2011 Poetry

Let’s Destroy Something

Michelle Jacquemotte

Let’s destroy something. Let’s destroy every-
thing. Let’s gather all the furniture in the house
and arrange it into a big pile in the back yard,
toss in our favorite shoes, light it on fire, then
sit in empty rooms, barefoot on the cold floor.

Let’s destroy something. Let’s destroy some-
thing expensive. Let’s drive to your mom’s
and wreck everything in her china cabinet,
break each blue Japanese plate, smash each
hand painted glass elephant to the ground.

Let’s destroy something. Let’s destroy some-
thing electronic. Let’s go to wal-mart and
melt ice cream over keyboards, cut headphones
into pieces, put ipods and cell phones into
blenders, then run over the stubborn parts
with our cars.

Let’s destroy something. Let’s destroy some-
thing homemade. Let’s make a breakfast:
french toast and eggs; let’s dress up, and
set the table with tea lights from a French café,
then we’ll Frisbee toss it over the fence,
into the neighbors’ backyard swimming pool.

Let’s destroy something. Let’s destroy some-
thing lovely. Let’s draw hard in thick black
crayon all over your little nieces’ kindergarten
drawings, smudge out the person with three legs,
the purple two headed triceratops, the girl with
a flower for an eye.

Let’s destroy something. Let’s destroy every-
thing. Better yet, let’s destroy ourselves. Let’s
swap identities; shave my head bald, you’ll grow
yours out long, and strawberry. I’ll wear an army
patch on my sleeve, spin you in circles on the dance
floor by your pinky. Let’s quit our jobs; you’ll walk
into your boss’s office, naked, singing The Miss
America song, then we’ll give away our house keys
to the first person we see on the street. Because who
needs suburbia, who needs things neat? Everything
put together will eventually fall apart; Let’s destroy
ourselves, Let’s disassemble from the start.

My Dad is Full

Isaac Banegas

I hid in the pink-tan curtains dipped in cigarette smoke
eyes squeezed to the smell. If my cousins found me
they would uncover me, reveal me, beat me.
I heard them laugh down the green carpet hallway.

The speech of my family is dirty dishes in the sink or
green and peach bathroom over sprayed with Glade.
Quiero hablar como mis primos and be loved for the
greasy milk that I am. Hide and seek is bilingual.

Nani says if we stay outside we can each have
a Nutty Buddy from the freezer in the cuartito
-when translated means oily red door, naked framing,
straw booms, and in rare cases, ice cream.

Closets that stay warm in the fall are words
stored in the dark coarse hair of el bigote de mi padre.
They work as una prima que sabe: I want as opposed
to you want. I grow blonde hair and mi abuelo me llame
guero with the rattle of brandy in his throat.

Rakes and shovels in the truck
estan una dia tipica en el calor de verano
and I am a vaquero en las calles.
Sudor son bilingüe.

Adam Crittenden (2)


Do you know what it means to feel your breath on my neck in the sunlit warmth of an early morning bed?
The New Mexico morning air is cold, pressing against our window.
We choose to ignore it.

Summer in California

Fall into the sandbar
with me, weld your skin
to mine,
squeezing away

Float along
the boardwalk
glazed in neon,
shades of red and blue.

a blanket over us
as we lay on cooling sand.

Alheli Harvey (2)


I got my hair cut,
and got this Black Swan shit along my neck where the clippers kissed my skin.
I’m still waiting for Mila Kunis to go down on me,
but this French ballet instructor keeps on asking me
“Why are you so weak?”

Snow White

Lady knew quite well what she was doing.
Biting the flesh off the core,
the hinge of her teeth gnawing at the crest of
that juicy red apex.
Lord, that’s gotta hurt when she realizes
Adam is the name of a snake.

Here She Goes

Bryant Million

Her thoughts march as steel-toed butterfly
would across four-mile electromagnetic flower
petal. And O! it is so, so hard to think thoughts when
ground hog throws remains of popsicle stick house
down from rafters. What child would suffer
of its playground? And semi-truck parked
outside window runs idle, awaiting sweet good
morning, she puts table spoon of butter in
cup of scotch, but it doesn’t seem to soothe idleness
nor desire for favorite candy. She reads
from orange book
and then green one and then so famous
black one with gold-lined pages. She counts out
dollar sixty-five in two nickels one dime
and rests in pennies. Then she lies on
back to begin to dream with tongue
instead of cheek
while household dusts (ninety percent her own
little flakes of skin) land secretly in her eye.  


Jacqi Trujillo

While the tv moans,
to an empty room
the scarlet
stove top
keeps dinner scalding,
as mother ruches
to change
for the occasion.

My father, 40 years today,
sits at the
perfectly set table
yet with a hint
of anticipation for
my mother to glide
through the door.

Upon her return
she models a satin,
royal blue, dress
with a zipper that
seamlessly follows
the curve of
her back

(His favorite)

He says it suits her.
But I know it’s
because of the sound
the zippers teeth make
as he draws them apart
for my mother
before bed.

Node to Film Theory Essays

Yedidya Quiroz

The philosophical essay on existentialism written through the lens of film theory.
The essay on the many faces of Thelma & Louise.
The essay on a semantic/syntactic approach to genre.
The essay on the fat woman who plays a fat woman,
who being an unruly woman,
is still the Domestic Goddess
on a sitcom called Roseanne.
The essay on gender, genre, and myth in Thelma & Louise.
The essay about a portrait on Crawford that gathers one image in three dimensions
used to explain the theory on how stars are made;
who is Jean Crawford again?
The essay I alt+f4.
The essay on the rhetoric of Stagecoach
that had nothing to do with the written word or persuasive speech.
The essay I will have to read on the appropriation of the gaze in Thelma & Louise.
The essay by Andre Bazin, a French man.
The essay on the making of Brad Pitt in Thelma & Louise.
The essay on Men, Women, and Chainsaws –
actually you were probably my favorite so far:
how the enshrined head of Mrs. Voorhees, stops Jason mid-chase and
how Michael breaks through the closet
to get stabbed in the eye by Laurie and
how Leather face carries a big knife and
how all the pretty girls get fucked
and fucked
and killed;
but there is one –
The Final Girl
who neglects her sexual desires
only to get chased, cornered, wounded,
who at last looks death straight in the face,
grabs the nearest sharp object
and finally kills
his body,

Now that’s what I call an essay.