Dead Center_Highland Park High School

Breiann You want to be a makeup artist, Bre HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL
You want to travel the world.
Elisha Eanes You want to be a talent scout, Bre
You want to sing on Broadway.
You are short. You had the audacity to be born a human
You are bright-skinned. Instead of the butterfly you really are,
You have jet black twisting locks, And I am the grounded rock you flit back to year after year,
A gap-toothed smile, Dream after dream,
Eyes so chocolate that they’re almost red, And I love you, little big sister,
And hard, round calves like mine. Smiling dreamer.
Your back is broad, just like my own,
And you write the titles of anime you wish to
watch,
In bouncing, bubbly letters.

You are ebullient, Solomon Newman
And you are fickle.
Some days, I scrape together a list
Of a thousand reasons why I could hate you
And then you walk in, with your size eight-
and-a-half-shoes-
Tiny, to me-
And your denim blue overalls,
And your cropped yellow shirt,
And your hair curled tight,
Like dozens of black rosettes pinned to your
scalp
And my list is sucked up in the vacuum
cleaner I’m using,
Or washed down the drain with the residue
Of the pots you didn’t wash yesterday because
they were “soaking”.

51

DEAD CENTER 2016 Liar Editor

Ari Libove-Goldfarb

I enter my world as a liar editor Isabel Rodriguez
My world is a fiction
A fantasy
It’s viewed by you
Just how it should be
These odd standards determined
By society
I’m a liar editor
Don’t trust me
Well, you could
It wouldn’t matter
Given this world of half truths
AKA lies
A polite fiction
Created to stand
Understand
Withstand
The people around you
Regardless you’ll trust more than I do

52

heeled boots like all days HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL
lifting her sinking towards its end
Existential to the height like the last pinch of sand
Friday of a didgeridoo in an hourglass
eyebrows
Miram Schreiber plucked and arched I light a cigarette
and set it on the ashtray
hollow cheeks pulling watch the red
Indigo Glove her lips and black glow
on the ground the stern frown I don’t fancy smoking
fingerless and powdered of a customs agent but I like watching
in fairy dust her eyes downcast
like stars saving me the destroyer

flickering on and off from having to determine consume itself
as I pass by if it’s too late in the day as the cold bite

as if Michael Jackson to say good afternoon fogs against
awoke from the nothing these hours
to throw with the cesious my window

one final piece filter
of himself over the streets
on this frigid pavement dusk before 4:30pm
in this mad city same worn out
tips of my fingers knot in my gut
pressed up 12 years old again
against the burn too scared to knock
of the foam cup on the teacher’s lounge door
in my hand walking in my door
these alleys that quarantined quiet
filling my lungs soft red of the walls
with the bitter like square glasses
chemical choke of zinfandel
like laundry detergent my day
I pass a woman ephemeral

Camryn Kozachek 53

DEAD CENTER 2016 Nature and the Plight of the We could have learned a lot from them.
Native American It’s truly a da*n shame our forefathers ANNIHILATED
them.
Eli Goldstein The Native Americans knew we could have societies
without streets
I often ask myself or condos
what the world would be like or subways
if humans never existed. or airplanes
or iPhones, or PLASTIC WATER BOTTLES, or flashy
I like to ponder this thought jewelry, or processed sh*t in our food or fluoride in our
and imagine what Earth would look like drinking water.
if we never evolved My hypothesis?
and became the only species Americans were AFRAID of the Natives.
to disconnect ourselves from nature. They arrived in North America
and encountered these amazing people
Nowadays you need to TRAVEL to be in nature. with this seemingly SUPERNATURAL connection with
It did not need to be like this. the earth.
And they were AFRAID!
I don’t like to see streets They were afraid because they now knew that their way of
and condos life was wrong.
and subways And being the ignorant b**tards they were
and airplanes. and have continued to be
I like to see trees they slaughtered the people who could have taught them
and plants so much.
and animals One of the most ENLIGHTENED civilizations of all time
and unaltered nature sadly their one mistake
beautiful because humans don’t know where it is. was living where the white man wanted to live.

As people, as MODERN HUMANS
we made the conscious decision
to stray from the source of all our sustenance.
The Native Americans knew of the importance of nature.

54

About the Bearded Guy HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL
Who Makes Me Laugh and Cry

Miriam Schreiber

Talia Fishman When he speaks the room is silent
all lungs pause
no air is needed when he speaks in oxygen flavored words
let them breath through their ears when he steps on stage
let the confused understand
let the understanding learn something new
never before did someone find the words to explain my disorders
and make them sound like dandelions
destructive sure, but beautiful.
present them as both yellow and white.
the weed and the flower.
how did he look at the dictionary and not trip on all those words?
how did he read my mind when I didn’t even know what I was thinking?
He is like fire
which is to say that I am afraid of him, but cannot stop watching.
He is the fuel that keeps things moving
the warmth that gets me out of bed in the morning
his job is his love
I didn’t think it was possible
but in so many ways
he proved me wrong.
I can only hope to grow alongside the dandelions like he did
to rip out their roots and place the dry yellow petals in a journal
and read about the whole garden.

55

DEAD CENTER 2016 My Son, the Dreamer I cast aside my fears, can contaminate his
hoping that they won’t ever frail mind and body?
Dawn Park rise from the dead I know there won’t be a day,
and haunt me. when my son will wake up
He was my precious doll But that was then… from his eternal sleep.
the light of my life. My son, the dreamer. But I’ll let him be,
My child, just as sweet and bright I can’t reach him anymore. for he will always be
as any other youth could ever be. He disappeared along a dreamer.
But he lacked just one thing with the whimsical dream
that every parent wishes for their he left behind. Monica Aspy
own. I wish I could be there
He would rather dream and to wrap my arms around him
ponder and tell him I’m sorry
about his life filled with peace for leaving him behind.
than to embrace the audacity I wish I could know
to face a merciless possibility. what he had been through.
He was a true dreamer I wish I could know
who decided who or what how he’s doing now.
was a part of his fabricated Is he happy?
but vivid imagination. What is his life like?
As I watched him play around Does he miss his old life
with his “friends”, where his loving parents
laughing and smiling without a and smiling friends
care, were the only ones
I worried for him. who kept his hopes up?
What if he continues to live Or is he living in bliss
in an oblivious peace? in his own beautiful heaven
What will he do if he where no other venomous
faces the nightmares nightmare
of the real world?
But as he returned home safely,
greeting me with his polite magic
words,

56

Uncle How could you do this HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL
Put a gun to your head
Isabel Rodriguez Pull the trigger
End it all
Gabrielle Rosenthal Was that the only solution you could see?
What made you do this?
Was the pain too much?
Why didn’t you speak up?
Were you ashamed?
The last time I spoke to you
There was a twinkle in your eye
A smile plastered on your face
But now as I look at you
Or the shell of the strong man you once were see the
struggle and strife that drove you to this ending
Your body curling in on itself
Your mighty hands now cold and blue
Your face covered by a white box
Hiding the horrific thing you did to yourself
The child who just lost her father
Asks why can’t I see daddy’s face one last time or feel
his
Warm embrace
The sister who just lost her big brother
Her role model; her rock
Hugs onto a fleeting memory of a better time
The niece
Tears streaming down her cheeks
Reading you your favorite poem one last time

57

DEAD CENTER 2016 Hair

Ivan Mondaca Amita Shukla

There was once a man
Who liked to collect locks of hair
From all the people he’d ever met.
“What can I say? I like to remember.”
He kept each lock in a plastic bag.
He’d press all the air out
To preserve them indefinitely.
“What can I say? I think I might live forever.”
He stored them between the pages
Of the large volumes of his encyclopedias
and his dictionaries.
“What can I say? I don’t think I’ll do much reading.”
He liked to talk to the hair,
As if he were having conversations
With the actual people they belonged to.
“What can I say? I don’t like to tell anybody anything,
because if I did, then I’d start missing everybody.”*

*last line of Catcher in The Rye, J.D Salinger

58

There for Me HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL

Joel Herniter

Life is strange,
But there you are
Yellow, fruity, delicious
Your skin peels back
To reveal another face.
You stand by me
In my worst moments.
You are my bread
And my cake.
Imagine my
Disappointment
The day you are
Gone,
Banana.

Talia Fishman

59

DEAD CENTER 2016 Concrete Motion

Jessica Robinson Sunny Yang

Constant momentum
Movement, rushing
To go, to act,
To never, for a moment, pause
Bustling by, shoulders crashing in aching
waves
Noises, booms, clacks, yells, crashing in one
buzzing wave
The tink of the homeless man’s can
The clink of the close of the businessman’s
phone
Lights blind,
Coca-Cola deities rise above,
Ads tower over all, screeching pictures
demand viewing
Flashes of theatre, of stripper cowboys, of
Elmos for $5,
All blink by in the blink of an eye
Cameras snap, tourists clap
Pausing on cracked, gum-ridden pavement
Radio Shack next door
I’d be trampled
So, like everyone, I move along,
Never to take in the sense
Of Times Square

60

We Came Running HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL

Tia Wangli Rina Mischel

We came running,
busting down the broken walls.
Freed from the calculating minds
of our latter years.
Where dreams were still wild,
and one could lightly laugh with open arms.
We came running,
past the open fields, overrun and untamed,
where the setting sun illuminated the purple shades of
green.
past the quiet towns where Madonna was a devil and
Beethoven a saint.
past the old racing track whose
empty stands once held rambunctious crowds.
We came running,
with banjos strapped to our backs,
and music coursing through our veins.
With bongos made of abandoned tins
and fires lit by our burning dreams.
Paying homage to the basket weaver,
who delicately knit our lives with
brilliant shades of emerald, violet, and gold.
We came running,
fitting together a mural of simple patterns and intricate
designs.
Then whiting it out so that tomorrow we may paint the
world anew.

61

DEAD CENTER 2016 Reminisce in the Night

Naeem Ghee

The night can be many things.
The night is when some people sleep.
Some people come out at night.
But that’s when I dream.
But I don’t dream like most people.
My dreams transport me to a place of remembrance.
A long hallway with unmarked doors.
Each door a portal, taking me to a different place of remembrance.
Step through a door and fall into memory.
Fade into a better time.
Fade into a place of remembrance,
and reminisce in the night.
Walk through one door to see the sunshine and feel the humidity.
Enter another to hear the rumble of thunder and taste the cool rain.
A different door carrying the smell of
fresh firewood on the brisk winter air.
Then I leave the room, gently closing the door behind me.
I continue down the endless hall of doors,
And reminisce in the night.

Amita Shukla

62

Ghosted Hearts HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL

Gabrielle Rosenthal Jessica Robinson

You’re all bare now
Stripped of the love bonded to you
throughout the years
Empty
The language of love still echoes over your
wooden path
Yet the promises affixed vanished
Rushing water flows beneath
Ebbing to and fro
Men and women move together
Hand in hand
Along your slats
Without your fixtures
What are you?
City workers dismantle
Leaving structure over H2O
Locks dissolving like love forgotten
Plexiglass replaces romance
I walk along and see the Seine
Yet I miss the promises
The stories that were there
On the Pont des Arts

63

DEAD CENTER 2016 Fall

Emma Weaver Talia Fishman

A leaf, its edges darkening, drying, curling inward as if on fire,
Caught by a brisk breeze, holding tight to its branch, to its life.
A student, drawn back to school by the bells of September,
Her backpack slung over shorts and a floral t-shirt.
With the rustles of the tree, the leaf is urged to fall
Let go, give up, give in,
Her mother says, brandishing a sweater of
Hues of brown and red
Creep inward, onto the leaf’s green heart, but it
Doesn’t want things to change,
She doesn’t want to work, she wants to
Rest, as was possible in summer,
Upon a branch of vigor and life, not one that the cold
Has burned out
Her motivation for doing everything, but she has to, and she’s
Too tired to resist anymore,
So it falls.
They fall.
Carried by the north wind to their fates
Leaving behind the warmth and life of summer
Falling onto the black asphalt.
Until
The breeze picks up again
The leaf is lifted from its stagnant state
To lie in a patch of winter sun.

64

Today Three minutes left. HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL
I close my eyes
Chris Nolan

Today is a new day. and squeeze so tight
hoping for some solution to arise.
Something fresh. Two minutes left.
But it starts out broke
life in a mess. I should prepare for something to say.
I wake up five minutes before my alarm Continuously telling myself that
and ponder what to do. today might be the day.
One minute left.
Do I stay strong or follow a heart so Lost in times past, tears begin to fall.
true?
Throw away the work I put in A face so vivid
but now that which is lost is all.
for another chance to fly, The alarm goes off and I immediately stop it.
or get shot down like pigs in a sty.
Four minutes left.
I think of good times past I fell asleep in October, and woke up in May
I impatiently wait for the time when I wake up
and wonder, and say “Finally, today is a new day.”
why can’t this feeling last?

Amita Shukla

65

DEAD CENTER 2016 The Morning Mist

Chris Nolan

The fisherman completes a fraction of what a machine can do.
He sits patiently for a fish to bite,

While a factory eats coal and spits out smoke.
The factory can run all night,

But the man must wake at the crack of dawn.
He gets out of bed, boards the boat,
And waits on the cool water.

What once was a fresh morning mist,
Is now a constant smog.

He knows that soon he will have to move on,
Replaced by machines that devour coal and get

More fish than he could in a day,
In a single hour.

All one can do when the inevitable has yet to come
Is stay calm, catch a few fish,

And enjoy the tranquil water before
It follows the fate of the morning mist.

66

HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL

Talia Fishman

67

DEAD CENTER 2016 It Was a Good Day so expectant of the hurricane
you bolt your cellar doors on a
Miriam Schreiber summer’s day
so for you I’ll make the sweets
misty nights sickening
make misty eyes and move the cavities in my teeth
to my heart
the mountain’s snow
has been licked clean by the sun

crisp flakes
to warm lakes

yet still, the shiver down my spine for you I’ll make the rain
l’appel du vide I’ll stare at the sun till I can see
I wish I had a secret only black
to tell you tonight and now you have your blind man
because who am I to lead
without the tornado mind O gracious saint
and the hollow O generous angel
cinder block slit my throat with your halo
that crushes nothing more and bandage the wound
than the eye’s anticipation

Anna Minakhina and you with your
silhouette smile
68

The sky above HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL

Delta it is blue
Gabi Glueck it casts its shadow down
upon the river’s end

The mix of pale sand
and sprouted spring grass
and thick, slimy algae
declare themselves
on the belly
of the river’s end

The rocks
and the hills
split the river’s feet
into spindling streams
twisting creeks
intertwining, regrouping
in the river’s end

But no matter the color
no matter what lies beneath
no matter how small or how large

how different

Angelina Li all the water
flows back to the vast ocean
it all becomes one 69
at the river’s end

DEAD CENTER 2016 The Flight of the Birds

Sunny Yang Peter Finaldi

70 “At least I’m not hung up on a tree,”
I thought as they prepared to cut off my head.
Once the blade drops, I shall be set free.
A crowd was standing around me,
Waiting for my death, which lay ahead
At least I’m not hung up on a tree.
Above, I saw the birds fly with glee,
The king sat gnawing on a loaf of bread,
Once the blade drops, I shall be set free.
Some child cowardly cried out, “Mommy!”
Trying to hide his view when the blade turns red
At least I’m not hung up on a tree.
I want to be a bird, where I can flee
Where nothing can stop me, not even lead
When the blade drops, I can fly free
A black figure rose his axe valiantly
The end is coming for my life and head
At least I wasn’t hung up on a tree,
Regardless, I shall soon be set free.

The Top of the Tower HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL

Amita Shukla Dawn Park

I step into the cable car,
The gate to the top of the tower.
The highest tower in all of Korea.
The capital’s greatest landmark.

As the cable car begins to glide up the line,
I look out the window
to see the wild green forests.
The loud, incoherent, and excited noises
cannot wake me up from my pondering.

What would the top be like?
They say that tourist attractions inhabit the top.
Places to eat, shop, play, and love.
But more importantly, what is the view like?
If this is the highest tower in Korea,
how far in the atmosphere am I?
What would the city look like?
Another urban city or something more than that?
What do the surrounding forces of nature want to tell
me?
What does this tower want me to expect?

The cable car stops. Everyone disperses.
I wake up from my muse and brace myself
to enter the mysterious world of the Namsan Tower.

71

DEAD CENTER 2016 Love Puppets more attention,
more praise,
Dawn Park more attention,
more fame.
I hear about the show from So it sways back and forth
that attractive poster that screams out, as its wooden mouth bobs up and down,
“Witness the meaning of True Love!” while the puppeteer pitches their voice,
The show turns out to be a puppet show desperate to make its audience
filled with funny looking marionettes, feel the “love” it fabricates.
getting into silly antics. When love is nearly torn apart
Knowing that all they care about is love, by distractions of reality,
I know what’s going to happen to these it refuses to stop and wake up.
lifeless props pretending to be people. It just continues to smother everyone
Puppet A falls in love with Puppet B, in a shower of kisses and mellifluous words,
they become star-crossed lovers. dripped in golden honey that’s
When they’re alone, they express their feelings artificially made for easy money.
through dramatic phrases and tender kisses. Try doing this to someone you know and love
“How cute and romantic!” the audience goes and see how they react
and they squeal “Awwww” when something sappy to your own puppet show.
happens. They’ll probably think
I refuse to follow them as I cringe. you’re crazy and barmy.
This love can’t be real, who acts like this? They have the sense to know
Whoever thought this kind of relationship that this isn’t the way to “love”.
will totally work out? There’s no warmth to this “love”;
But no one really cares, do they? it’s devoid of any emotion;
Because they wish love was like this. all it wants to do is entertain.
The entertainers know they want this. So unless you realize how to love
They want us to think that it is, indeed, real. by embracing the challenges
They control that puppet as they please, of confusion, devotion, and kindness,
bringing it to life and making it want you’ll never escape the unbreakable strings
of the love puppets and their never ending show.
72

Absence HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL

Onyedikachukwu Okeke

I grew up thinking he was the perfect role model.
Everything I aspired to do and become revolved around him.
Yet, I was living a facade because he was not who I thought he
was.
“Does my life have no meaning anymore?
What was it really meant to look like?” I asked myself.
“Suddenly I was in a deep well and saw no hope of being pulled
out.”
Life got so crummy;
I became oblivious to my own depression.
Floating through each passing day like I was awaiting an end
that never came.
Tears, tears, and more tears is all that seemed mundane to me.
No denial whatsoever yet no acceptance for what was.
I was blind and I let my naivety cripple me.
Leaving me alive but dead inside.
I heard myself yelling “NO! NO!” as I tried to block out
the veracity that began to consume me.
My eyes filled with pain and sadness.
My knees wavering, my senses dead along with the rest of my
body.

Rachell Guerrero 73

DEAD CENTER 2016 Regret’s Hold on Loss

Onyedikachukwu Okeke

Reyna Holland-Taylor I am surrounded by hurt
My light suddenly dimmed by a cloud of darkness
I never thought I would know what it meant to live without
you
Every day, I come up here to reminisce
It seemed like you were always standing there
Watching over something
I always thought it was me
But now I understand why my pain is so deeply rooted
Why it seems like my heart is being ripped apart
Our connection is causing me to feel what you feel, even
gone
Your disappointments and regrets
I share as well
You are looking at what you would have become
All the wasted potential
The memories we were meant to share that have been
wiped out
Somehow I see them too
The stool reminding me of how you will never grow more
than you are
I thought the light was supposed to quench the darkness
But in some ways it has only strengthened its power over
me
If accepting the darkness is the only way I can remain with
you
Then I accept.

74

The Wandering Peoples HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL

Matt Schaeger

Over rhymin’
Constant linein’
On time when I come through
You: the one with the power in hand
So search the land, roaming in the sand
Trying to make yourself a better man with the
better plan
So you ran to find your destiny
But instead caught a felony for fighting the
system
Now you slump in a cell waiting for bail
Dreaming of setting sail
Bringing mail filled with knowledge of being set
free from the clutches of control
That feel they need to patrol the whole world
We’re in a whirlwind of whimsical liars using
tires to aspire
Instead of their own two feet
And they brought the whole fleet so the natives
must retreat
Searching this earth for another place to live

Maria Rahi

75

DEAD CENTER 2016 Waiting in Line I slowly crept along the red passageway with soft
carpets and flowing curtains
Peter Finaldi There was the perfect spot, right in the middle, six
rows from the front
The line was long The giant scarlet curtains had something amazing
Too long hiding behind them
Some people rolled out sleeping bags The dimmer the room became, the more excited the
Others brought out bottles to do their business fans were
Few left from impatience and frustration As it reached complete darkness, we heard the
I was brave enough to wait massive curtains roll back
Slowly, the sun hid behind the clouds, inches away Dead silence took over,
from setting anticipation was at its highest
The stars began to appear throughout the cerulean Ten seconds of absolute silence
sky Ten seconds of soft, yet exuberant breathing
The moon was half-full and yellow from the setting Ten seconds of quickening heartbeats
sun Ten seconds of thoughts and concerns
No one was paying attention, as if they’d seen it Ten seconds of beautiful, intense peace
before Ten seconds...until the mighty fanfare of Star Wars
Cars roamed around the streets, anxious to find a exploded
parking space Everyone stood up, screaming with joy
Some of them decided to park in the middle of the I had never felt such happiness, excitement, and
road so they could get on the line satisfaction before
Finally, they let us in, an ovation erupted The film was amazing, the atmosphere of the
I hoped there was enough space theatre was spectacular
Well, enough space with a good view The thought actually being here was mind-boggling
As I entered, the smell of fresh popcorn hit my nose Here, in the year of 1977, is where I lived life to its
The shining floor and bright lights surprised my eyes fullest
Loud chatter and music entertained my ears

76

Waiting in Line Cont. HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL

As the film concluded, we exited the building,
exhausted from our experience
To many, it may not seem much, sitting on your
butt for two-and-a-half hours
What matters is that you just waited for several
months
I look back at the tall architecture of the building
The glowing lights and majestic, exaggerated roof
Walking out of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre felt
unreal to me
You never get an opportunity in your life to do
exactly what you wanted
When you do, savor that moment, love every
second of that day
I guarantee you, you will not forget it

Sunny Yang

77

DEAD CENTER 2016 Ode to Olive Oil
Victoria DeLaurentis

Liquid gold sitting at the bottom of my salad bowl,
soaking up crusty bread, cucumbers, tomatoes, and feta,
pooling into a richness that describes the land it originates from:
Greece,
where the sea stretches out for miles,
disappearing into the skyline,
so blue and pure that the paradise that is Heaven doesn’t seem too distant.
The flavor you leave on my tongue reminds me of these moments,
sitting in a foreign land
where half of my blood derives,
holding on to vague words in the fast-paced conversations around me.
These phrases I’d learned years ago,
sitting behind a wooden desk in a church classroom,
praying for a fluency in a language that I still don’t possess.
The greenish tint you possess at the bottom of my white bowl
when dinner is finished
arouses memories of the overwhelming emerald foliage—
it crawled up houses, around corners,
dotting the lopsided, fading roads,
nursing flowers and lavender and lemon.
I wished I’d appreciated you more when I was a few years younger,
a few years away from maturity,
when confusion distanced me from my heritage,
and contempt met me in the moments my understanding of your culture wasn’t enough.
You can remove my most stubborn mascara in seconds,
leaving my skin soaked in Greece.

78

Ode to Olive Oil Cont. HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL

You were present when I became accepted into a religion I am fond of,
pouring down my hair,
purifying me so that I may be worthy—I am still not worthy.
I still feel detached from you and what you symbolize not only to me,
but to a population of struggling people.
They struggle to believe that they will see better;
they fear that their olive trees will be taken over by others,
that their jobs and land will continue disappearing.
They dip their fingertips in your holy oil,
praying for the same blessings and acceptance of a baptism.
I have only just begun to taste the bitterness that you exist as before you become rich and smooth.
You sit in a kitchen cabinet in a glass bottle,
waiting to be remembered for your goodness,
but sometimes, darkness exists for longer than you anticipate.
And even though I’m not always proud,
and I don’t always feel accepted,
I know that your country will find light,
and that I will no longer be frustrated when I spill some of you
on my clothes,
on my hair,
on my skin.
You are the closest thing to long distance love and the farthest thing from perfect,
but you are important to me,
and I will continue to pour you over everything.

Dawn Park 79

DEAD CENTER 2016 Ode to Elisha’s Hair Fingertips kissing the roots
The hands are gardeners
Emma Weaver And oh, the life that springs from the ground!
The coal flowers
There is no majesty Dark
Greater Unrefined
Capable of great and terrible feats
Than hair of the Elishan variety But carrying the ember of love
As it explodes outwards That lights our world.
From her brilliant head
Airy like cotton candy And alive Elisha Eanes
But dark, unlike her soul Ever changing
One day subtle
With a roughness that her disposition Tied back in a simple black band
Will never reach. The rubber condensing the magnificence
To a single point
Or hanging like ropes A black hole
Tying me to life That hides it away
Until the next Big Bang
Twisted and curled The infinite explosion of the finite material
As complex as the person beneath And then it is brilliant
Exclaiming in bold Impact letters
A reflection of humanity. Her presence
To bring it to perfection is not simple She cannot be ignored
She holds the universe in her hair.
Not a job for conditioner
Hairspray And when I see it Channah Martens
The world has truth
Whatever newfangled product Conair The world has order
just came out with The world has meaning
And everything
Sculpting the dead cells to life Is
Takes love Right.

When I look up
To the heavens

To the gods
To the hair of she who is taller than me

I see
Care
Gently separating the strands

80

Carolyn Hart So instead, today, I laud you. HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL
A paean of praise to you,
Ode to Emma’s Handwriting Wispy penmanship,
Belonging to that cool-headed Einstein,
Elisha Eanes Meekly pinning her ideas,
Translucent and fleeting as ghosts,
You, quirky chicken scratch Into plain, unworthy subject notebooks.
Naught but an apparition settled on paper Your character is apparent,
Barely there and sans serif, Your scrawled brilliance rightfully assumed.
Residing among bright pink eraser rubbings Never alter your depth,
And hovering above the academic blue line Fair letters,
You stroll along the paper, For you belong to she who turns 26 characters
Conveying profound concepts Into art
In a bouncy, half-formed shorthand To she who spins a thousand phrases
I can imagine your hurried characters On one little pink finger
As a doctor’s handiwork, To the blue-eyed scholar with a novel behind her
Haphazard hieroglyphics swept onto a prescrip- irises
tion form for cetirizine or sleeping meds You belong to literature,
I engage in idle persiflage with your handler, And she is literature.
Whose pale, cool fingers tip their essence into you Don’t get a big head,
“How messy this handwriting is! Emma’s words.
What does it even say, Em?” Instead, grant her the translation
My comments are ill-received, Of each conflicting sentence
That passes through her fair-haired cranium
Act the scribe, lovely scribbles,
And dutifully capture the thoughts of she-
Her-
She, alone,
Knows your true worth.

81

DEAD CENTER 2016 Blank Slate

Sunny Yang Adia Nyiendo

82 The clean paper
seduces me; beckoning the
words
that will not come.
High hopes and
yet-
Here I am,
salivating at the thought of
expression with
no means through which
to express myself.
This lust for words
This self-consuming passion
This anger for what is not
This hunger that eats at my being
This curse of unintelligible rambling
And here you are!
Calling for my words,
those nonexistent entities
that live too far
from my grasp,
Tempting me with
empty lines
and promises of eloquence.
I yield only hollow skeletons
Of ideas
That perish
In the fervor.

Ode to Makeup Take you You correct HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL
as a wand my blemishes.
Olyvia Ruiz to extend You give me
my lashes Confidence
Gabrielle Rosenthal A palette of colors. like a magician. You give me
You give me As a powder different looks,
so many options. to fill my eyebrows. dark smokey look
From Honesty to Give a bridged for a party,
White Frost to appearance. casual, natural
Brown Sugar to You cover my look
Ocean Breeze. dark sleepless for a day at school.
Creating art eyes and Using different
on my face. rejuvenate them. techniques for
Put my brush You complete differents looks.
in your dusty my look. Angled brush
color, applying Not changing for eyebrows
it to my lid. my face but Big fluffy brush
I use you accentuating it. for foundation
to add Some hate smaller brushes
Pearl, Rose, or disagree for eyeshadow.
Champagne, with you Learning new
or Plum but me, looks
to my lips. you make me continuously.
Take you happy. I love you
as a pencil Letting me in all
to line my eyes be creative, your aspects.
like a cat. you give
Starting in Egypt, me a shield. 83
the style traveled.

DEAD CENTER 2016 Ode to Empanadas With your perfectly
seasoned beefy taste
Kaylyn Long So scrumptious

Golden pastry Burning my delicate tongue
With your singular potato As I bite into your crispy
chunk exterior
Flaking crust, steamy insides Sending my lucky taste
Fried, crisped to perfection buds on a trip to paraíso
Waiting in that cart a la You’re heaven in my mouth,
playa en Isla Verde
The warmth of the hispanic
With the empanada women soul
I ask her, puedo tener un Piecing together mi familia
empanada de carne?
Diez dolares each time we hear
Quién quiere empanadas?
Or at my grandmother’s
house
As she sings songs she knows
only one line to
While she fries more
Smiling and complaining
about the scent of oil and
fried food, abre la ventana
Lying on your porcelain
plate
Patiently waiting
Calling to me, Eat me
Oh, dear, tasty empanada

84

Ode to Acne Parasitic Survivor HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL
Unheeded by soap, moisturizers
Jessica Robinson Leaching, breathing
Surviving, despite dearth
The fiery comets wiping out You find life in spite
Childhood’s smooth innocence Of the scorched Neutrogena
With the inflamed brightness earth
Of maturation
Leaving only craters
A landscape of rough, rounded
holes

Crimson Phoenix Immortal Hydra of the Teen Age
Rising from the dead To kill is to spread
Skin Your seed, your juice
And unholy oils To puncture your putrid film
Of the face Is to scar
In the sins of the adolescent To kill ensures your mark
You gain your might forever

Fires of Pompeii Herald of Adulthood
Mountainous immensity upon Your place within my derma
the terrain Is as harbinger of change
Volcanic Beaming craters of transition
Exploding into liquid matter Rest upon my flesh
But still remembered Until my growth is realized
In the remains of the faces
Angelina Li The sullied flesh you touched

85

DEAD CENTER 2016 Excuses to my Neglected Journal Like all the rest of my poetry
And had those metaphors that you
Miriam Schreiber once mentioned you liked in that poem I read to you
that one time.
“I keep coming here expecting to write The Poem”- This Poem had 4 wheels
Neil Hilborn And I promise
Three of them were definitely working the last time I
I would have written you This Poem, checked.
but every time I tried to write it And I promise I was definitely working the last time I
my thoughts would scatter checked.
like rats To be fair though,
(in that I haven’t checked in a while
one scene in Ratatouille where the because that requires effort
old lady starts shooting at her chandelier and I don’t like working for anything.
with a giant-a** gun). Except maybe this.
No wait rats are gross and I’m trying to be poetic. Except maybe the right to write This Poem.
No. My thoughts would scatter like- Have you ever wanted something so bad you fought
butterflies. for it with your teeth?
Colorful patterns fluttering to ends of the earth so What I’m saying is I think I bit off more than I could
distant chew.
that by the time they got there And could you or maybe someone else who names
I thought they were dragons. their boredom hunger help me finish this meal I
All wings definitely should not have started?
And fire What I’m asking for I guess is if I have your consent
And vengeance. to forcibly
You know the kind of vengeance butterflies have? regurgitate this meal I swallowed into your baby bird
Anyway back to This Poem that I never wrote for mouth-
you, Again gross, sorry.
It was beautiful like you That was a metaphor.
It was stupid and pretentious

86

Excuses for My Neglected Journal Cont. HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL

Or was it symbolism?
I forget
my memory is gone like the wind.
Wait I know that one. That one’s a simile.
This whole poem though,
this whole poem is a metaphor for procrastination
I know you’re confused as to what this all means and
why I wrote This Poem for you
But if you remember correctly
I didn’t write This Poem for you.
Like everything else,
I ended up giving it to the butterfly dragons.

Amita Shukla

87

DEAD CENTER 2016 Ode to My
Periodic Table

Julia Brennan

Reading you we call water Amita Shukla
was confusing or dihydrogen monoxide
at first glance take away those bonds and
like letters strewn say au revoir to life
about a page, as you know it.
calling for a bad grade. Mendeleev
But you read easy sure knew his
now like a good world.
children’s book. He made you to give
You tell me us some reprieve
about the world in the misunderstanding
the way you see it. the things
To the salt on the table we can not see
the sugar in my coffee the things we
the acid in that orange want to change
my dentist so dreads. because we can not
The air that change you
balloons fill with and you can not
and pop be misunderstood
and effuse you are definite
the ring on her finger and approximate
a symbol of love. and you bring
What keeps us alive, me some answers
the hydrogen bonds on to all the confusion
that polar molecule that can not be explained.

88

HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL

June Park

89

DEAD CENTER 2016 Theater Kids

Zenobia Murphy

There are theatre kids
And then there are those where their art is their blood
Where what they put on stage is what they hide from us
Where their performance is the wound they stitched and are now slitting
There are theatre kids and then there are soldiers
There are wannabes and there are nevercans
I’ve met kids where their soul aspiration is to be broken
Where they don’t think they’ll be famous without that “molested child” token
They’re not “relatable” without vacations to Hell
They’re not winning The Voice without loved ones who fell
With their false bruises painted on
That makeup is gone once the cameras turn off
Pretending to be damaged is an unforgivable offense
Pretending to be broken is at a victim’s expense
Pretending to have scars is mocking the blade
Pretending to be crippled is mocking the pain
Suicide isn’t cool.
I don’t remember when it became hip to hang yourself
When it was the sh*t to OD
When it was rad to think you are a waste of space
Slitting your chest till the art drips out..
I understand battle wounds
But there’s this constant mentality
“How damaged do I have to be for somebody to love me?”

90

Theater Kids Cont. HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL

Because those who win the media’s heart 91
Have been beaten and abused
Those who owned the least glue
Are destined for the affections those “normal people” never knew
There are theatre kids
And then there are those where the scripts they’re given are band-aids for their souls
Where the lines they memorize are to replace memories of old
Where being on stage is when the armor is removed
Where putting on a show is when burns are smoothed
There are theatre kids and then there are survivors
Where Les Mis is the sound of the night
Where Kinky Boots is a fight for rights
Where Hamlet is the language of life
There are those who know the lyrics and then those who need their own anthem
There are theatre kids
Then those that know we weren’t put here to pay bills and die
We were not brought here to be fruitful and multiply
We were plummeted to this planet to paint the universe
We are here for more than just performing what was rehearsed
Give me the script, I’ll make it an opera
Rewrite it a thousand times while swinging from the candelabra
We are here to discover and communicate through expression
Not just memorize every lyric and be sluts for attention
There are theatre kids and there are composers of passion
Where the performance they bring is its own brand of fashion
Where the stage they stand on is theirs to own
Where the songs they sing are an octave closer to home
There are theatre kids
And then there are artists.

DEAD CENTER 2016 Art Index 38 Amita Shukla colored pencils on paper
39 Eve Schoeffler charcoal on blue-tinted paper 2015
Cover Art by Esther Martens 40 Anna Minakhina pen and marker on paper 2016
41 Anastasia Wilson pencil on paper 2015
5 Miriam Schreiber digital art 2016 42 Isabel Rodriguez digital photography
7 Amita Shukla acrylic on canvas board 44 Kate Atschinow acrylic on canvas board 2016
9 Alia Underwood monogram sculpture 2015 45 Amita Shukla colored pencil on paper
10 Joshua Chen monogram sculpture 2015 47 Michelle Fan charcoal on paper
12 Solomon Newman digital art 2016 48 Talia Fishman ink on paper 2016
13 Dawn Park watercolor on paper 50 Dawn Park watercolor on paper
15 Sunny Yang digital photography 51 Solomon Newman digital photography 2016
16 Isabel Rodriguez digital photography 52 Isabel Rodriguez digital photography
17 Anna Minakhina acrylic on canvas 2014 53 Camryn Kozachek pen on paper 2015
19 June Park marker and pen on paper 2015 55 Talia Fishman pastel pencil on paper
20 Ariadna Carolina Benites pencil on cream paper 56 Monica Aspy pencil on paper 2015
20 Talia Fishman colored pencil on paper 57 Gabrielle Rosenthal pencil on paper
23 Tobias Rayside digital art 2016 58 Amita Shukla pencil on paper
24 Anna Minakhina pen on paper 59 Talia Fishman marker on paper 2016
25 Eve Schoeffler pencil on paper 2015 60 Sunny Yang digital photography
26 Angelina Li acrylic on canvas 61 Tia Wangli pencil on paper
27 Talia Fishman watercolor on paper 62 Amita Shukla watercolor and pen on paper
28 Isabel Rodriguez digital photography 63 Gabrielle Rosenthal pen on paper
31 Anna Minakhina digital photography 2012 64 Talia Fishman pen on paper 2015
32 Ariadna Carolina Benites ink on cream paper 65 Amita Shukla colored pencil on paper
33 Lia Ratyosyan monogram sculpture 2015 67 Talia Fishman mixed media on paper
34 Michelle Fan marker and pen on paper 68 Anna Minakhina acrylic on paper 2013
35 Michelle Fan marker and pen on paper 69 Angelina Li acrylic on canvas
36 Tia Wangli pen on paper 70 Sunny Yang digital photography
37 Tia Wangli acrylics on canvas 71 Amita Shukla watercolor and ink on paper
73 Rachell Guerrero glazed ceramic sculpture 2015
92

74 Reyna Holland-Taylor colored pencil on tan paper 2015 HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL
75 Maria Rahi monogram sculpture 2015
77 Sunny Yang digital photography
79 Dawn Park marker on paper
80 Channah Martens pen on paper 2016
81 Carolyn Hart pen on paper 2016
82 Sunny Yang digital photography
83 Gabrielle Rosenthal pen and ink on paper 2015
84 Talia Fishman watercolor on paper 2016
85 Angelina Li acrylic on canvas
87 Amita Shukla colored pencil
88 Amita Shukla digital art 2016
89 June Park pen and pencil on paper 2015

93

DEAD CENTER 2016 Dead Center Contributors

Editor-In-Chief Victoria DeLaurentis

Anna Minakhina

Copy Editors

Emma Weaver
Jessica Robinson

Editorial Staff

Ari Libove-Goldfarb
Sophia McDermott-Hughes
Peter Finaldi

Art Editor

Tobias Rayside

Layout Editor

Channah Martens

Administration

Yu Qing Zhou

Other Staff

Dawn Park
Miriam Schreiber
Talia Fishman
Danielle Benesch
Ariadna Carolina Benites

Advisor

94 Nicole Marionni

Deadications HIGHLAND PARK HIGH SCHOOL

A note from Victoria DeLaurentis ‘16

We would like to dedicate this magazine to all of the Dead Center members, poets, and artists
that make this wonderful club possible. From open mic nights, to winter coffeehouses, and Thurs-
day meetings, we are so happy for all of the creative individuals who dedicate their time to this
club, whether it be through their artistic and writing talents, their editing and formatting skills, or
even simply their presence at our events. This club has grown tremendously in the past year and
we hope that it will continue to play an important role in HPHS for years to come. Thank you to
everyone who still has faith in the humanities-you are the true heroes of our generation!

A special thank you to Emma Weaver and Jessica Robinson, our wonderful editors and to
Channah Martens for creating the layout theme for this year’s magazine and to Anna Minakhina
for putting the entire magazine together. You rock!

Another special thank you to our advisor, Mrs. Marionni, who encourages us to keep the Dead
Center more alive than ever!

95

Highland Park High School 2016