A Poem About Cement and Me

By Jem Morgenstern

The cement
has more personality than I do
because its history is vocalized

It's strong and present
the water stains
the cracks
the gum

Mine is internal

It's swallowed and drowning
in my stomach
the intestines
the cracks
the crevices

I hoard my words
as if they're more valuable
inside of me
than outside
to be eaten by the people
who are hungry
for my words
and my presence

Shallow Beaches

Shallow Beaches 
-LB
Explain: why listening to you worry about the state of the world—you cover climate change, presidential elections, academic strains, starvation (beginning in the first person), and career goals in a matter of minutes—and watching your hope deflate and despair consume you in your particular ease, nonchalance, and embracing way makes me want to believe that it will all actually be okay.

Explain: why these things I never cared about suddenly make me tremor and all I want to do is know everything, learn everything, fix everything, or maybe just fix you dinner and listen to you talk and never stop listening and listen to you sing if you sing because I think that you sing and I don't care if you listen to Bieber—which is big for me because things like that have always mattered to me in the most gravely important way—or if your voice sounds like screeching but I'd probably prefer that over the slow nervous warmth in your voice that matches the blue in your eyes that makes me crumble and smile without meaning to in the most high school girlish way (and I don't admit that proudly).

Explain: why the structure of your mind—or maybe lack thereof—is a hug to my tired, dark heart, and why it's been ready to leap on any collection of words for once that aren't my own or that one person's whose name is no longer claimed, but yours, and why every time I read your thoughts spewed out on the page I want to write more of my own, I want to believe that I can.
Explain why: it's 3:00 a.m. and I'm still thinking about that dinner—can I make you a vegetarian lasagna? Are you opposed to vegetarians? Do you have a secret affinity for Elsa and that stupid-looking snowman? Is it frightening to you in an I-don't-understand-it-so-I'm-either-going-to-overinstate-my-"masculinity"-or-just-try-to-avoid-it-at-all-costs sort of way that some men wear dresses and like other men or some people are just people who don't identify as either / or, just want to be seen as people? All these things and more I should learn before I make you dinner, I suppose, but I guess I just assumed that all the answers must be the answers I wanted because my previous paragraphs can't seem to be explained in any other way. Well, that and your hair falls just perfect and your eyes glimmer the dreamiest shade of blue.

Erase

By Jem Morgenstern

The wood burned. Fire tainted every color its wrathing arms could reach. Bright embers and dark ashes slowly fell onto the white floors, painting it black and spotted red. Blue wallpaper disintegrated: curling downwards, crumbling, fading to brown. Blinding yellow flames rose into the sky and bled into the blue horizon dyed orange by the rising sun. The blinding light would wave and the smoke would peer over the hills, but no eyes would look in its direction. None were near enough to witness the building’s excruciating mutation. Nobody would hear the aching wooden skeleton crack and fall apart. Nobody would smell the distinct, uniquely putrid scent of the burning evidence: the sulfurous stench of keratin, nauseating odor of heated bacteria, or fumes from unused chemicals.

No roads led here. Nobody ever wandered here. Discovery of what happened here was unlikely. If anyone did happen to find this ruin, every question they could have would forever be unanswered. The specifics of the crimes committed would never be uncovered. The identities of those involved would always be a mystery. Their stories would never be told, shared, reported. Nobody would hear about the cold nights they spent in that building - body shivering, teeth chattering, hands shaking - waiting. Waiting for the breathing to stop. Watching a body laboriously force itself to continue living until it lost the strength to keep itself running. Sometimes, it would take minutes. Sometimes, so much time would pass by that they felt their own bodies might give up before the one collapsed on the floor would finally croak out its final breath. They wanted it to last, so they could savor the intensity of seeing life inch itself out of a body with every shaking moan, every quiver of the body, every exhalation. So they wouldn’t have to clean up after themselves. So they wouldn’t have to begin the tedious process of finding another again so soon. They always wondered if anyone would notice these people were missing. They always did their best to choose lonely people. Quiet people who nobody noticed. Ones that were almost expected to disappear someday anyway.

It was when they noticed somebody had begun looking for one of their people that they fretfully decided to burn the building down. Tears rolled from their eyes, as they set their place of ritualistic pleasure ablaze. They watched the walls that housed so many memories of joy crumble to the ground. They burned their souvenirs along with it. Erased any proof of their dark avocation. Though they didn’t intend for the loss of their house of memories to put an end to their past-time. So they set out to find a place to begin again. One as hidden, as disposable, as perfect as this one. Where, even now, they continue to derive joy from watching their victims struggle to stay alive. Where, even now, there is no trail that leads to them - to their discovery, guilt, or conviction.

Brandon, OR/ID: Part VI

Wet and Yellowed Denim

By Jem Morgenstern

The music began and the audience’s quivers of anticipation settled. Their bodies gave into the hum of the cello, letting it fill their pores with the scent of vibrating spruce and maple. While Scott’s ears followed the melodies, his eyes wandered the aisles of the music hall: stopping to memorize every seated figure, taking advantage of the music’s sensory captivation, familiarizing himself with their bodies and the assumed identities he could yield from their appearance. There was a woman in her mid-forties, who wore a midnight blue cotton blouse with an imperial collar that was a close-enough match to the sapphire studs she wore in the holes in her ears. Her hair was slicked back into a neatly wound bun that sat just below the centerpoint of where a crown would sit. For all he knew, she wasn’t wearing any pants; he could only see the portion of her body above her shoulder blades. She either came alone or wasn’t close to the ones she came with. If she did come with others and they were the audience members sitting next to her, they weren’t emotionally close. If she did come with others and they were elsewhere in the pool of bodies, they were simply not within a personal proximity of physical distance. She and the bodies surrounding her - together - did not radiate a feeling of warmth, like most friends do when they are sharing an experience within a personal proximity. There was a man in his early thirties, who wore an outfit that (in Scott’s opinion) was too casual for this event. This judgement was, of course, only made from the pieces of the outfit that Scott could see, which was all from the shoulder blades and above. For all he knew, he could have been wearing very fancy pants. However, in this instance of reaching a conclusion without having been provided all necessary evidence to reach a definite determination, Scott was correct; the man in his early thirties was dressed in an outfit that was too casual for this event. The man in his early thirties was not wearing very fancy pants. This man’s attendance was mandated by the other man in his early thirties, who was sitting next to him. This other man wore an outfit that was entirely reasonable for this event. This led Scott to have a more favorable opinion of the other man than the one that the other man brought with him. Scott decided that, if he were to ever interact with the two men in their early thirties, he would appear amiable towards both, but his internal gratitude would very much be shifted towards the other one. There was a man wearing a denim button-up and ornate brass earrings. After first landing on a mostly negative opinion of this man’s choice of attire, Scott’s opinion shifted towards an applauding appraisal. Throughout the four hour performance, the denim-clad man continuously captured Scott’s attention. The scent of his personality was magnetic. Even halfway through, when everyone began squeezing their legs together and sweating due to straining their internal controls, which is a scene that would generally break his intense optical invasion, Scott’s eyes were locked onto the man in denim. While (nearly) everyone else shook in their seats, the man in denim remained steady and intent on the performance - his stillness in the shifting sea of bodies made it even more difficult for Scott to look away. He found the man after the performance.

Three days later, the man in denim can now be called Daniel. Daniel’s desk is cluttered, with an indiscernible but apparent organizational system. Its surface is stained by droplets of ink that were ignored for too long. Some of the spots could probably be cleaned away, if Daniel cared enough to do so, but he did not care enough to do so. They are tangled together on the bed, nesting their bodies together like two spoons. Scott has been waiting for Daniel, whose arms are tightly wound around his body, to wake up. He doesn’t want to move, because he doesn’t want to wake Daniel up before he’s ready. While he waits, he clings onto the intimacy of the moment and stares at the desk, which he now feels he has become more familiar with than his own. Scott, like most people in this city, rarely used his desk. He used it most often for leaning on, while staring out the window above it. On occasion, he would pull his journal from beneath his bed to write about the scenes outside and his recent obsessions. Those occasions were infrequent. While writing in that journal, he would most often sit at his kitchen table. He didn’t like to spend too much time in his bedroom, the room in which his desk is located, despite its welcoming warmth. He could never place the source, but there was something in his bedroom that he described to himself as maddening. He spends as little time in his bedroom as possible. Daniel, however, spends an obscene amount of time in his bedroom and, unlike most people in this city, used his desk almost daily.

Three more days later, Scott is sitting in his bedroom at his desk with his journal of obsessions open to a blank page.The subtle warmth of the beige walls, deep red blankets, Eastern Red Cedar desk, and African Rosewood bed frame endow the room with a welcoming glow. The complex floral carvings in the sideboard of the frame, the cleanliness, and the well-kept collection of friendly letters suggest gentility and a kind femininity. He presses the tip of a pen against the paper and writes about the window, the view from the window, the cravings the window instilled. Above the desk, a window offers a longing temptation to strip the exceedingly lavish decor from the exterior and interior walls of The Property. Above the bed, a mirror reflects the window’s view, embedding an obsession with The Family’s wealth. His journal reflects that obsession. He has compiled every notable detail he has been able to ensare from his view of the massive estate. The lanterns in The Property’s gardens were illuminated, as the the city’s face was turned away from the sun, highlighting the immensity of their gardens, acting as another burdening indication of The Family’s excessive prosperity. The dawn brought an immemorable sunset with dusty browns and fading blues. Crickets scraped their instrumental wings together. As traffic dissipated, its bellowing was replaced by the sound of wind in leaves. In the dim garden lights, Scott could see a figure. The Gardener was still working: trimming the rose bushes, plucking blades of grass the mower missed, inspecting every other detail of the sprawling yards to make sure everything was as perfect as The Family wanted it to be. This gardener, Scott realized, knew every immaculate crevice on The Property. The longing temptation to strip the wealth from The Family’s walls, floors, drawers, ceilings, pockets, knuckles, bushes, fridges, doors, and closets became something more. After this realization, Scott began to stitch together a plan.

From his window, he watched The Gardener. He absorbed every detail that could possibly be significant. Scott familiarized himself completely with The Gardener’s work. The daisies were always kept at an even number - if one grew, one would have to be chopped; if one died unexpectedly, another one would have to be sacrificed. The Northeast lawn was mowed on Tuesdays, the Southwest on Wednesdays, the Southeast on Thursdays, and there was no grass in the Northwest portion of the gardens. The rose bushes were trimmed obsessively. Sandpaper was used to scratch off the smallest flaws. Their height was kept perfectly aligned with the bottom of the window above them. The Gardener would often spend dozens of minutes staring at the border between rose and window to ensure the alignment was perfect, Scott thought. That staring, however, revealed itself to be something else. Weeks into his spying, Scott bought binoculars. Spying with the use of only his eyes had been difficult. Because of his frugal tendencies, he attempted to make it work, but it had become enough of a hinderance that he decided the use of additional tools would be beneficial. While considering the purchasing of binoculars, he also had a thought questioning his need for all the wealth of The Property. Scott, as indicated by the use of the word ‘frugal’ not so long ago, doesn’t spend a lot of money. He makes enough money to meet all his needs. He makes enough money to build an admirable amount of savings. He doesn’t need more money. This sparked a self-discovery session in which Scott analyzed his cravings. Eventually, he settled on this rationalization: he feels as though he could never have enough money to feel confident he could make-do in an extreme crisis and he feels deeply unsettled by that fact, so acquiring a grotesque amount of money would allow him to feel comfortable about his chances of making it through an extreme crisis, therefore, he would never have to worry about anything reliant on his monetary resources again and he could be truly happy. He felt good about buying the binoculars. With those binoculars, while watching The Gardener stare at the rose bush alignment, he noticed a longing expression. This expression made it clear that The Gardener wasn’t staring at the rose bush alignment. He was longing for whatever it was he could see through the window. He was obsessively desperate. Scott knew this could be used to his own advantage. This could be his key to recruiting The Gardener.