I fear not what the day will bring me because I know that everything happens for a reason.

I fear not what others say about me because I know what is truly in my heart and who I truly am.

I fear not what others may do to try to hurt me because I am a survivor.

I fear not what love has to bring me.

I fear not what has happened in my life because they are all lessons in which to be learned from.

I fear not to be alone because it is what needs to be right now.

I fear not what tomorrow holds. For the grace of God is with me and inside me. He will see me through the toughest and saddest of times. He will shine His face on me and give me peace.

by Michelle Brown

this is the I fucking T of tech
touch my PDA
I’ll cyberfuck ya

my processor surpasses my professors
20 gigs…at least

upload? FUCK
i do it real time
download that          dialup pussy

i’m connected, stimulated, combined
meshed, updated,
and Virus free …lets POKE

this is it…you can’t peck the keys
fast enough
i’m you now            don’t restart
just think it

we’re interfacing baby
and we gliding all the way
fireport to fireport

my battery’s small, but it’s all
about the hardware
hours and hours
no forced closing

lets hook up
hop on the lynksis G router
then get off at Zanzsibars free WIFI hub

whatever you do         do not
do not sub-route yourself via the AOL line
there’s a nasty new group out there
The Trojans           they’ll fuck you up
you’ll be crashin like a Commodore 64 on crack

another thing….your processor better be fast
just like your profile says
don’t bullshit me

i’ll flash your hard drive
forever

i
i’ve been burned before
my firewall insulates my ports now
the only inflow
is my flow
my world       only my PLASMA colored lenses

it’s not worth it
getting fucked
I have two firewalls

but I’m not afraid of crashin’
know what I type?

fuck cremation
slap me in 16 gig flash tomb
and you can download on me all you want
over
and over               til you have to recharge

you see
we’re all riding this USB cable
The Megabytes
The Kilobytes, and those others
yeah, them…

it’s all one pixel now
plasma         LCD
doesn’t matter

Touch my screen

Please

by William Graydon

I wanted to write you a poem.
Something true from my heart to speak to yours.
I wanted it to be the most clever, innovative, brilliant putting together of words you had ever experienced.

I wanted you to realize the beauty in my minds eye with the words on the page
the words I was speaking.
The words…
There is my dilemma.

Because what words are right to tell you that you make my heart smile?
See, those words aren’t right at all.
Its not a smile as much as its a cheeky grin, the kind of involuntary face twitch when you know you’ve really gotten over on someone, but that’s not the feeling behind the grin

Its really that you’re interesting.

You’ve lived the life of ten Andy Warhols.

And how can I impress someone who’s lived a life like that?
I don’t have any dharma bum tales, or stories of life on the road.
I don’t have any blues to speak of, my life’s been pretty ordinary – just a life.

I wasn’t up ’til four in the morning at a small cafe in Paris, smoking cigarettes and drinking espresso, writing what’s new, and fresh, and reinvented.

I didn’t backpack through Europe, meet up with poets like me, and join forces with them in our inevitable quest for meaning.

And yet I find myself leafing through memories in some pathetic attempt to find the place where, probably in a former life, our souls touched.

See, even “our souls touched” sounds so trite
                                                                           so cliché
So, I’m attempting a version of the truth here, even though my dad says there are no versions of the truth, there is just truth and I kind of agree with him on some level.

The problem with honest writing is that it gets boring real quick.
Honesty is dull, lifeless. And the great thing about poet-ing is that i can create whatever version of reality i desire, only the version i’m searching for is the one where you see me: bare, trembling

by Kat Douse

Biography

Kat Douse is a current student at SCF, Venice Campus. She enjoys her exciting career as a barista, and her challenging course load. She grew up in Brentwood, TN, and relocated to Venice, FL in 2002. She loves writing, especially poetry, and hopes to continue it for as long as she can.

Feeling its effects, my mind stumbles
lost,
Panic driving the mush of my gray matter to form the missing link between Allen Ginsberg and Saul Williams.
I find,
myself
In between the cracks of decaying words
crumbling,
detaching,
reforming
creating
new
bridges across decades from “Howl” to “Om”
reaching new horizons previously painted with “revolutionary breakthroughs”
telling, screaming, willing the masses to hear truth through
pronouns, adverbs (not too many), nouns, adjectives, verbs
verbs
verbs
Because,
writing is not the same as speaking is not the same as doing is not the same as committing is not the same as believing is not the same as living
Saul and Allen both will me to live the same freedom,
Just with different voices.
And as I slide down the “down turn” in spoken word, slipping through vague recordings and reading words on a page whose power is negated by the black and white print, I realize this panel knows nothing of truth.
This panel:
not comprised of collaborators endeavoring to create
not well-rounded with masters of weaving words
is not qualified to pass judgment on this craft,
just beginning its first phase of evolution.
Thus, confirmation becomes obsolete, as I wander through corridors of language mazes and printed powerless combinations
of
just
words.

by Kat Douse

Biography

Kat Douse is a current student at SCF, Venice Campus. She enjoys her exciting career as a barista, and her challenging course load. She grew up in Brentwood, TN, and relocated to Venice, FL in 2002. She loves writing, especially poetry, and hopes to continue it for as long as she can.

Behind Building 700 where life imitates art,
Are beautiful birds of all sorts, sizes and shapes.
Behind Building 700 is where I learn my trade,
Watching life imitate art.
Behind Building 700 I find my soul in the water,
Which also imitates art.
Behind Building 700 the lilies dance upon water,
Not always being seen as they imitate art.
Behind Building 700 the tall grasses sway in the breeze,
Imitating living art.
Behind Building 700 peace comes in waves of chirps,
Singing a song of imitating art.
Behind Building 700 the air is fresh with a clean smell of grass and dirt,
Imitating the smell of art.
Behind Building 700 is where I find myself,
My life, imitating art.

By Gina Eairheart

For you
I wish the pain of a thousand Australian saltwater crocodile’s jaws around your
All-Knowing-High-And-Mighty pretentious zit of a head.
Each jagged dagger pinching against your temple
And popping through your degrading hazel eyes
One tooth inserted through your ear canal,
Puncturing the thin drum and pressing against your cochlear,
Throwing off your equilibrium and as you fall to the ground
You land, briefly,
In the warm gaping mouth of an
Eighteen foot male during mating season at sundown
And he has the power to control each tooth
–one at the base of your occipital lobe, one against your forehead–
So that the last thing you see before that nail of death enters your skull
Is your brain splattered pinkish-grey on the roof of its clenched jaws.

by Chelsey Lucas

Biography

I’m a literature- and poetry-loving student of English!

we
are born writers, each of us
possessing genes with encryptions and encodings for
haireyesheightsexnailsteeth
every break in the chain is a chance
to rewrite ourselves—me, you, us

we
are born lovers
in our double helix dance
trading, exchanging, learning
growing, fucking, dying
leaving a mark on the hearts of
each other

we, you & me
      it’s in our DNA.

by Chelsey Lucas

Biography

I’m a literature- and poetry-loving student of English!

What is music?
Is it notes on a page?
Is it chords, arpeggios, scales, sharps, or flats?
Is it melody, harmony, alto, or bass?
Maybe.
Or,
Maybe,
It is the calming effect on a crying child.
It is the calming effect on you after a bad day.
It is the feel of the keys under your fingers.
It is knowing that you are capable of creating something beautiful.
It is feelings of anguish, sadness, love, and happiness.
It is emotion.
It is you.

by Grace Duyn

Always flowing, never slowing
splashing loud upon the rocky shore,
deep as the pit of my heart,
darker than the moonless night,
full of life, yet devouring all who dare to tame her.
Careless as a child, bolder than the lion,
an unstoppable force, the river.

by Michael DeLoach

Showering colors of mimosa and lilac
Gained inspiration from the organic sativa
Under the chandelier blooms on a ligustrum tree,
Until a philanthropist came one day
And brought with him syphilis and semantics,
As well as gluttonous scarabs, juggernauts, and thimbles.
They even brought ergonomic capitalism,
But the conundrum of it all
Was their eternal destiny
Of flesh eating predictability,
Until one day a Rasta came with a Revolution of Sunshine.

by Brittany Hoffman