CalArts Eye, May Edition

THE CALARTS EYE
a knot forms in my throat and
tears trickle down my face as they
dance to old school Missy Elliot
and sip on their beer. I feel distant
and hot and I’m melting again. Inside
I am falling apart, inside I am
grimy countertops and scratched
wooden floors and chipping walls.
Inside I am melting. On the outside
it is beginning to show. Now
it’s mid-august but my summer
still has a month to go. The movement
is ending, the momentum is
at its close, and I only look forward
to one thing. There are moments
of bliss and infinity when
I stop crying and see harmony
in the world. It’s getting better I
think. I see my favorite band play
my favorite song; I move without
lethargy, I am happy and inspired
and reminded that this is only a
season. I remember the day weeks
after and wish to relive it. I place
it in a special crevice in my heart.
It’s early September and it’s almost
over. I coin this the worst
summer ever because I cried for
more than half of its entirety. I’m
lazy and unmotivated. I promise
never to return for months at end
again. I remember how much love
I receive, how grateful I should be,
I cry because I’m leaving. I cry
because the season came to an
end but the feelings remain. I cry
because I won’t have my mom’s
bed to lie on. I sleep it off. I don’t
think about it. My playlist replays
as we get a ride home, drunk and
depressed with glitches of happiness
as the cool air touches my
face, making sure I don’t melt
away. One time we stayed awake
until the sunrise, drove home on
an empty freeway at 90mph, and
I felt the wind blow my sadness
away. I was finally exhausted
from lack of sleep, I fall asleep in
my sisters arms as the day begins.
Poem for my mother on her 70th Birthday
DREW STRAUS
CHARLIE LATAN
10
So, this is you at 70, sitting
by the library window.
Your tinsel hair, lank and gleaming,
sends glowing fish
over the surface of the books,
all the way to where the canaries
lay sleeping,
near the stacked
flutes. Your hands fold and shift
in your lap
like tiny bellows. The shelllike
room
fills with echoes.
Let’s walk together,
past the garden,
where the trees bloomed in
violence,
to my table
tucked between valleys
cupped by leaves.
How loud does one speak
to the dead? Across the table
you sit with you hair like stars.
Your voice
whistles past the house,
and rustles a book in the library.
After you blow out the candles,
I wait for you to speak. Some
sounds
are found so far from their origin,
that the source has long since
dried up.
It is no surprise to hear your voice
now. Lift me to your ear
to hear the sound of the sea.