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Date Created
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2024
Type
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Image
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Jamie Jenkins
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204c2d600857ee642c4d20678aa3f93d
PDF Text
Text
Methodfa'i E^iasit're
Jamie L. Smith
Non-Fiction
I fell In love once between midnight kisses and sunrise sex. I told him
my secrets. I had been molested as a child and raped at twenty. He carved
“damaged” into my skin. On a beautiful spring day, six months pregnant
with our son he told me dating a woman with children is the lowest thing a
man could do. He carved "unwanted” into my skin. While holding our threemonth-old son he told me I was just some bitch that had his baby. He carved
“unloved" into my skin. I found a way to make those words disappear, to erase
them from my skin. I found a method for erasure, and it was the high I would
chase for fifteen years.
I found that glorious feeling when I was treated for migraines. It was
right before America found it had an opioid epidemic. I could get a ready
supply. I started out with migraines, real ones, not the psychosomatic migraines
I would later use to get pain meds. Hydrocodone was the most preferred. It
was the best at achieving the disappearing effect I wanted. It was the only thing
that erased the words carved into my skin.
My method was simple. I wouldn't eat anything all day. It's best to
take drugs on an empty stomach for maximum effect. I would take three
hydrocodone pills when I got home. I didn’t add any other drugs until after I
felt it take hold. It was like a shot of whiskey hitting my stomach and the heat
radiating throughout the body. The erasure started in the abdomen; it didn’t
radiate heat, but the empty darkness grew. The words would disappear from
my skin, and I could hide for a short time in that void. When the erasure took
hold, it was glorious.
Mom found me, she always found me. My face ashen with labored
breathing and heavy-lidded eyes. I looked half dead as she tried to get me up
to walk around. Her voice told me this time was different. “Jamie, you need to
get up, ok? You need to walk around, drink some water— Jamie, you need to
get up. JAMIE! Please get up. JAMIE? JAMIE? Wake up honey, get up. You've
got to get up.”
Mom called 911 after my dad came home. This time nothing she
usually did to help me in these situations was working. I stumbled and fell, and
I couldn’t walk with or without her help. She asked the EMTs not to run the
sirens. She didn’t want a spectacle and didn’t want to explain the situation to
the neighbors: her daughter overdosed like a junky on a heroin binge. “Jamie
stand up. The ambulance is coming. Come on Jamie!”
6^tk CdLtunilUx.'uibi'ic
XXXVII
�M£thadfd'i S'tasn'iC
The Narcan came first, a drug given to overdose patients particuiarly
when narcotics are invoived. Mom sat on a stool beside my bed. She patted
my arm periodically to let me know she was there. In some ways it reassured
her that her baby would be ok. I had an oxygen mask on and was lying quite
still. The ER doctor worked quietly giving the nurses directions. They poked and
prodded with IVs, needles collecting blood, wires connecting machines that
didn’t make sense to me. Mom was talking to the doctor and I could hear Darth
Vadar standing vigil, breathing.. . waiting. .. breathing.. . waiting...
I lay motionless, gray with labored breathing, on the gurney as the
doctor checked me for my vital signs Mom patted my arm again to let me know
she was there. She patted my arm to reassure herself that I was still there. The
doctor came back and felt my neck around my esophagus. He wrote some
information on my chart and said to Mom, “I normally can’t tell you all of these
things, but I just felt her to see if there was a reflex. Normally when someone is
still with us, they have a small response when you touch them there.”
"She had been doing so well with her sobriety. 1 don’t understand,”
Mom didn’t know that I had gotten a shot and hydrocodone pills.
The doctor, quiet and grave, "No, no she hasn’t. Her levels show five
different medications at higher doses than prescribed.”
"Oh.”
He gave mom a fast tap on the shoulder, swallowed, and nodded. It
was all he could do.
“Will she be ok.. . when she wakes up?”
“We will have to see when she wakes up. But for now she is showing
signs of improvement and we’re going to be sending her to the ICU.”
I don’t know how long I was in the hospital, days didn’t mean anything,
everyday and everyone bled into the other until I had recovered enough to be
discharged. I had only a t-shirt when I came into the ER and had thrown up on
it some time in the ICU. I had no clothing to go home in. The discharge nurse
had provided me with a two sizes too small t-shirt and billowing MC Hammer
sweatpants. To add to the indignity, I had no bra or underwear. I had to wear
hospital socks home because I had no shoes. I had no one to pick me up. I
couldn’t get in touch with my mother.
Apologies didn’t mean anything coming from me. Mom had stopped
listening to them years ago. Promises meant nothing as well. Mom wasn’t
going to forgive me this time. After fifteen years, two rehab stints, two
overdoses, and one near-death experience, the sincerity of my repentance
XXXVIII
Expression Magazine
�Methodfox E'lasu'ie
obtusely ignored. I didn’t mean any of it then, but this time, this time was
different.
The hospital provided me with a cab voucher, I sat in a lone brown
pleather chair in front of the entrance to the hospital. Little old ladies shuffled
past me not meeting my eyes. Other people came and went with quick smiles
and eyes darting to other places besides me. I didn’t know what I looked like.
I had taken a shower after throwing up, but I didn’t know which day that had
been. I had all of my hospital swag in a clear plastic trash bag. I tried to make
myself small so no one would see me or recognize me. I wanted to disappear
again. Erase everything.
1 took the remaining three pills when I got home before I changed my shirt.
64th CditianUte'iatM.'ie
XXXIX
�
Text
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Title
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Method for Erasure
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2024
Type
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Text
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Jamie L. Smith
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ENG
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4b6f2b06c3952412c92c2c6377094e38
PDF Text
Text
rkc Erosion ofAhs. Montgomcy
Jamie L Smith
Fiction
Wind and sand had long eroded the shuttered and boarded up
businesses of the small town. Old signs, once brightly painted, were stripped,
coated with grit dulled to gray. Now, the edges of the town had begun to erode
with the strength of the wind. Wayward tumbleweeds gathered at the corners
of derelict buildings that held a lifetime of memories. Buildings like The Strand,
the first and only movie theater which stood at the edge of downtown. Once a
popular destination now left to the elements, left to the erosion, left to mark the
end. The old movie theater held many firsts: kisses, breakups, love, lust, and
laughter. Mrs. Montgomery remembered her first kiss with Mr. Montgomery, as
she drove by on her way to nowhere, away from everything.
She stopped in the middle of the grocery store's parking lot. The
cracked and sunbleached charcoal-gray lot was empty except for the carnival
workers putting away rides and packing up prizes. She watched as the wind
tore at the workers, the visible grit from the windstorm made the packing and
moving of large sections of the rides much more difficult.
She gripped the steering wheel—angry, frustrated, sad, and feeling
very much alone. Tears refused to form; they had formed so much lately that
she felt crying was a waste of time. Large tumbleweeds blew by catching
her attention. She watched them disappear into an empty space of closed
industrial buildings, and a knock at the driver's window startled her. A man bent
over as she opened the window, the wind whipping her hair around, “Yes.. .?”
***
As a young girl, Mrs. Montgomery lived sandwiched between
the boom and bust cycles of Wyoming. Her father had been a coal miner in the
little town of Honor, Wyoming. The land had been divested of its trees for the
trains when it ran on wood, in the first decades of the railroad’s existence. What
remained was sand, sagebrush, and coal. Patches of grass could be seen, but
not many, and certainly not in abundance. The Montgomerys lived in a trailer
owned by the mines, never having a home of her own. Her family eventually
moved to Carbon for work.
**«
“Honey, I bought a new Magic card for the game tonight. It’s supposed
to level up and destroy, giving me more mana,” said Mr. Montgomery, as he
proudly displayed a card with a zombie and scythe.
XLVIII
Cxf'iesstoti Magazine
�The C'lasuin of M'ls. Atnntgomci^
Annoyed, Mrs. Montgomery began folding clothes. Each shirt
somewhat mangled in bitter frustration. Snapping a red shirt forcefully, “First,
darling, didn’t we decide on no more Magic cards for a while? Maven has a
choir trip to New York in a month and Mark Jr. is getting braces in the spring.
Second, dear, didn’t we decide to have more family time. You're gone more
than you’re home.”
«**
Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery were high school sweethearts with a
future laid out before them. After high school, they married quickly, and Mr.
Montgomery went to college to become a chemical engineer. She took a job in
the same college’s alumni association’s office. The job provided a living, while
her husband studied.
Before Mr. Montgomery’s graduation from college, Maddox was
born. He was fair-skinned with soft, chestnut hair. His hazel eyes sparkled
with intelligence, even at a week old. After Maddox came Maven and Mark Jr.
Maven had stunning, glacier-like eyes that pierced through anyone who met
her gaze. She was softer in her nature than either of her brothers. Mark Jr. had
deep, brown eyes with secrets behind them, Mrs. Montgomery was sure of it.
She thought their family was finally complete. After a while, Mr. Montgomery
found a job with a drilling company. A few years later, Mrs. Montgomery quit her
job to take care of her young children. With only one person working, money
was always tight. He provided adequately, but it wasn’t enough for the grand
future Mrs. Montgomery planned, and year by year, her plans eroded, like the
soil of the nearby windswept Wyoming prairie.
The Montgomerys lived in one of many trailer parks inhabited by oil
field workers. Theirs was a fancy, modular home, the contemporary version of
a double-wide, made beautiful by a garden, white trellis, and ivy covering the
deck. Wild yellow roses grew on either side of the porch. The yellow dulled by
constantly-shifting sand, grit, and wind. She was first-generation in a town full
of legacies. She could only reach a certain level in the small-town society, until
she was reminded that she would never quite belong.
Mr. Montgomery stood, arms crossed, jaw jutted forward, looking
belligerent. Wednesdays were his days. He provided for the family, worked
overtime for Christmas, and she got to stay home. It was his only night to play
Magic: The Gathering. He admitted to himself that he had not wanted to be
home for any length of time, for a long time.
64th EdUianUteiaticic
XLIX
�The TiasuM afM'is. Mont^omc'y
Wind and sand had long eroded the shuttered and boarded up
businesses of the small town. Old signs, once brightly painted, were stripped,
coated with grit dulled to gray. Now, the edges of the town had begun to erode
with the strength of the wind. Wayward tumbleweeds gathered at the corners
of derelict buildings that held a lifetime of memories. Buildings like The Strand,
the first and only movie theater which stood at the edge of downtown. Once a
popular destination now left to the elements, left to the erosion, left to mark the
end. The old movie theater held many firsts: kisses, breakups, love, lust, and
laughter. Mrs. Montgomery remembered her first kiss with Mr. Montgomery, as
she drove by on her way to nowhere, away from everything.
She stopped in the middle of the grocery store’s parking lot. The
cracked and sunbleached charcoal-gray lot was empty except for the carnival
workers putting away rides and packing up prizes. She watched as the wind
tore at the workers, the visible grit from the windstorm made the packing and
moving of large sections of the rides much more difficult.
She gripped the steering wheel—angry, frustrated, sad, and feeling
very much alone. Tears refused to form; they had formed so much lately that
she felt crying was a waste of time. Large tumbleweeds blew by catching
her attention. She watched them disappear into an empty space of closed
industrial buildings, and a knock at the driver’s window startled her. A man bent
over as she opened the window, the wind whipping her hair around, "Yes...?’’
★ **
As a young girl, Mrs. Montgomery lived sandwiched between the boom
and bust cycles of Wyoming. Her father had been a coal miner in the little town
of Honor, Wyoming. The land had been divested of its trees for the trains when
it ran on wood, in the first decades of the railroad’s existence. What remained
was sand, sagebrush, and coal. Patches of grass could be seen, but not many,
and certainly not in abundance. The Montgomerys lived in a trailer owned by
the mines, never having a home of her own. Her family eventually moved to
Carbon for work.
*★*
“Honey, I bought a new Magic card for the game tonight. It's supposed
to level up and destroy, giving me more mana,” said Mr. Montgomery, as he
proudly displayed a card with a zombie and scythe.
Annoyed, Mrs. Montgomery began folding clothes. Each shirt
somewhat mangled in bitter frustration. Snapping a red shirt forcefully, “First,
darling, didn’t we decide on no more Magic cards for a while? Maven has a
choir trip to New York in a month and Mark Jr. is getting braces in the spring.
1_
Txp'iesdott Magazine
�The T'losion ofM'lS. Mant^ome'i^
Second, dear, didn’t we decide to have more family time. You're gone more
than you’re home.”
**«
Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery were high school sweethearts with a
future laid out before them. After high school, they married quickly, and Mr.
Montgomery went to college to become a chemical engineer. She took a job in
the same college’s alumni association's office. The job provided a living, while
her husband studied.
Before Mr. Montgomery's graduation from college, Maddox was
born. He was fair-skinned with soft, chestnut hair. His hazel eyes sparkled
with intelligence, even at a week old. After Maddox came Maven and Mark Jr.
Maven had stunning, glacier-like eyes that pierced through anyone who met
her gaze. She was softer in her nature than either of her brothers. Mark Jr. had
deep, brown eyes with secrets behind them, Mrs. Montgomery was sure of it.
She thought their family was finally complete. After a while, Mr. Montgomery
found a job with a drilling company. A few years later, Mrs. Montgomery quit her
job to take care of her young children. With only one person working, money
was always tight. He provided adequately, but it wasn’t enough for the grand
future Mrs. Montgomery planned, and year by year, her plans eroded, like the
soil of the nearby windswept Wyoming prairie.
The Montgomerys lived in one of many trailer parks inhabited by oil
field workers. Theirs was a fancy, modular home, the contemporary version of
a double-wide, made beautiful by a garden, white trellis, and ivy covering the
deck. Wild yellow roses grew on either side of the porch. ITie yellow dulled by
constantly-shifting sand, grit, and wind. She was first-generation in a town full
of legacies. She could only reach a certain level in the small-town society, until
she was reminded that she would never quite belong.
Mr. Montgomery stood, arms crossed, jaw jutted forward, looking
belligerent. Wednesdays were his days. He provided for the family, worked
overtime for Christmas, and she got to stay home. It was his only night to play
Magic: The Gathering. He admitted to himself that he had not wanted to be
home for any length of time, for a long time.
"Now, we talked about this... It's the only downtime I get when I’m
home.”
“And,” Mrs. Montgomery raised her eyebrow, matching his stance. She
was fixing to go- a-round with Mr. Montgomery, but she stopped herself.
★**
64th. Teiitlim.Ute'iatieit
Li
�Maddox would graduate with a welding certificate, and nothing more
to offer the world. Maven was a junior varsity cheerleader that could sing, but
not well enough to compete on American Idol. It was her aspiration to become
a pop singer like Arianna Grande or Selina Gomez; to have a brand of her
own like the Kardashians. However, no one would tell her the truth: she was
destined to become a single mother at 18, pregnant by a transient roustabout
who would disappear with the oil, like the vast number of oil field girls before
her. As for Mark Jr., he was the least-favorite child. Mrs. Montgomery loved him,
but didn’t like him, and she felt guilty every time she looked at him. She pitied
him and spoiled him as a result. His father tolerated him, but Mark Jr. laughed
at fart jokes and had a constantly-running nose. He did little to dispute that his
future wouldn’t involve more than working graveyards at the C-store just off the
only exit ramp to Interstate 80, a highway and a boy going nowhere.
***
Mr. Montgomery watched as Mrs. Montgomery mangled the clothes.
He was certain that he had triumphed over her, and his face smirked as
she scrutinized him. Jaw clenched, the red shirt balled in her hand, Mrs.
Montgomery took a deep breath, preparing to continue the argument.
Suddenly, she clenched the shirt tighter and a hot, liquid rage burned bright, as
she reached for her purse, “Well, fine, just fine. Fine,” is all she said.
When Mrs. Montgomery gets mad, the rage stiffens her back. Her
face grows angular, her lips compress into a thin, colorless line, and her
cheekbones more pronounced. She walked with stooped shoulders to the front
door, refusing to look back. Mr. Montgomery knew he won the fight; however,
Mrs. Montgomery won the war. She walked out of the modular home and
disappeared with the wind.
As the gauzy days of August passed, the wild grass faded to yellow,
tumbleweeds formed. Wind storms moved the dirt of summer through town,
coating everything in its path with discomfort. Mrs. Montgomery disappeared,
just as the carnival left town. Some say she was murdered, others whispered
that she was involved in a love affair and had run off with a carnie half her age.
The Ladies Auxiliary Club gossiped that Mr. Montgomery had
something to do with her disappearance. Still, others thought she might have
been the latest victim of a witch’s coven that met on the nights of new moons.
The little old ladies of the Baptist Revival Church, who drank a spot of tea
with a snifter of brandy, murmured to one another of sinister deeds. Al they
knew was that a menacing wind blew through the streets of town the day Mrs.
Montgomery disappeared.
LI I
Exfiessian Magazine.
�
Text
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Print Magazine
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The Erosion of Mrs. Montgomery
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Date Created
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2024
Type
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Text
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Jamie L. Smith
Language
A language of the resource
ENG
Is Part Of
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Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.
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CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2024_Prose_06
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Casper College
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ce8685a5723758465243e6e75e5de091
PDF Text
Text
THE PERFECT CRIME
Jane Logan
“Stanford, get your feet off the coffee table, and button your collar,” a
shrill femine voice called.
“Yes, Eunice,” the harried husband replied as he obeyed. Under his
breath, however, he muttered, “just you wait.”
Stanford, you see, was going to murder his wife; or as he liked to say
to himself, “Do away with the old bag.” He intended to make this the crime
of the Gentry—the perfect crime. In fact, it would be so perfect no one
would ever know a crime had been committeed. That was his only regret—■
he would never win fame for his greatest achievement. But then, peace of
mind was worth more than fame anyway.
That very afternoon he initiated step one of O. P. C. (operation per
fect crime).
“Eunice,” he said, “how would you like to do some travelling—see the
country. You’ve always talked about doing that. Money’s no object, you
know. We can sell the house so we won’t be bothered with renters or care
takers. Then we’ll just start driving—go where we want, stop when we like.
We’ll see the country, then settle down wherever catches your fancy.”
Eunice hardly took time to say “Yes” before she began making plans
for the trip. She found hundreds of errands for Stanford, she made him
carry heavy trunks and suitcases up and down stairs, and she talked con
stantly in her falsetto voice—issuing commands, commenting, complaining,
and giving more orders.
While Stanford was working, he was planning. Soon he carried out
step two of O. P. C. with Eunice’s full consent and knowledge. He trans
ferred all of their money to a secret, numbered account in a Swiss bank.
Only he and Eunice and his insurance company knew the account num
ber. Then he reworded his will, so that whoever knew the account number
would be his heir.
At last the house was sold, the goodbyes said, and the mountain of
luggage packed into a shiny new convertible, which Stanford had purchased
especially for the trip.
Off at last! Eunice back-seat drove, complained constantly, ate vora
ciously, spent money like a corrupt politician, and mailed dozens of picture
postcards to her friends. Stanford smiled throughout the continuous ordeal
as he planned step three of O. P. C.—again with Eunice’s full knowledge
and consent.
“Do you realize, Eunice, the tremendous sum of money you and I’ve
spent on life insurance? If only there were some way we could get that
money now, while we’re still alive.”
—29—
�“Isn’t there any way we could get it?” Eunice asked.
“Well, yes, but it’s not legal, and if we were caught doing it, we’d go
to prison.”
“What would we have to do? If we were smart, we wouldn’t get
caught.” Eunice replied.
“Somehow, we’d have to appear to have died, then when things cooled
down, we could withdraw all our own money from the Swiss bank, plus
that which the insurance company would deposit to our account if we died.”
Under persistent questioning, Stanford revealed his plan. There was a
little traveled scenic road on their itinerary. The road twisted down a nar
row canyon beside a deep, swift river. Stanford recalled that he had
once read an account of an auto accident in this canyon. The vehicle had
missed a sharp curve and run off into the river. The swift current of the
river had apparently torn the lone driver’s body out a window, and his
body had never been found. Stanford had studied the situation carefully
and decided there would soon be another accident in this canyon.
The next afternoon he and Eunice checked into two motels in a large
town a six hour’s drive from the canyon. At one motel they registered as
the brown-haired couple, Mr. and Mrs. Stanford Wright. They were driving
a red convertible with a Missouri license plate. At the second motel they
registered as Mr. and Mrs. Henry Smyth. They now had very gray hair and
wore sunglasses. They were driving a second-hand car with a temporary
permit, which Stanford had just purchased under his new name. Then they
went out and purchased new wardrobes and credentials to complete their
disguises.
Late the following afternoon they checked out of both motels and
left—Stanford driving the convertible, Eunice following in the other car.
Late that night they reached the appointed place in the canyon.
It was the work of only a few minutes to transfer all the personal ef
fects of the Wrights into the convertible and drive it to the very edge of the
river, where the bank dropped straight off into the swirling black waters.
Then, leaving the convertible running and in gear, Stanford got out, got into
the other car, drove it up behind the convertible and gave it a helpful push.
There was a loud splash, a gurgling noise, then only the rushing roar of
the waters, Eunice and Stanford climbed into the second-hand car and
drove off—now officially Florence and Henry Smyth.
The next day they rented an isolated mountain cabin and awaited
events. Two days later their efforts were rewarded. The following notice ap
peared in the newspaper, which Stanford purchased at a gas station a few
miles from the cabin.
Hunnesville, Colo. (UPI)-—Authorities yesterday discovered a
car in the Rio Peligro after an unidentified person notifed them
of car tracks which appeared to go directly into the river. A
—30—
�search turned up a red, 1964 convertible about 100 yards below
the point of entry. The swift current had badly damaged the ve
hicle. No sign has been found of the occupants of the car, who
must have been swept away by the swift current.
The next day’s paper contained this terse notice.
Hunnesville, Colo. (UPI)—The occupants of the car found two
days ago in the Rio Peligro have been identified as Mr. and Mrs.
Stanford M. Wright of Mankin, Missouri. They were identified
through vehicle registration and the testimony of a motel owner
here, who recalled that they had stayed at his place the night be
fore the accident. Their bodies have not yet been found.
Now Stanford settled down to step four of O. P. C.—this time without
Eunice’s knowledge or consent. He spent two afternoons in the thick timber
a quarter of a mile from the cabin, digging a hole. It measured six feet
long, two feet wide, and five feet deep.
On the second afternoon Stanford was working in the hole. It was
nearly finished. His spade made a chunking sound on the hard earth, then
there was a splat as he carefully piled the earth on a large canvas. Sud
denly he heard a noise. He turned, straightened, and looked out of the hole.
He found himself staring straight at a pair of woman’s ankles.
You left the pick at the cabin, Stanford,” Eunice said as she brought
the pointed instrument down onto his skull.
BURDEN
Sheala Dunn
It was a cold day, a dark day for doing many things, but certainly not
the kind of a day to spend taking care of a two year old. The girl sat star
ing out the window as these, and other thoughts, mesmerized her mind.
Children were such a waste of time, always wanting something and jabbering
to no useful end. There were so many other things more important and in
teresting. Her self-inflicted depression was interrupted.
“Sissy!” called a sleepy voice from the other end of the house. He
was awake. Another day of dressing and undressing, cleaning up messes,
reading stupid stories and answering endless nonsense questions.
“Hi! Get up?” asked the cheerful, cherub-like mouth of the flaxen
haired child. His dark eyes glowed with life as the girl stood expressionless
before him. “Get-up?” he said again, patiently waiting for a sign of approval
from his part-time mother.
“Well, get up!” she said impatiently, wishing that there were some
way to keep him in bed the rest of the afternoon. Mom would be home
—31—
�
Text
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The Casper College Archives has archived this story to encourage the use of its Expression Literary Arts Magazines for digital humanities and other related educational uses.
Date Created
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1964
Description
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Story published by Jane Logan in the fall 1964 Casper College Expression magazine.
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Text
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Jane Logan
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ENG
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1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.
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CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Logan
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PDF
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3 pages
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Dance majors fueled by passion, not fear
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2022-03-01
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Jay M. Roccaforte
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ENG
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Chinook Student Newspaper, CCA 08.i.2023.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.
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Mar_DanceMajors_01
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PNG
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Casper College
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Dance majors fueled by passion, not fear
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Jay M. Roccaforte
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ENG
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Mar_DanceMajors_02
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Casper College
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Text
2:Ci9atn
Jay Roccaforte
And I’m back in your city
The world you own
A dome I only glimpse through
Never to exist within
You're the trap I wish I could rewind
2:09 am every night
The plight I flight is my own divine right to
Infiltrate this dome you call home
A metronome consistency of
Back and forth emotions
Every other petal a reason to keep going
Knowing the other shoe always drops
And I’m alone again.
Y>u're the trap I wish I could rewind
2:09 on the clock
And I wish I’d never peered into this
Dome you call a home
I’m running out of air in this basement town
compound of my own design
Where I’m renowned but alone
Because I called another person home
And why?
Why is every other home a doll house
Doubts upon doubts about my own feelings
Forever shouts to the void
And I’m annoyed that
I’ll tell you I’m fine and every night rewind. Live in the past till I feel like I’m dying
But still rewind and rewind
You're the trap I wish I could rewind
179
�2:o^am
2:09 am and maybe
if I distract
This rough patch will leave me detached
Latching to the past
The key to unlocking the mask
I’ll ask for the time and see you once again
Am I searching for this
Or do you haunt like an old friend
Because maybe I’d actually find that kind
Don’t luck with a vulnerable state of mind
180
�
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Print Magazine
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2:09am
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2023
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Text
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Jay Roccaforte
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ENG
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Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.
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CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2023_Poetry_01
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Searchable PDF
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Casper College
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PDF Text
Text
Again an6 Again
Jay Roccaforte
Again and Again
I toss a bowling ball into space
And feel at one with its spin
The days since last summer feel
endlessly hollow,
A Russian nesting doll of my own design
Each day is lost to the mind as
An increasingly finite one replaces it.
I’ve grown tired of these
Planck length days that stretch thin
And drag along a treadmill.
The Earth’s rotation slows to a halt
And what then?
Time has always been a concept anyway
And I’m left with an expressionless sky
No sun or moon to guide me
And I am what’s still spinning
What chaos remains when I’m left feeling nothing?
I am an object forced to stay in motion, lest I destroy the laws of your universe
This universe I no longer inhabit leaves me stranded
And yet it is all I have ever known
If I am all that rotates for this expanding eternity,
The center of my universe relies on me to maintain its thoughtless desires
These distant stars shine with a siren’s lure
And the sea I drift in
is as shallow as the gutter of my
bowling alley
What defies shallow
If not the depths of our painful sky?
182
�
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Print Magazine
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Again and Again
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Date Created
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2023
Type
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Text
Creator
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Jay Roccaforte
Language
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ENG
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Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.
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CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2023_Poetry_03
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Searchable PDF
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Casper College
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https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/2a53e9c46402c51881cb1073388bb369.pdf
e710fb169daa64819535cce1ea08382f
PDF Text
Text
W Poem Oat BroRe '11?
Jay Roccaforte
When the song that daylight sings falls flat
and all we feel are the thorns of returned roses
Waking up isn’t the first thing on my To-do list in the morning
I.
You are some secret garden
That has never wanted to hide,
but was always too beautiful for just anyone
I guess I was the first person to see that.
You opened your gates to me
and offered your lavender hand
Like a simple “hello”
Whether sun or moon hang in the air,
the sky bends to your will as though
You created it.
Distant stars
create paintings above your hills.
The world that feeds you
is of your own design,
and I am just an observer.
II.
Your petals
Labeled with “I love you”s and “I love you not”’s
are my favorite game to play
The crickets that hide in your blowing leaves
Chirp in sync with my heart beat
and as I roll down the hills of your meadow.
I’ve never felt more steady.
197
�The Poem That Broke Us
All day I could lay in this wild bed of Green
and feel the rays of the sun pour into us
like hot tea from a kettle
The roots of your tallest trees
have lived lives beyond mine,
and will remain in this garden
when I am lost to the sands of an hourglass.
I can only hope that when I die,
I can enrich your soil
With every grain of energy I have to give.
III.
I’m sorry
Maybe my love for you
Is what kept you hidden.
Maybe if some other passerby
had come to this garden,
they would have claimed themself
unworthy of this beauty
and let you continue to grow undisturbed.
How blind I was.
Crashing through your pastures
as though I provided this sunlight to you.
Resting on beds of flowers fed by hurricanes,
and acting like
the watering-can I call my love
can even begin to nourish you
How selfish of me to believe I was enough.
How selfish of me to pluck at these petals
As though I pollinated these flowers
She loves me
She loves me not
She loves to play music
198
�The Poem That Broke Us
Her tire-swing melody is a waltz
that knows no rhythm
and the rope we hang from would snap
if I didn’t just let you sing.
Loud.
So again.
I’m sorry
IV
I remember your glades from outside this gate now.
I was banished from this garden,
but maybe that’s too dramatic.
After all, the lock that latches this gate speaks in a simple tongue:
“I’m not ready to see you yet.”
“Do you think you could just give me more time?”
“I want things to be okay again too.”
And you smile.
So how could I possibly intrude?
The tallest lamps that line your paths
are still visible to me,
and I promise you,
no amount of recklessness
could ever dull this glow.
I still smell lavender.
Even from here.
I know these flowers don’t exist for me.
For anyone.
Just know I never took them for granted.
199
�
Text
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Print Magazine
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The Poem That Broke Us
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Date Created
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2023
Type
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Text
Creator
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Jay Roccaforte
Language
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ENG
Is Part Of
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Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.
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CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2023_Poetry_15
Format
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Searchable PDF
Publisher
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Casper College
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Print Magazine
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Jay Roccaforte
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Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.
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Casper College