How To Submit Work….

Hi everyone,

Many people have been asking how they can submit their own creative work to the blog. First, let me say that I am very happy to hear how enthusiastic people have been about the blog!

If you are interested in submitting ANY creative product (a short story, poetry, pictures, a video piece, an audio piece, etc.) that uses one of these platforms as a means of creatively exploring what it means to be human in an increasingly technological/digital age, PLEASE submit your work via email to Again, all creative work will be reviewed and, if accepted, wil be displayed within the author’s own work space on the blog.

Additionally, please encourage your friends to join the blog: They can simply follow the blog by providing their email address in the Follow box and hitting the Follow button. They will instantly receive a confirmation email; they just hit the blue confirm button and they are following (SOUNDS COMPLICATED BUT IT IS REALLY SIMPLE). Or they can submit their own work as well.

All work will be on display at the Honors Symposium and viewed by the Rutgers Deans/Honors Department in May 2013.

Thank you all for your help and support!

If you have any questions or concerns contact us at


The Red of an Open and Waiting Mouth

There’s nothing so violent as the way we claim
our bodies for our own—
one barked scream thrust from forming lungs
into the unclear certainty of hospitalized ritual
and treated just as uniformly,
the rest of our well-chosen lives
tv dinners and a healthy dependence
on idling search engines


The moment, we moment, where live wires are anacondas
and two pieces of bread are your fingers’ chosen mattress.
when peeling the scab where you shaved your skin too close
reveals the palpitations of a tomato smelling as musky
as forgotten copper, collecting under a misplaced sink.

These are moments sharpened by the appearance of shiny
new teeth in the fogged vanity mirror,
biting down on the plump pepper of your bottom lip,
splitting open to the pulp within;
and your mouth upturned and howling

As uncontrolled as the first time you tasted air

Roxy Harrison Is HERE

Hi everyone,

I am very excited to announce that Roxy Harrison has joined in the exploration. Roxy is a tremendously talented poet and her debut poem is titled Hardwire. Check it out tonight! I’ve read it nearly 15 times and it’s really powerful. And don’t forget to comment…


In his starched uniform, with his
shoulders holding the weight of 30
other men in a platoon…
he is not a grandfather.


He is a cog, with edges clinking
smoothly into the Great Machine.
Every spit of tobacco on rice-paddy
floors leaves a bloodstain.
A heart is a rifle, firing
haphazardly into the darkness of
these jungles which nurture a
humid hunger. His heart is napalm.
burning and hurting and consuming
his chest; all’s that’s left to feel is
the fear of this faceless enemy.
What shadows he sees, beckons
him forward.

With the smell of singeing men,
covered in oil and agony—
the screams lead him closer to an
ocean. He wants to go home, but
every cog propels the Great Machine
and his son might be born without
a father.
It’s almost as much of a tragedy
as the man who falls into his
life-taking hands (their faces he fights
to forget) His body is a phoenix,
half ash and man and beats, slow-
he shudders through a nightmare,
but never wakes up.

Eyes as ghosts
carry the memory of bodies,
empty of personality save for a
small whisper that they were once
more than cogs, more than human.

Lips more pricked than roses
forgetting his name but remembering
Johnny’s—whose sister fortified into
a shell when her only brother saw
himself lifted into the air and
spread out over a country he
couldn’t even pronounce.
They say Johnny
didn’t even feel the heat of the
gone too soon, baby eyes lifted
skyward and repented

At 76, my grandfather is a great
warrior, fighting a battle he doesn’t
know exists. He doesn’t remember how
to tie his shoes, the touch of his lover’s
soft fingers on his back, or that he had
a son at all before the war.
He sits in his chair, examining a
wall, playing pictures only cogs
will never stop spinning into view.

At 76, my grandfather is a survivor
who has finally forgotten
all of our names.

Duct Tape and Brothers


She swipes my credit card, which is my own credit card and something Joe says I should be proud of, but not just because I have my name on it because you can put your name on many things and it doesn’t make it yours. No. The name on the credit card is something I should be proud of, says Joe, because of what it represents and it represents something I should be proud of, so I am. She swipes my credit card and I tap my fingers on the counter like I am playing a piano as the television on the far wall erupts with laughter. An older gentleman with scarcely any hair covering his mole spotted scalp has his chin smushed into rolls on his chest and asks what happened. Larry turns off the buzzer and explains because Larry is good at explaining things that are hard to understand. The older man chuckles, but I don’t think he is judging Larry. There’s an iPad sprinkled with bits of white hair sitting on the older gentleman’s lap. He’s chuckling again when he asks Larry how to see further down the screen. Larry leans over his shoulder to help him. I look up at the mirror overhead but the lights are strong in here and I can’t see what he is looking at, but I imagine it must have pictures because you can’t read when you are getting a haircut and I know that, so it must be just pictures that are funny.

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