All posts for the month September, 2012

Written by, Josh Colwell  

-Professional Writing/Editing Major at

Youngstown State University

the leaves have all fallen

they’ve run out of tears

our world has been forgotten

for all of these years

and now we look around and see

all of this catastrophe

when will we learn that this isn’t right

when will we yearn

for the knowledge to stop this fight

when will we come to terms with ourselves

and put our guns up on the shelves

when will we ever stop this war

because I don’t want anymore

Posted: 9-10-12


Written by, William R. Soldan

-English Major/ Creative Writing Minor at

Youngstown State University

To those who helped render an identity for a child lost in the wake of purpose

    and stumbling on the path to self-discovery.

To Kerouac and Cassidy and subterranean cool cats with their manuscripts and ‘daddy-Os’

    and their Benzedrine chit-chat.

To the James Deans and Cool-hand Lukes and all the rebels w/out causes.

To the sixties and windowpanes and Frisco freaks in fringe suede.

To the Lizard King and his drunken rants and stairways and stardust.

To generation X and generation Y—or why not or why bother?

To the advent of Punk and reckless riffage, NYC and across the pond.

To leather jackets and safety pins, Mohawks and beer.

To big hair and high voices, the Sunset Strip and decadence.

To coming of age in flannel shirts and rusty cars on back roads and muggy nights.

To grunge-soaked Seattle street-kids flying signs in the rain.

To Kurt and Layne and sonic dismay.

To MTV when it still played music and the inexplicable strangeness of things.

To misfits and weirdoes finding their places in the world, writing songs and poems inspired by

    the misfits and weirdoes that came before.

To the barflies and dope fiends and those still clutching hope, wayward saints of the crooked and   



Here’s to you.


Posted: 9-10-12

This Spleen

Written by, Miranda Tusinac

-English Major/ Creative Writing Minor at

Youngstown State University

Some never reach their full potential; a literality.

Passing amongst all, deep seeded Redroots.

I see them scream- subdued yet splenic.

Revoking all desire, as I watch the beast passant.

Here and now I irrevocably emendate

this torture and pity as enough.


Great solitude, but is it enough?

I speak of chaos, none hear literality.

Look and speak of marks emendated.

They bark and tear up the Redroot,

crouching down, then begin to passant.

Horrible happenings make the weak grow splenic.


Hearken towards the discouragement that’s splenic.

It’s dripping from my veins yet never enough.

I grow beastly, like you, and move to passant.

Never wanting the surreal to perish in literality

yet defacing my own Redroot.

Let this be known, and emendate.


If all succumb, what’s worth emendating?

Ghostly breath resembles the ghastly and splenic

reverberations of minds, a daunty Redroot.

Envision this and tear me up. I have not enough

strength. Quick to sharpen this literality

but still stumble to passant.


At first, the death took to passant

in salty depths, but only I emendated.

Never a fact, only these literalities

compel. Soon they all become splenic.

Until eternity was lost; it was never enough

to survive. We regurgitated our Redroots.


Forgotten meanings of a Redroot

became a driving force to passant.

In remission, some knew what enough

was. Still, only I could emendate.

The significance of dormant mentality- rooms became splenic.

Some never cared for reality; a literality.


See now the literality of the Redroot.

Without it, all is splenic with a Devil’s passant.

I still emendate; hoping soon that the infinitesimal is enough.