Art Gallery

Dinosaur by Elizabeth Obermeier
Elizabeth Obermeier // Graphic Design
Change the Dial by Abby Koch
Change the Dial
Abby Koch // Graphic Design
Deer Jump by Iandra Estupinian
Deer Jump
Iandra Estupinian // Photography
Oregon A Couple by Angela Chen
Oregon A Couple
Angela Chen // Photography
Spooky Szn by Riley Custer
Spooky Szn
Riley Custer // Intaglio
Train Street by Mitch Keller
Train Street
Mitch Keller // Photography
Bark. Lock and Key. Tooth. by Riley Custer
Bark. Lock and Key. Tooth.
Riley Custer //
Overlooking the Land by Melissa Gillete
Overlooking the Land
Melissa Gillete // Photography
Deep Sea by Elise O’Regan
Deep Sea
Elise O’Regan // Graphite
Batu Caves by Jessica Pleuss
Batu Caves
Jessica Pleuss // Photography
Camelflage by Shelby Prindaville
Shelby Prindaville //
Untitled by Rachel Steinkamp
Rachel Steinkamp // Photography
Just a Garlic by Tracie Tuttle
Just a Garlic
Tracie Tuttle // Oil on Canvas
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Page from the Past

Kiosk, 1997, Volume 59
Eric Knell

Two distant souls
weary from the dance
take their seats
to watch dreams brush by
as a sea of coupled hearts
teeming with passion
swells between them
both longing,
            both hoping,
            both praying
            for that one moment
            when the sea will divide
            and unite their lonely eyes
            and unite their lonely eyes
            as they take the floor
            to embrace one another       
            granting His wish.

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The Conversion of 1967 // Steve Coyne

Dreaming of Vintage by Devyn Reilly
Dreaming of Vintage
Devyn Reilly // Mixed Media

When my sole came loose
on a street in New York
and began slapping the sidewalk
like Bozo, Clarabelle, Chaplin, 
my flat-topped friends stood off.
We had ditched school,
piled into the Chevy, 
and driven across Jersey
to NYC for the day.
But now they were gone,
drifting up the sidewalk
while I fished in trash cans 
along the curb until I caught 
shiny wire from a dead bouquet
and wound it around to bind
my sad sole. I tried to catch
my friends again, but I was 
a boy limping along like a bum,
and I lost them in the press
of St. Mark’s Place, where I hobbled, 
weird in my wired shoe,
and no one asked me for change,
and no prostitutes wanted a date.
It was if I had dropped through 
some grate in the world.
That’s when a long-hair 
sitting on the sidewalk
gave me the victory sign.
“Hey silver-shoe,” he cooed,
                              “that is completely cool.”

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