Prunk

I’m so sick of artists.
They make me want to puke.
I know I’ve gone too far
when I puke in the sick.

Unfortunately,
it’s hard to tell when I’m an artist
and when I’m drunk.

But I’ve been told they’re the same thing anyway.

At the reading

I was much more amused thinking

of her playing the accordion

naked.

holding on is holding back

I like to save everything
and put them in boxes
to store on the shelf
or under my bed
piling up lumps underneath my head
so that the memories can stay with me
and I'll never forget

but my room feels kind of cluttered lately
and the boxes are overflowing
the papers and pictures are scattered all over my floor
stacked up to the ceiling
I can't even see out my window anymore
my memories are too messy
maybe I should throw them all out

besides,
there are some things that can't be saved
and they don't fit in boxes, anyway
I have to just hold them
and that makes it really hard to do other things


- kaitlee

Greens

not everyone likes broccoli anyway
maybe you like it with herbs and spices
maybe thats how id make it

___ but i can't be your chef today
I'm ___ i cant cook right now
i wish i could

not everyone likes their greens

but i hope that i have stirred you
to make make some tasty veggies

-kevin

Sauce

I think that the sketchiest word is
      sauce.
If I tell you I’m gonna put some
      sauce
on your food, I haven’t said anything at all, except
      "I'm gonna put some liquid on your food,"
which, again, isn’t saying anything at all.

There are many liquids
that I don’t want put on my food.

Sacarine

"For some reason, when I saw this I JUST had to get it for you.
since you like pandas, i figured you could act like one."

she sent me a package of
sugar cane,

and always ends her letters

"Luv--"

Looking Down, Looking Up

Sometimes it’s like stepping in gum

Right outside the 24 hour donut shop

Run by the Thai man who reminds you

Of what could be God

Or is.

And you run inside and ask him

For a plastic knife to help scrape it off

But all he’s got

Is incense and apple fritters.

Everywhere around you buses start their engines

Warming up for a brand new day

While you try to scrape your gumshoe

On the clueless concrete

Asking yourself how you grew up so fast

How you got here

Without a car to drive in

And what will happen

When the buses don’t run.

And you look to the sleepless

Thai man for answers

But he responds with more questions:

“Coffee?  Donut?

What kine you like?”

By Owen

Seattle is a Synapse, or, A Poem Fit for a Bus

Seattle is a synapse
and Greenlake a vessicle
the boats in Lake Union
are like the ACh in the cleft
exciting my post synaptic response
depolorizing me
creating an action potential
through the capitol hillock
and down myelinated I-5
to the axon terminal
gate B-14
across the cleft between me and my home

- Kaitlee

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