His:
My palms were sweaty
and heavy, but perhaps
the heaviest thing about them
were the two concert tickets
I was gripping tightly in my left hand.

Hers:
His smile was like a bonfire;
warm and you always wanted to bring your body closer
just to feel more of that warmth.
His palms were also sweaty.
Some of my friends say it was gross,
but I will always remember it
as one of the most charming things about him.

His:
I picked her up around 7.
Met her parents and said we'd be home by midnight.
Her father likes the Cardinals.
I'm a Cubs fan.
Yeah...

Hers:
My father is a Cardinals fan,
and he was a Cubs fan.
But, what I didn't tell him,
was that my mother was a Cubs fan too.
My father won't say it,
but he approved of him instantly.
Mom, if you can hear me up there,
thank you.

His:
Her father scared the living daylights out of me.
We came back at 12:06, and her father says
"You're six minutes late young man!
That's it! You're not allowed to..."
and as my heart is sinking he says
"I'm just kidding bud. Thanks for getting her home safe."
She still won't let me live that down.

Hers:
He was so sweet to my parents,
even after dad tried to scare him out of his wits,
he said, "Sir, with all do respect
that may have just been the most mortifying moment of my life."
I walked him out, still teasing him.
With this sassy looking face and a furrowed brow
he kissed me goodnight and said
"I only got scared because we've only just begun."
I think that's when I fell in love with him.

His:
Good God I must have looked like a *****.
I ask her jokingly every now and again
"When did you fall in love with me?"
All she does is chuckle and say
"When dad scared the hell out of you."
I think what scares me more now,
is that I know there's a part of her that's serious,
and I like that. I don't really understand why,
I just do.

Hers:
I couldn't wait to see him again.
I asked mom and dad what they thought of him
and mom said "He's a keeper."
Dad said "He reminds me of your mother;
Clumsy, easy to tease, but you can't help but love the kid."
Mom punched him on the shoulder
and then gave dad a kiss.
They both agreed and said "We'll allow it."
I was so happy to hear that.

I don’t remember the first mushroom I had.
I can’t remember the last time rainbow stars weren’t falling
from the sky, why I’m addicted to jumping on flagpoles,
or why I shoot fireballs after eating flowers.
I’m addicted, but it’s not a problem.
I think.

I can see flying turtles with wings.
They keep throwing hammers at me.
I punch bricks
hoping coins come out of them,
because I somehow got the idea
that if I got a hundred gold coins
I could buy myself a new life.

I want a life with a steamy
red hot princess
in a flowing pink dress
living in a bourgeois castle
where the smell of peaches
breathes life into every fiber
of my mustachioed being.

Sometimes I think my brother is green
with envy, when all he really does is pick daisies.
Why should he be jealous?
He’s taller, slimmer,
and he doesn’t have to work as tirelessly as I do.
But, I’ve always jumped higher,
reached further, and punched harder.
It’s not my fault he chooses to stay in my shadow.
That little *****.

I sometimes ride on a green dinosaur's back.
I’m a baby floating away in a bubble,
and that dinosaur saved my life
far too many times to count.
He’s my best friend.

Sometimes I like to put on my blue hat
and pretend that I’m invisible.
Sometimes I put on my green hat
and pretend I’m as hardened as a mafia gangster.
I am Italian after all. It’s in my blood.

I want to quit, but I can’t. I don’t need to.
I’m doing fine with these mushrooms.
I feel larger than life with the red ones,
and the green ones
resurrect me.

As I sip succulent absinthe
from the mouth of a cyan sea,
I succumb to a seductive grin
and sell my soul to thee.
 
There it is, a dappled smirk,
on your sinful lips as well,
and now that you are willing,
we have a tangled tale to tell.
 
Come now my sweet euphoria.
Caress me in your kiss.
Send me a twisted alibi
and wrap me in utter bliss.
 
I am the tainted murmur,
I am the nimbus quick,
and as one, we are miasma,
to the sickest of the sick.
 
Your skin a sweet oasis,
my hands a greedy verve,
the sense of touch engulfs us,
and we muster up the nerve.
 
No couple more visurient,
none filled with more desire,
no passion burning brighter
than that which we perspire.
 
We slow from our nirvana,
and slumber into mist,
dreaming of how it all began
with one etherial kiss.
 
By: Kevin Kurt Nepomuceno

The sound of silence is a chainsaw
with no fuel, longing to gnash its teeth
against the husk of sweet bark.
It is the cold wind on a winter’s morning
that sweeps across a frozen Lake Michigan,
gently kissing the motionless street sweepers
in the city beyond.

The sound of silence
was never the sound of one hand clapping,
nor was it ever kosher.
It was never the final breath
of a young wanderer dangling
from the husk of sweet bark
that chainsaws longed for.

The sound of silence
is the paper blanket given to
homeless men and women,
the aftermath of broken plates
in the home of a south side apartment,
the lingering misty droplets
in a bathtub full of cold red water,
all of this
unheard and unseen.

The sound of silence
is not the absence of sound.
It is simply not noticing
that a starving child was whimpering
in the first place.