Beams directing traffic on Belmont
Paintings of St.Mary in each house
A blessing is in the home of Sanchez
Yelling at the top of my lungs, Alexandria!
Her lips the color of a summer rose
She might meet my girlfriend

Tired of the flat girlfriend
I ride the 70 down Belmont
In a garden I pluck a rose
And wait outside her house
Oh how I love the name Alexandria
The finest gem from Mrs. Sanchez

I love the sound of an Sanchez
It brings shame to my girlfriend
That fiery accent calls me to Alexandria
No matter the distance between me and Belmont
She can look in front of her house
Im on her sidewalk, holding a rose

I will always hand her roses
Predjuice eyes from a concern Sanchez
Oh if they ever found me in that house
So she walks to my girlfriend's
Away from the curious eyes on Belmont
They've ask where is my Alexandria?

Don't worry my Alexandria
Soft like the pedal of a rose
Let me kiss you outside of Belmont
Where nobody is named Sanchez
Show you where I lay next to my girlfriend
We can make love all over this house

Just get comfortable in this house
Spray that majestic spirit, Alexandria
Maybe I pass this flavor to my girlfriend
If willing, she can even get a rose
Call it the night she tasted a Sanchez
What we can share with the Latina on Belmont,

A girlfriend is snow on a dying rose
Warm in a house with a gem called Alexandria
Kissing the skin of an Sanchez, on Belmont

that's 3 weeks without a keyboard,
that's 3 weeks on a dual-detox -
         that's that: roughly: antagonism
of: once upon a time...
           there can only be one Hans Andersen,
and as the story goes: ol' granny
   passed on the tales, without which:
no talk of posterity, and seances at
the theatre; alternatively: what if Kierkegård
opted for opera, rather than theatre?
    well: horrid is the task of dropping names,
as if being a village idiot, in that
capacity: giving directions... no such thing!
  nonetheless: a horrid task...
3 weeks... without this horrid world-entanglement...
amphetamines in the wild west,
                   and yet... everything slows down...
that's 3 weeks without such ''luxury''...
    and would you believe it?
3 weeks went by: in a blink of an eye.
             strange, or what 21st century writers
fail to recognise: the ******* canvas has changed!
any-single-one-of-them bothered to scrutinise
this new canvas? anyone?
     ah yes, it's still in its adolescence -
it's still: Dostoyevsky, scuttering in the grand
dungeon: that's the Moscow underground.
             the canvas! the canvas!
                             and indeed, if this be some
bellowing horn, from the depths of some forsaken
place... i'll go into the street, and sabotage
civilisation with graffiti...
                     then again: i have the least
expectations, such that capitalism works...
poetry... and what investment have you made?
nil, or almost nil... evidently: zilch!
      ah, but to have invested in canvases,
a studio, paints, brushes... see... no one sees
investment in poetry: primarily because the poet
has done the minimal...
            unless of course it turns out to ****
with a hot poker something once resembling
nations... which now resides in the insane asylum
(even though those, have been abolished)
                           , nation - ooh! what a ***** word!
the left irksome sometimes uses it:
in theory: the nation-state...
                        and then there's the resurgence of
ancient Greece... in a sing-along:
maybe 'cos i'm a Londoner... brother! brother!
Athenian! Athenian!
                                       but we are born into
a Spartan wedlock... no one really bothers to
**** our gob with Shakespeare...
    then again that is the schizophrenia (alias
dualism) in humanity... thus, to be frank,
psychiatry can be congratulated, it has provided
one useful term... and i will use it, over and over again,
in a non-symptomatic way, because, i find,
it stands, as if the Olympic Graeae (Zeus, Poseidon
and Hades) eating the carcass of some inhabitant
of Tartarus...
                               evidently: tartar steak...
doubly evident: tartars, or the remnants of mongols,
settled in crimea, and elsewhere in the Ukraine...
   tartar                      tra-ta-ta-ta... ku ku ryku!
a ja fu! krecha! a ja znow... fu!       radowitą
uprzejmość... skłaniam...  
    or what i call: rising spontaneously from the depths...
polymaths applauded, the tribunal resides in
bilingualism... trenches... history... perspectives
and current affairs... wicker man media...
                        so... an example of pedantry?
ó....               that's an orthographic dignitary -
        an aesthetic muddle... as is
c-ha                               contending with samo-ha...
     ch                            came from antagonism of
cz                                   which was later antagonised
by č               in česka.... say that: hen party
bound to Prague... in the Czech republic...
                                          ch      k..­.
i am, quiet frankly... standing at the feet of the tower
of babel... and i'm looking up, and i see
correlations, and i see decimal marks,
which, when given enough geography,
can seem like England and the isles,
       and central Europe...
    Iberia? phantom of Seneca...
  eureka! let's begin, once again...
  why is there a continuum beginning with
Plato and Aristotle?
                                           we could become
reasonable people... told to deal with madmen...
we could claim beginnings with Seneca...
and Cicero...
                      and why? the Romans loved poetry...
the Greeks antagonised Homer...
            the Romans loved Horace, Virgil,
                           Ovid... perhaps we should really forget
beginning with Plato and Aristotle...
       the former has become a church,
the latter a dentist's assistant (minus the ancients'
concept of a joke).
                      evidently i have to finish off reading
Seneca... his educational letters to Lucilius....
      moralising ******* that he was, thus, perhaps
a nibble at Cicero? but i must say:
                           it has to begin somewhere,
so not necessarily in stale-bread Athens...
                      and having such perspectives helps
in claiming casual conversation?
   assuredly - if it doesn't involve talking about
the weather...
                                which is always a great mystery
   if it's given enough aurora.
   onto the mystery of dialectics,
as discovered by Alfred Jarry in his Faustroll
Pataphysics contraband...
                                                nag­ging agreement...
nodding without approval... (chapter 10) -
beginning with αληθη λεγεις εφη
        (you speak the truth, he replies) -
   and ending with ως δoκεì
                              (how true that seems)...
and then some dub-step...
        know nothing dROP! boom! jiggy jiggy,
get the rhythm.
   as i always find it hard to look at
    diacritical arithmetic...
                                  given the following
represent a prolonging: hangman:
       å, ā and ä...
                             esp. in Finnish -
stratum: hedningarna täss on nainen.
                        rolling yarn, plateau, two dips;
and i will never say something profound...
i'll just say something no one else has said,
benefit of the doubt? somewhere, someone,
                                      kneels at the same altar.
  such are the distinction - invaders from the
north, and invaders from the south...
                                           even with
crusading Golgotha mann -
the times? many bats, supers, spiders,
but not enough readings of thomas mann...
                              easily befallen into prune-nosed
high-airs... it comes with the diet of literature...
   unfortunately.
                              and with yet another book:
i have burried yet another living person
i could have had a beer with, and conversed.
it always happens, every time i read a book
i have to attend a funeral... by reading a book
i have burried someone alive...
                          shame, in all frankness...
    i will sit in a congested train, touch a breathing
body, and consecrate the touch with
a warring genuflect - harbringer of a Teutonic
passion for initiation: a komtur's slap across the cheek.
   chequers played with passions...
           and some have to be approached like
caged animals, their vocabulary as cages,
                and the whole world before them:
cageless!
             some have indeed become so encrusted in
their daily: routine, that it would take a zoologist
(thrice oh, begs some sort of diacritical marking)
rather than a psychologist to understand them...
    like the darting dupes they are, enshrined in
20% gratis! smile! have a nice day! boxing day sales!
all but pleasantries, fathoming the grave.
   stiff vocab and all other kinds of perfume...
                           a king and his charlatan knights,
who are merely ditto-heads.
                  and not of this world, afresh -
among the nimble hands prior to birth -
surely there is: more grandeour in birth
   that entry via a ******...
                            the greatest pain of ****...
and when the ancient treaty was signed
under the name: Augustus Cesarean - or
recommended for a need of aristocracy -
    it was, for a time, the mana magnetism:
and such was the rule of poetry:
rather than a crown, donned the laurel leaves...
donned the laurel leaves...
    and such was the covenant from ancient
foes when trying to assimilate the Jew...
three kings from Babylon,
                         the child in Egypt...
          no good tides from Nazareth...
         a crown of myrrh - later overshadowed
by dogmatic sprechen, simpler: thorns...
yella things... or rzepak, Essex is filled with it...
rzepak... so why bother adding a dot above
the z, when you get capricious and use rz to
denote the same?! thus a science:
voiced retroflex fricative... Stalingrad!
                       can you really stomach this kind
of jargon? if it wasn't for science fiction:
science would be twice removed from gott ist tot,
*******' worth of pondering, given the close
proximity rhyme... nothing that rhymes should
ever be taken seriously, it should be hymnal!
                         Horatio! mein lyre!
   mein Guinness leier! rabbi krähe -
     and they deem that ****** white when talking:
thinking? i'd prefer Cezanne in real life -
   maggot wriggling and all...
                                          as much eroticism
as bound to a dog slobbering its testicles:
which means ****-all in an almighty stance
   for a dollop of halleluyah in Nepal.
well: pretty talk, pretty pretty pretty: i feel pretty,
oh so butter-fly-e.
                                    2 week stance,
***** in autumn... but so many Swiss hues
coming from the same concentration of decay!
shweet!  zeit-ser!        and that's me talking
kindergarten german: innovation begins with
a fork and a spoon, should the tongue come to it...
            i see a poem,
i see something worth bugging... c.i.a.,
f.b.i., hannibal's lecture in Florence, Venice for
the rats... bugging... shoving...
  shovelling... necro grounding, rattling...
    windy via north... Icelandic...
drums along incisors of abstract gallop:
violins... fringes of the mustang... airy airy...
all regresses toward the Vulgate...
         like ****, like said, and the only pristine
stress comes with vanilla ice-cream,
or a medium-rare beef ****! hmph!
                         fa fa fa excesses with that hurling
puff...
                      and i did finish Kant's
critique of pure reason... minus two calendars...
but, so help me god, the 2nd volume was hiding
under some corner...
                           thus, from transcendental methodology
came plump apricots, plums and pears...
             sweet decay fruit baron...
              and it's called sugars in the intricacy of pulp...
lazily grown, dangling on that caricature of
a formerly known: full crop of wheat-crude fringe.
    2 years... honest to god!
         but so many books in between...
i was given a recommendation...
i cited it already... kraszewski's magnum opus...
29 books...
                       although that's history fictionalised...
but nonetheless, it really was about
     the cossack uprising in the 17th century...
   and it was, as i once said, something i can forgive
sienkiewicz - the film version,
as in: i will not read a book once it has been adapted
to a movie... it's self-evident that too many
people have read a piece of work and are gagging
for a conversation... but where's the playground?
           ******* cherades!
  chinese whispers and a Manchurian candidate!
  i thought as much.
                          and whenever it's not a preplaned
escapade, what becomes of the day?
     was it always about a stance for carpe diem?
  syllables: di                em.
                            carpe is said with more lubricant.
corpus diem. well, that's an alternative, however
you care to think about it.
                and whenever you care to think about,
the proof is there: mishandling misnomers:
poets as tattoo artists... although no one sees the ink,
signatures on a reader's brian (purposively altered,
toward a Michael Jackon he-he, and other:
albino castratos the church venerates!)...
   that's 3 weeks in a catholic country...
  3 weeks... if only the football was better,
      i'd be called Juan Sanchez...
               but, evidently, the football is bad...
     so it's catholicism on par with a sleeping inquisition...
no one really expected Monty Python to conjure
that one... because it never really took place,
not until a trans-generational exodus
postscript 2004... once western brothels were exhausted,
and the Arab started ******* a hippo...
              then it was all about lakes and rivers
and Las Vegas 2.0 in Dubai!
                     you say quack... i say:
                                                    easy target.
and they did receive a blessing from Allah...
enough ink to write out Dante's revision of the Koran,
and some Al-Sha'ke'pir to write a play called:
the Merchant of Mecca.
  last time i heard, when the reformation was
plauging Christendom, no one invited the Arabs...
these days i think the little Lutherans of Islam
watched too many historical movies...
me? pick up a crucifix and march to Jerusalem?
  and is that going to translate into:
   blame the populists! blame the nationalists!
it's like watching a circus... why is the Islamic
reformation asking for third party associates?
                  i was happy listening to
the klinik... albums: eat your heart out...
time + plague...
                             once again: the world narrative
gags for enough people to conjure up
     a placebo solipsism... and that's placebo
with a squiggly prefix (meaning? how far
that ambiguity will take you) - ~placebo...
well: since existentialists were bores...
it's about time to head for Scandinavia
   and ask: is that " ''                 for passing on
an inheritance, or better still: ripe for
acknowledging ambiguity?
                          and if you can shove this
  into your daily narrative... you better be
a connaisseur of chinese antiques...
                frailty... then again, theres: ******;
well hell yeah *****'h, it's a murky underwold
after all.
                     and yes: that's called a petting word...
some say hombre, and we'll all be amigos
and muskateers at the end of the story.
                                    finally... i feel like i'm writing
a poem that i'll never end...
              why? it was supposed to be about
how John Casimir of Sweden championed
  the crown away from his brother Prince Charles
(volume 1)...
                      the bishop of Breslau...
a recluse... couldn't ride a horse...
    then again: nothing worthy imitation...
beginning with a donkey...
                               the transfiguration of palms
into whips... 2000 years later
talk of Hercules is madness... that other bit?
complete sanity.
                              well... if that be the case...
the book is there... i signed it, 2nd volume of
Kant's critique...
  
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | Y| | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |

        an oak... in a forest of pine...
an oak in pine wood...

then onto the wood of sighs:

aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
          (somehow the surd escapes,
and later morphs into, but prior to)

a short script: variation on MW...

      pears' worth of blunting runes:
opulance s and ᛋ - versus z,
    congregation minor: the interchange, ß,
buttocks and *****, minus phantoms of erotica.
yet, taking into account trigonometry...
sine (genesis 0), and cosine (genesis 1),
or            M                                   W
(no Jew would dare believe the Latins have
the second 'alf of the proof: that loophole of all
things qab-cannibal-mystic - cravat donning
mystique - a flit's worth of sharpening,
or dental grit... flappy tongue,
flabby oyster, lazing for a crab's palette)...
so?

1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

of course there's an

Preface

When the broad mind has opened, to gaze the stars that shinning in the unfathomable skies and the glittering Nature, its flowers’ fragrances given to taste the wealthy realms of her, as well as Earth's mysteries—that I ever think of to feel and by my thoughts that spread so deep to try to work with things that sounds of ‛creative’. Here I the ‛moody soul’ started his first journey, leaving his home  a few years ago and his up-start was through Literature, Science and Arts and Fiction. Writings and paintings here I believed to be most powerful and that those more often need to convey by the Artist’s conscience and the intensity that gains moral knowledge and appreciation. Here the book has the pictorial paths of Quest and the wanderings, all by imagination’s boat, sails from the western Ideas and its enthusiastic flow. Some finds hope along and also hopelessness, God and Love vagabonding among these ink-stained pages.
Dreamt in the wandering world where no chains shall bind, from the dark veiled lands to the daring spark, no atoms that obscure the force calling light, to aim the glad precious moments of life, to embrace me with a silence and its whispering magic, where gate of hope’s always open to bliss, thundering words are always from roam, the nocturnal pleasure that I only know, and when all will run away as time—why I alone in the upward steps of solitude that caressing wild only wings?
If I met Life as a strange stage of different senses—and I only say you to enjoy the aggressive fruits of my invention. Here it is for all of you can read and evaluate.*


Nithin Purple


Acknowledgement
                                      
­*This book is dedicated to my parents of Love and support,
from where I got the powers to be inspired—to write and prove.

Special Thanks to Parisian Author and poet Roman Payne of
‛cultural book’ for supporting me as a writer of varying tastes.  Also Writer, Wilson B Sanchez of New York, who first gave suggestions  
and his valuable sparkling comments of self-improvable topics, which I always bother. Belated friend, poet and writer, Curtis Plaskon from France for his valuable support. Also Poet Timothy & Hilda from Virginia, to them I had good writing memories. And for all the Indians, this book is an open heart to read.

In a city that never sleeps
At 1am the trains have stopped
But jeepney engines roar
You can see a few dressed in ragged
Shouting, sometimes laughing
Their dark skin burnt
By stinging rays of reality
At most times you will see a few going through
Garbage bags and bins for salvation
Just like how they go through
The bulks and ******* of everyday life
At 1am the most interesting people come out
Friends, lovers on a rendezvous
Waiting in line
Hungry
A 68-year old man
Ready to clean up and opens doors for everybody
A teenage girl sitting
Plain bored and disinterested
Until a much older man comes up
Asked a few questions
Then left together
Kids hitching on maddened wheels
Jump off and ask for alms
Ready to grab whatever catches their attention
Like how they hold on to questions
Which their parents fail to answer
At 1am you will see
Street lights and dark alleys
Stop lights blinking red to green then orange
And back to red again
People cross the streets
Cautious, guarded against shadows
Lurking on the darkest corners of the streets
At 1am you will see
The ****** and the blessed
The ill-fated and the comfortable
Mix up on the streets
You may decide to
Go on watching
Or
Put your cigarette out
And call it a day
But for people alive at 1am
Life goes on
In a city that never sleeps

-Malaya Sanchez

how don’t know to get the you in: a dis(miss)ing of anchorage, akin to ungrabable, purpled sky, and blackvelvet’s talks to morning sand. to get the you in: a table top of no greed. legs of giveness. to haiku the hell out of.



we are in the process of stunned voices praying to pregnant earth: word fruit meets wet tongue. prophet with no pockets up sand up. in a world that is to know what your sun exuding sounds like.



sweet loathing, singing cell. undernourished, remembering only two tons of. bites down boldly onto wear. ritualistic sweating betrothed to thecosmos. shake loose my skin. legs of giveness, and something that wouldn’t be about you.



or something about you that wouldn’t be. hiding in the corners of language that mask gaping unrelatables. Unrelenting maybeoneday. i’ll decide to hear you (sh)out. the italics of Monday evenings.  



Black tea, bumps head into mosquito bites on your thighs. oops, sorry, can i hug you? sorry. So from here we can deduce thetruth that oops, can i hug you? sorry its obvious, tied. eyed our lives in one swoop and now i’ll never possess of a series of creeks,



primordial. Like when the earth’s virginity was lost to the last respiris of a first dying. you as a plethora of suntan lotion3. but lotion is lotion, like the sea, it cant be quantified or split up into in order to be a “plethora,”



and still there’s no one to rub down my back places  my black places I can’t reach or see and so can’t mimic like a leglessness, a series of syllables.

you kidding me, right?
  nachos? tacos? tortilla wraps?
          guacamole molé molé?
sombrero(s)...
  the revised eastern european
moustache?
                    tequila!
that's it?
               well... not if you consider
the second tier of soy boys -
the ones that drink that...
budscheiss that's
         "der könig aus bier"...

one word... no... actually two:
CER-VE(H)-ZA(H) -
probably the spanish word,
that sounds better than all
the other spanish words...

     what did mexíxíxíxíco give
us?
   the orthodox script
of a german beer:
    yeast, hops, barley, malt,
water... fizz: boom!
   a fine summer's day...
   mexíxíxíxíco beer?

MALTED, BARLEY...
     don't ask me how the genius
figured out a smoothness
so subtle,
   that you actually had to shove
a lime wedge into the neck
of the bottle...

  or, as i did - buying an almost litre
sized bottle,
   and a lime -
  looking at this ***** goliath
at the checkout thinking:
   david?
       am i david?
    did we really enslave such people?
david, meet goliath...
goliath wanders off like some
happy ******, giggling and brings
another strawberry milkshake
to the checkout...
         so the west, enslaved these
                           nearing 7ft Baobabs?
king david's audacity,
           nothing more...

so i buy the CO(H)-RHO-NA(H),
and a lime (30 pence a piece)...
****... no knife...
guess teeth will have to do...
shove a whole lime in bits and bites
and walk on...

                   seriously?
guacamole molé molé?
         that's the best you can do?
drinking a beer with lime...
compared to the h'american
budscheiss?
           who... apart from the japanese...
extracts alcohol...
from: ******* rice!
  
    malted, barley...
                   whoever that sergio
sanchez was...
               hats off to him...
     sometimes it's just nice...
to take a break from the heavy cavalry,
orthodoxy brew of german
beers...
   americans?
     know jackshit about brewing
a decent beer...
   mexicans?
              they put a lime in it!
****! you have to drink it!

I.
I speed down Jamboree,
away from you,
almost without feelings.
The only thing I am really drowning in is
guilt.
It pulls me under the surface,
Leaves me gasping for breath that I can’t seem to grasp.

II.
I have validations, but they don’t excuse this behavior
that won’t just hurt me, but others, too.
I can imagine her face when she finds out,
a mixture of hate and disbelief.
Maybe a double-date to Disneyland is
not such a good idea anymore.

III.
Cheater.

IV.
I had the option to go home but you tempted me.
Stolen kisses like whispers in the night,
forgotten fast without a trace,
except your smell, your taste.
That smell that should choke me, but is inviting.
That taste that should be foul, but is sweet.
You’re familiar.

V.
There’s a history between us.
It’s hidden amongst the ruins of our secret romance,
kept within our tight-knit group of comrades
and left a mystery to anyone outside it,
including our “other halves”.
No matter their title,
they don’t know,
and they won’t.

VI.
I know you.
I know the number of wrinkled shirts on your
backseat that reek of gasoline from the go-karts.
I know the way your ankle cracks when you wake up
from an accidental nap on your charcoal couch
during a “Two and a Half Men” re-run.
I know the nightmares of funerals and too many
baked goods for a son and mother in grieving.
I know too much,
and that terrifies me.

VII.
You’re like an addictive toxin.
You’re bad for me,
yet I find you in the worst and most unlikely places
and embrace your killing qualities,
breathing in your broken promises and
injecting myself with your reminiscences.
I thought I could quit
cold turkey
yet here I am in your cold Accord
wearing your work sweatshirt
and wondering where I tell him I am
since he knows what time we closed.


*December 3, 2013

My name is Don Quixote Del La Mancha.
I am a knight in coat of arms
Give me my lance, give me my sword and give me my steed
Where be thy king in all of this
I wear the Royal Spanish Crown and Gold Seal of San Fernando Lavante
I solemnly swear that ***** and bounty shall rest with the king
Even the Catholic Church Christen thee for swift victory
I have signed and sealed orders to save the Princess Donselia Del Deboso
Then, I shall rescue her from the evil clutches of the windmill dragon
My chief architect, Poncho Sanchez is my right arm and canteen
He is responsible for fresh food rations, cold drink and support logistics
Sustenance sustains an army and sustenance sustains great men
A gallant foot soldier is he, and Poncho trails me like a Swiss Guard,
With his burro donkey friend, named El Donkey Camino De Blanco
As we approach the last horizon of the day, the code of chivalry shall not die

my breakfast of thesaurus
and chorus.

as to not miss
that quick bliss,
moment
of genius.

forcing wit;  i’m done with it.

i lay in bed and moan:
"mouth was a blue sash of rain
raining convocations of flesh."
like Sonia Sanchez said in her poem
to Nina Simone.

“owls coo, only see blue,
and through storm windows,
they yawn like nothing’s new."
what did my words just do to you?

i hate all the rhyming
all the timing.
the
whining.

all this meditating
and levitating.

but if you don’t swat the fly,
you become the fly.

After months of preparation — sketching and making patterns, finding and fitting models, cutting and sewing fabrics, arranging makeup and accessories — Cornell University senior Ellen Pyne this weekend will send her fairy-tale themed “Crimson” line down the Cornell Fashion Collective (CFC) runway in a matter of minutes.

Anticipating their moment to shine, Pyne and 35 other student designers have been laboring since last fall to perfect their creations for the 31st CFC runway show, Saturday, April 11, 8 p.m., in Barton Hall. For first-year designers, the event allows them to present a single look on the big stage, whereas seniors like Pyne plan a full collection, hoping it will launch their fashion careers.

“I eat, sleep, go to class and sew,” said Pyne, whose showstopper is a seamless Snow White-inspired dress made entirely out of hand-felted wool. “The collection is a statement of my artistic aesthetic and the culmination of everything I’ve learned over the past four years.”

Working just as diligently are show planners, led by senior CFC president Megan Rodrigues, who are remaking the cavernous Barton Hall field house to host a night of glamour. Since shortly after the curtain closed on last spring’s show, Rodrigues and the CFC executive board have been organizing ticket sales and a heap of other details, including a new runway design will give the expected 2,500 guests a better view of the Cornell student models on the catwalk.

“Through this process, I’ve learned a great deal about leadership, learning to delegate and being able to inspire others to a common goal,” said Rodrigues, who hopes to work in event planning after graduation. “Mostly, I’m excited to see the growth of each designer leading up to the show.”

Designers come largely from the fashion design major in the College of Human Ecology, but students from the College of Engineering and the College of Arts and Sciences will also contribute pieces. A multidisciplinary team will present “Irradiance,” a wearable technology collection that uses sensors and luminescent panels to detect and respond to audio—glowing and dimming in sync with surrounding music. Lead designer and junior Eric Beaudette said that team, which includes Lina Sanchez Botero and Neal Reynolds, doctoral students in fiber science and physics, respectively, hopes to inspire a vision for smart clothing of the future.

In the sesquicentennial spirit, the show will also include a nod to the past. Recalling campus styles dating back to 1865, Denise Green, assistant professor of fiber science and apparel design, will air a short video about an exhibit, “150 Years of Cornell Student Fashion,” currently on display in the Human Ecology Building.

Inspired by art and culture she observed studying abroad in Paris last fall, junior Linnea Fong will present “Infatuated,” luxury evening wear she described as taking on “individual obsession with physical perfection and how that manifests in the fashion industry.” Just days before the show, she’s still modifying parts of her collection, noting that “you just have to figure out how to make your ideas come to life, which is the fun part.”

Concluding the show will be a line by senior Blake Uretsky, recipient of a 2015 Geoffrey Beene National Scholarship from the YMA Fashion Scholarship Fund. Her “Crested Butte” collection of women’s outerwear, a modern twist on vintage 1950s ski clothing, includes “distinctly wearable, yet visually exciting pieces,” she said. Presenting 10 looks, Uretsky’s line incorporates classic silhouettes and wool, corduroy and denim fabrics embellished with laser cuts and other modern techniques.

“Ultimately, I want to design clothes that people love and have a desire to wear,” Uretsky said. “The show will be such a wonderful experience with my family, friends and the Cornell community all supporting my work.”Read more here:marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses

A rainy afternoon
Amnesiac was playing
Wishing I would be one when I go back
And I’ve drown myself
In Bukowski’s soul
Just the way I needed it
So I won’t have to
Depend on the sleeping tonic
Lying around the room
Everything was becoming peaceful
Swimming in tabula rasa that give me hope
Arms becoming numb
Eyes starting to shut
Just the way I want to
Then someone from the gates of hell
Decided to pull me out of it
“Malaya! Malaya! Are you going out?”
The most nonsense question
To my utmost annoyance i almost flipped everything
But composed myself
And replied “no!!!”
**** this ****
Solitude is my bestfriend
But he was not here
When I needed him most

-Malaya Sanchez

I was doing it
A L L W R O N G

Because I thought about it,
I thought of
David Levithan
and his books
and I thought of
Alex Sanchez and
HIS books,
and
I thought about
Julia Anne Peters and
HER books.

And after I was done
thinking I realised
I was doing what
I hated.

Boy meets Boy isn't
a gay story.
It's a story about love.

Keeping You A Secret
is not a
lesbian love story,
it's just a love story.

Rainbow Boys Trilogy is not
a gay trilogy it's
a story about growing up and
getting along and
being in love and
being scared and
being stupid
and being brave
and being
a
friend.

I'm just thinking about them as
being about gayness because
they are gay,
even if you take away everything they
are love
stories
and
that's
it.

Love Is The Higher law--
about 9/11.

I Am J--
Being yourself--
a common theme.

Wide Awake--
finding courage and
finding yourself.

All these books,
and I've been looking at them
W R O N G.

I mean,
ten years ago
Boy Meets Boy
and
Keeping You A Secret
and
Rainbow Boys
was a
H U G E D E A L,

but now...
not
so much.

Maybe it's from living in a
household where gay
didn't exist,
Don't get me wrong,
I still want a book about
a character living in a
fantasy world or
utopia as a..
clone, maybe.

Or a dragon slayer.

Mother
I know
Your instincts tell you
How i hurt inside
Though i've never said a word
Nor shed a tear infront of you
And it hurts to imagine
How you find comfort
And sleep in my bed
Whenever i worry you
While i was away
I guess i'm on the hardest
Of all hard days
And the lowest
Of the low
A heartbreak
And uncertainties of what to do
Have been running like rats
In madhouses
Right in my brain
I still haven't mustered
The courage
I never know when
And i know if i tell you
That would break your heart more
I appreciate
How you try to cheer me up
Despite my cranky face all day
How you try to pull me out of my cave
And bring me to places
Though you know
I hate seeing people
And how you try to digress my attention
From buying alcohol
But still buy me anyway
And scolding me when
You found my pack of cigarettes
I wanted to stop mother
I'm working on it
But not now
But this I promise today
For you i won't try
To touch death
Nor even think about it again
There will be days
When I will lock myself in my room
There will be nights
When i will choose to be in solitude
But i promise mother
That i will grow up
That i will grow old
That I will get through this
And one day
I'll be stronger
Like you

-Malaya Sanchez

Down there in the valley, where the lunatics play parts, until the cinema doors open and the latest movie starts, there's a Mexican with gold bars that are strapped into his trousers,
and down among the lunatics are the freemen, rebel rousers, it gets hard to make their features out as the silver screen lights eerily ,with blinkers sat across his eyes he stands alone and wearily,
calls to the main assembly, 'I'm waiting  for you and I'm here' but no one seems to notice him,
as Robert Redford rides a bike, he bites into a burrito, no sense in wasting good food and there's nowhere else that he can go, the gold bars start to melt and yet he's never once felt so alone, he wonders what is wife is at when he's so far away from home.

The lunatics are filing through the exit doors and who's to say, if what is madness here and now is going to be madness on another day.

The Mexican prepares a feast but no one comes except for me but
he's not in the least perturbed,
he did it once before and no one came then, so it's no surprise ,when looking in his eyes I see a medal made of bronze for me, a runner up in history, no golden ingots hidden there,
just questions and I wonder why
he came.

It has been quite difficult to look at those eyes
Demented with indifference
Laced with contempt
Days and nights
Of silence
Aching muscles
Bruised arms
And swollen eyes
**** me inside slowly
Day by day
Hoping death is a little bit better
How to keep a struggling smile
How to keep a facade of a phantom happiness
And easily tear up
At the slightest touch
And look at those pitied eyes around
Which i never want to see
And to reply to questions
Which I’m so tired to answer

-Malaya Sanchez

I saw a child roaming around forest
With her long black flowing hair
Dressed in white tunic
Then she reached a cemetery
Which was made of stained glass
With dug holes but no bodies
And then I just saw her there
Walking around
I knew it wasn’t me
But somebody else
Then i woke up
I was a man who was labelled crazy
And had to see this shrink
Who was sitting on her desk in the same forest
I convinced her to give me some colored pens
Because the stained glass was too beautiful to ignore
And it surrounded the pale child in a white tunic
But she told me that can’t be
Instead she gave me a piece of “chocolate”
Which turned out into a pen
And then i woke up

-Malaya Sanchez

I kept on fighting
For my limbs
For my arms
And my heart
I kept on fighting
Because i need them
Just not to function
But to live fully
I keep on fighting
I see them lurking around
The walls
The streets
Even under your cousin's pillow
And under our bed
I am afraid
I admit
I am afraid
Of losing
I am afraid that you might see me
Not needed anymore
If you decide
To feed me to the wolves
Following us around
With their teeth bare
And those gazing eyes
One day you told me
That my grip is too binding
And you want to be free
I had no choice
But to give you
All the freedom of the earth
And suddenly one day
You came rushing to me
Cursing
Cursing
And cursing
And went away
And one day
My limbs
My arms
And my heart
Were no longer there
Hallucinations of nostalgia
I was fed to the wolves
And you went away with them
At such an ungodly hour
I prayed that the universe would save me
For i am left bare with my soul

-Malaya Sanchez

I watched how she walks through the pavement
With her chin up and shoulders straight
I watched her dainty hair being blown by the wind
And how she sit and light her smoke
I watched how she see through the horizon
I watched how she cringes by the wind
I watched how she walks
And enter a house with a cat that doesn’t talk
I watched how she makes dinner
I watched how she stares at it
I watched how she flicks through tv channels
With no interest whatsoever
I watched her light another pack
I watched how she amuses herself with the dissolving smoke
I watched how she silently carresses the cat
And scratches his head, the cat likes that
I watched how she decides to go to bed
I watched how she looks into nothing
I watched how she cries more
And love less
Think more
And sleep less
Wallow more
And eat less
Die more
And live less
I just watched her
And couldn’t save her
Then I realized
I was her

-Malaya Sanchez

I am a Filipino.

I'm hospitable.
I have the concept of "Kapwa"
I celebrate Fiesta's.
I bought street foods. .
I shouted when Pacquiao wins, When Jessica Sanchez sing.

I love listening to Korean music, I also sing it.
I can speak Korean language.
I love copying their expressions and what their wearing.
I always watch Korean movies, I always watch.
I'm saving my money to watch concerts of my K-pop idols.

I am a Filipino, having other countries culture.

Lost
More than ever
6 am on a Tuesday

Asking,
where do I go?
I guess this is what you meant, huh Ana?
I’ve got to work on myself before anyone else
But I’m prone to denial and procrastination
it’s a cycle for real
Life keeps getting too real
Had a convo with my pops a few hours ago
and now the kid isn’t sure how to feel
wanting nothing but to fulfill their wish
but have no idea about where to start
too busy fooling myself that we live in
“Never Never Land”
The kid ain’t ready to grow up
Peter Pan, Peter Pan
I’ve said it before,
You’re the man!
I’m forever scuffing with my shadow
in the hopes that my present will alter from my past mistakes
but you aren’t worried about a thing huh?
Just that ***** hook and the wild boys
but in my reality,
I’m surrounded
Conflicted,
not like the one who probably forgot
something I’ll never forget
that night I spent time to write all the lines
from my mind that I thought described you
Shoutout to Lana Lang,
I really hope that man right for you.
And don’t worry you don't cross my mind too much
Words are never exchanged
so I thought maybe here you’d listen again
Fool,
remember the one rule:
Let it be…
I apologize for the lack of focus
It’s been a while I suppose.
Since I’ve called ******* on myself.
I mean what the **** am I doing?
what happened to the mentality that those teachers instilled in you
Yeah you’re ****** at the outcome of UMD
but you were supposed to dig your way out of that hole
make the comeback that was expected of you.
it’s like you’ve forgotten all of those lectures from the likes of
Rigley, Jones, Bent and Weatherhead
you’re destined for more
if you don’t believe it you’ll never achieve it
and further more,
if you don’t apply yourself you’ll never see results.
Even Ms. Sanchez said a few words that stunned you
like, “it’s just funny because I bet you procrastinate as well”
lead by example
like how you gon’ preach something you don’t practice
she’s plenty right.
disappointing right?
the fact that you keep trying to keep people from falling apart
when you are the one in fact who keeps breaking down
but they’ll never know
because you believe its not important
and you let it sit on the back burner
till it consumes you like this…
I guess this is my role.
walking down this solitary road
like I’ve nowhere else to go.

I’ll never expect a soul to understand
pen in hand,
sleepless nights in never land.

Sanchez and Frazier sound like keys
Tate and Judge got me on my knees
Though
They know so much about Torre’s blow
Five ‘o clock high
And Greg Bird is hitting one
into the sky
This spring training
what with late afternoon day games,
not reminding me of veteran
remains
and even Mason Williams
could be used
even if Aaron Hicks
blows a fuse,
there.
All is fair . . .

S I D E      A :
"august"                          : flipturn
"all i want"                     : kodaline
"picture perfect"            : joli
"apocalypse"                  : cigarettes after ***
"the funeral"                  : band of horses
"all too well (10 min.)"    : taylor swift
"strawberries"                : caamp
"anchor"                         : novo amor
"embody me"                 : novo amor
"because of you"           : stephen sanchez

S I D E      B :
"sleep on the floor"                               : the lumineers
"brightside"                                         ­ : the lumineers
"iris"                                               ­       : the goo goo dolls
"flightless bird, american mouth"       : iron & wine
"wake me"                                             : bleachers
"i choose you"                                       : adam melchor
"until i found you"                               : stephen sanchez
"real love baby"                                    : father john misty
"more"                                                   : between friends

Sanchez and Frazier sound like keys
Tate and Judge got me on my knees
Though
They know so much about Tree's blow
Five o'clock high
And Greg Bird is hitting now
into the sky
The spring training
what with late afternoon day games,
not reminding me of a veteran
remains
and even Mason Williams
could be used
even if Aaron Hicks
blows a fuse,
there.
All is fair...

There was the backfield tandem of Doc Blanchard and Glenn Davies on several West Point football teams of the UOS.

There is that power hitting duo of the modern day Yankees - Gary Sanchez and Aaron Judge.

There were those great power hitters of the 70s, I believe, that seemed to come in clusters like Mike Schmidt, Breen Downing, and yes, I believe, John Milner.

There was, of course, Ruth and Gehrig that stood out on the 1927 Yankees.

There's Hawke Leonard and James Harden, an unsung pair of the San Antonia Spurs and the Houston Rockets, respectively, in pro basketball that stand out.

There's Stephan Curry and Kevin Durant, a Mutt and Jeff combination in the Golden State Warriors.

There was a couple of gifted first to play on a University of Illinois basketball team African Americans that were tantalizing good at that time - Mannie Jackson and Governor Vaughn.

There was those 4 great old time Boston Celtics guards; Bob Cousy, Bill Sharman, K.C. Jones, and Sam Jones.

There was Bill Bradley and Dave Debusschere manning the wings of the New York Knickerbockers pro basketball teams of the late sixties, I believe.

There was Ron Kissinger and Glenn Becker, the keystone duo on the Chicago Cubs of the sixties, I believe.

There was Mainstay, reliable pitcher for the Casey Stengal dynasty teams - Vic Raschi and Allie Reynolds and there were great teamsmen of Vince Lombardi's pro football Green Bay Packers Super Bowl team like Dave Hammer, Forrest Gregg, and Boyd Dowler.