Salut. Those that created me call me Lucas, those that shimmer call me stranger, those that suffer call me friend, but you can call me Luke. I am a senior ( for the second time) at mountain lake academy. I am twenty years old and love conversation, art of all medias, cuisine, and anything truly progressive. I've been at MLA since December of 2009 and still have refrained from having myself committed and I am less than a month away from discharge. I am a writer, and during my time here I have created an extensive body of work, tens of dozens of poems, several work-in-progress prose novels, essays, reviews, and even raps ( which aren't bad considering I'm a skinny white Jewish kid from long island) and my constant literary toiling does not exclude my English class assignments. I have chosen several excerpts from my recent English work to broadcast onto MLA's wikispace, they are rather personal pieces that don't primarily express my creative writing style but rather exploit a more formal literary format and may even make you crack a smile ( or a chunk of your right brain)
Notheless, I am never shy in sharing my writings and I hope you will derive some sort of pleasure and/or ideas from them. You may even learn, through the writings, both the curses and virtues of the MLA community and my mind, heart and universe.

Your fellow creature
Luke


The thing mercutio should have said before he put a plague on both their houses

Happy tidings in puttied avenues. Flares and streamers to all villas and their hopelessly opulent denizens. Putting moves on gown-swathed floozies who's cosmetic apocalypse will one day kill them. Dancing in drear with novocaine strangers who waltz like flowerless heathens under a pagan moon. Blueprints unfurled on wooden desks coated with blood and dust. Plans for constructing posh atriums in the hypothalamus of soul. The yolk of the universe is dripping. The sun is an antechamber to infinity! A blighted nexus of chaotic notions careens through the surge of pipe dreams that scatters in Cambrian ambiguity for the entirety of this fable. The lips of the frightened virgin, soft as infant rose petals, strangle the abashed sophomore with geranium ropes and incense dragons curling like seductive fingers. Sparrows flit in chemical reveries while hound dogs bay at URLs broadcasted in the horizon by brazen Blackhawks smug with groaning gunmetal. Topless mammoth terror vibrates in static cafeterias where the prom queen still wears her tiara five years after graduating. Powdered sugar pelts the wilting bungalow. High school halls hallowed and brightly hued give rise to the teenage holocaust. Prepare to bear witness to the capitulated dawning of the plastic age.
Far gone is the sired domesticity
Far gone is the trans fat kitchens
Gone is the land of the lioness
Teeth bared and eyes jaded



Cheers to the frozen

Vile swill in gilded glass
Drips of nectar in the urn
Flasks of bronze and tin and brass
Helps my temper slowly turn

Pitter patter
Asphalt splash
For fallen friends
Far-gone, consumed
The visions, dizzy and arcane
Inside the revels of this room

Lustrous alabaster sits
Transparent, filled with golden ale
Overcome with joyous fits
As moonbeams shimmer
Cool and pale

The girls they shimmy, wild and bold
Bravado molten, liquid clear
Compared to them I feel so old
A musty sage or withered seer

The strobe lights flicker like a snake
As writhing forms compete for show
This kind of scene in truth is fake
As those of thought already know

But though they cannot stand or see
They still proceed and hop
And dance and strut and flirt with glee
Until they reach the top

The hormones gush like rushing river
As human gods exhibit zeal
While hungry bagmen weep and shiver
Freezing fingers numb and teal

Who among them gives a care
For raving strangers cold outside
They're too concerned with underwear
That hangs so loose from gorgeous hides




They pop and lock and wear no socks
And jive to pulsing sounds
They show much skin and wear no frocks
And dervish on the ground

With glittered eyes and painted lips they care not for a soul
Who chimes the church's morbid bells
And cannot hear its toll

The sun will rise and shroud the night in glassy rays of sun
And eyes go red and all will dread the passing of the fun
They all go home
Hung over, dazed
With quite a bit of doubt
That in that state they realized what mankind is all about





CHICKENSHACK DREAM

The door jingles as my Nike-clad feet enter the palace of grease. The air reeks pleasantly of sizzling oil and scattered ethnic cats wait for their family's corporate feast. The sound of their phones vibrating in their fake gucci bags. The possibilities are boundless, I have fifteen dollars. The proprietor is a dowdy black chick with miserable eyes and a matching soul, what damnation has she weathered? What hardship has she bravely endured? "Welcome to KFC, how may I help you", she says quickly and with little zeal. The smell is tormenting, the boundless menu taunts my desolate pallet, do I want 12 honey barbecue boneless wings? Do I want a bucket of original recipe with its assumed 11 herbs and spices? Do I want potato wedges or Mac and cheese on the side? More people file in, the pitter-patter of fake Jordans and the sound of the fry cooks busily scurrying in the kitchen. "Time to change the oil" calls the manager. The young cook groans defeatedly and obeys.
AH this fast food universe.
I finally order: a six piece honey BBQ boneless wings, two drumsticks, one thigh and potato wedges.
Perfection!
I sit down at the booth, pictures of colonel sanders plastered to the walls in saintly homage. His southern regalia, his jovial smile. The potato wedges are a little too hot, but the BBQ wings are just right. I smile and sigh with delight. The tangy sauce and moist flesh and the succulent breading. God himself likely dines upon this meal in his ethereal chamber of pearls. The drumsticks are perfect: brackish, oily skin. The dark meat melting in between each bite. The potato wedges cool down and are crispy, heavenly with the trans fat they claim is no longer in the oil. Who cares if it's genetically altered, science has clearly done its job. The dowdy black proprietor stares at me enjoying my feast and, to my complete amazement, smiles at me, gold tooth and all. By enjoying my meal, I have helped someone enjoy their job. Once my meal was over I got up and, as I walked towards the door, approached the clerk.
"Thank you" I said.
" Don't Thank me, thank Pedro. he changed the oil"
Pedro waved shyly from behind his workplace.
I left with a happy heart, a satisfied soul and really bad gas.