Jeremiah Bingham and Cole Orasmus are sitting in a darkened room, lit only by the fireplace between them.  They both sit like statues, Bingham with his hands crossed over his chest and Orasmus staring listlessly at the dust jacket of The Art of War.
Bingham(Gets up walks toward the window, back turned to Orasmus): What do you think is going to happen?
Orasmus (Looking away from the book): It all depends on if she does anything or not.
Bingham(Turning to face Orasmus): She has nothing to gain.  Nothing at all.
Orasmus: What about the …

The DRAMA Column
Sunrises through the yellow bus window.  I hear the high pitched shrieks of children all around me.  I’m so confused, where the hell am I this time? I follow them as they exit the bus, running around with no concern what so ever.  I end up with them in a class room, why did I walk with them, I don’t belong.  I sit down in a worn wooden desk looking on a busted dusty black board.  A woman with wool for hair and a hooked nose starts calling …

You would not hold me
Nor kiss me
Nor caress me
Attentively—
You nursed the whispers of your entrails
And neglected the loving curves
Sitting beside you—
Her thoughts wandered quickly
To Singapore,
Your future nest
And hiding hole.
I am less than a memory to you
Now.
Your wild, Irish curls
Vacillated,
Protruded,
Projected,
Connected,
Intertwined,
[Spoke]
[Conversed]
With my tamed,
Romanced strands—
Then the film strips
Danced
Behind my back,
Behind our backs,
Behind the shadowed movement
Of tongues,
Of hands,
Of long, novice fingers,
Of arched backs,
And of blinded,
Inexperienced eyes.

I live my life as it comes to me—instantaneously.

We debauch upon a newer, mightier world where the only thing unlikely
to change too quickly is the inflational price of hotdogs and bottled
water. Obesity flows like oil, black gold seeping through cracks in
the cobblestones.

X I can X
X do anything— X

“No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be true.”

~Nathaniel Hawthorne

Poem by Michael Coughlin
Critique by Matia Guardabascio

“Silent Voices”

It was the coldest night in August. No not August,
but a much later time, oh wait, it was August.
I remember that night like I remember my road
back  home after a barrel.  No I think it was in August.
The wind chilled your bones to brittle lyrics, in an empty echo
verse.  So it was a cold night?  Yes the coldest night in August.
I remember, i felt so alone in a sweltering chill.  No sun
to warm the throat.  I felt my hand turn black. Frostbite in …

I look forward, a mirror obscures my view
I look forward, only to see behind
The halls of ivy are all I know
But the vines won’t take me where
I think I need to go
How shall I plan when circumstances are so constantly chaotic?
My thoughts are obsolete the very second
They occur
Soon cast out into a world that isn’t
What we thought we were entitled to
I didn’t make this fucking mess
But now I’m my own life’s janitor
With a shit-stuffed toilet to look forward to
Disillusioned and demotivated
At the same time feeling the tug
Of a thousand chains …

The Johnsonville Press would like to introduce a new column in the Creative Section: The Pound-Eliot Exchange. Every week two artists will team up: one submits a work while the other offers stylistic commentary and contextual analysis. This column is dedicated to artistic collaboration and peer critique among artists of all kinds. Enjoy!