolet 
their way through cracks in honeycomb branches. 

The stream sidewinds
through the forest, blue and curving like a vein dancing on a forearm. 
Miniscule waterfalls wash over rocks 
baptizing and rinsing. 

Paths form,
originate organically out of the footsteps. 
Footprints form in the mud canvas. 
Puddles form when rain falls,
mosquito, gnats, and 
bugs found only under rocks, 
gather to drink. 
Communities coalesce in footprint pools. 

The rogue ground 
pops up and drops down 
at its own whim. 
Ankles are rolled 
and twisted like a rattail towel.

Blades of grass
cut coolly and gently 
around those who choose to sit or lie. 
Conforming obediently 
to anyone willing to rest. 
This grass is never mowed, 
but never seems to grow,
it is the most satisfactory size 
for the enjoyment of those walking through it. 

Logs lie, linking 
like a chain wrapped around the woods. 
The bark ripples and cracks, 
showing its elderly age. 
They’ve long fallen,
admirably serving a purpose in death. 
Forever resting on the 
grass mattress. 

There’s a soundtrack 
to the way the forest sounds off. 
Smooth instrumentals of crickets and birds 
sail and echo 
bouncing off the 
pitch 
pipe 
trees. 

Flatter lands sprawl beyond, 

arranging like an agricultural Checkers board. 

The sprawl does not 
have the same soundtrack. 
Crickets are gone and 
the birds don’t acapella 
their way through the fields and 
the sweeping sixty miles per hour 
in the distance 
carriers over and across 
the crops. 

EMP

Power surging, 
loose,
faulty line
and you’re not wearing 
rubber gloves. 

Careful what you grab
10,000 volts can kill you. 

Shock your heart
hope to die

you say reaching for the 
firefly-shooting whip.

Come on and
grab this end

Illuminated, you’re a good idea
hanging over a cartoon’s head.

Grab the alternate end
embrace electricity
we’ll play jump-rope 
with faulty lines.

Nathan Pesina, a senior writing major from Fort Knox, Ky., is the editor-in-chief of eleven40seven, a student-run, undergraduate journal of the arts that strives to present a student perspective that differs drastically from mainstream campus culture while promoting TCU’s artistic and creative endeavors. The first selection in this spread is an excerpt from a piece of his personal prose called “Desolation Row.” To read past issues of eleven40seven, visit 1147.tcu.edu

 

 

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