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ARCHIVE -- CHARGEUSSE

FIRST ISSUE
FALL 2011

SECOND ISSUE
SPRING 2012

THIRD ISSUE
SPRING 2013

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Solidus Online



Travis Carlson

Night Singers

Dearest peeper,
You go on for nights at a time,
Looking for someone
Who will just listen.

You are citizens
From far off countries,
Who walk the streets
In hope

Sweet little peepers
So agile
Leap from one branch to the next,
Like the kids in the play grounds.
Who never tire,
Even when dusk comes.

To you dusk is magical
Using your giant eyes,
To enlighten the night.
If only we could see in the dark.
We wouldnít be afraid.

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Learning


I watch as the class dives into their text books again
Like every day itís time to leave.
I close the door behind me,
And begin my marching.
I trip over my barely tied laces,
As I walk the soulless halls.
I hear voices from closed doors.
But they arenít with me.
My feet echo on the sold tiles,
The sound never will leave me
Following better never joining.
Rounding a corner I enter the kitchen,
For there was no other space to put me.
So I walk through the pots and pans and
Ascend the stairs at the back.
Insulation exposed on all sides
Because they didnít care who came here.
As long as they were out of the way.
There is desk in the attic so
I sit and wait, as a lady points at letters,
And none of it sticks, I am here, and none of it sticks.

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Travis Carlson

I am a man of war, not like a man at war, but of the jelly fish that floats about the ocean. I do not mean that I am most toxic creature within the ocean, I am far from that, but I am not of just one mind. I have many thoughts working in tandem to get my ideas out. Much like each of my sense having its own mind, and through them I break the world down in metaphors and similes.

So much like the man of war floating around, the ideas just end up in my hands, my tentacles carefully maneuvering them until I absorb them into my poetry.

Poetry will always serve as an outlet for my brain; a buffer between the reality of my world, and what I see. For even on the bleakest of days I do happen across beauties. So I will let the words flow, until the day when my inflated self begins to wither, and I am no longer snatching words from the vast ocean.