By Some Overpaid Office Jockey

At last we figured out where the “Angry” came from-corporatesystems that inevitably make people act as greedy and stupid as machines. We should know. We sneeredand drank deep from the swollen teat of said system. We looked in the dictionary (that tired, old columnistgag) and the tired, old enemy “corporate” means “of the body.” That means a corporate system, and byextension, its philosophy, is made up of little cells, and those cells make up all of us. Our bodies. That’show redwood forests get slaughtered and profit motive swims ever upstream in its stock-marketenvironment. So we can’t kill the anger without killing you and ourselves-all of us. After a while, goingpostal sounds too dramatic, Jonestown punch tastes thin, and we will complain no more, forever. Butthere’s nothing to be angry about ever, anymore, if you let your sweet love vibration shine, which brings usabsolutely, positively, full circle to the one menace worse than any corporation: your snowboarding poetry.Snowboarding makes life sweet, and stringing words together does, too. For those of you who dare tostick either out there so others can sneer at it, we salute you-even when it’s bad, it’s oh so good.

On”Cale’s Last Day” we’re shitting on our desks, dousing all the anger with poetry and lighting a match. Theysay, in business, to never burn a bridge, but that presupposes that what’s on the other side is worth visiting.We hereby do better than leave or die, we have been graduated. Interns from the White HouseBusiness School of Hard Knocks, where snowboarding is a product both bought and sold, and anambitious kid with big hair and fat ankles is used by not getting screwed. Now the cycle begins anew: anyfuture Interns in this space, Angry or otherwise, will live the same lie you’ve come to expect. Ain’tlife spooky great? We will love and miss you always, SNOWboarding readers, almost as much as yourpoetry. Instead of judging it, we’ll simply wallow in its essence.

Just sort of Be There Now with it, youknow, bro?

We heard on the radio, Ram Dass, that your hippie bible is Be There Yesterday by today’sstandards, and that’s poetry to our ears. A sneer taken to the next level is a knowing smile. there oncewas an intern named len he had a hard time making friends he had a bulldog his mom was a hog thereonce was an intern named len len liked to speak his queer mind he’d shoot off his mouth all the time butone day in his cot lenny got shot there once was an intern named len now len haunts us all far and wide hemakes us eat shit all the time from deep down in hell len haunts us well there once was an intern namedlen Muskajr

P.S. Genius poetics? I think so. A new study confirms genius is an insatiable, insensitivebeast, devouring everything in its path. Be on the lookout: subject is armed and consideredcreative.

Without A Shadow

I dance in the darkness like a shadow Waltzing in the mangled night

Andrew Gilliver Edmonton, Alberta

All right, is this a cry for help? Don’t do anything drastic,like tap into our compassion fatigue.

The Truth You Interns suck my butt You write like oldpeople f-k Your words are a bore You sellout whores

John F. Walter Canon City, Colorado

Department Of Corrections Have you actually seen Gramps and G-ma go at it? You might besurprised, Junior.

The Miracle

The weather was nice as the snow turned to ice I flew off a jump, Iheard a loud thump It hurt like hell as my knee started to swell I looked around but no one was there Istarted to scream but the mountain was bare How could this be? On such a nice day I couldn’t move Ihad to stay As the night grew cold and the clouds rolled in I started to get cold. This jacket was thin I hadto face reality, I was done in I laid awake all night, the pain I had to fight Early the next morning the sunshined bright It was then I realized everything was all right Because the night before I tried to pray I toldGod what I had to say I knew God wouldtay right by my side He wouldn’t run, he wouldn’t hide So I goton my board. Everything was fine And down the hill I started to glide

Ryan Reinoehl Redmond,Washington

Often, the best thing to say is nothing. This is right in the ballpark of one of thosetimes.

Snowboarding

The wind blows, then it snows. Now it is cold, but I stay bold. I strap in mybindings, I share my findings of new terrain. What will I do if it rains, I sort of feel a sudden strain. I find apair of kickers and soared through the air quick as sound. I did a clean method, and wondered if someonehad seen. I head back up the lift with my pack, up again to try it again.

Shawn Goklaney, age 12Bakersfield, California

Right on! Like haiku Winter is season’s reason Stay gold, Goklaneyboy

The Starting Gate

Trying to keep your mind straight as you ready for the starting gate Don’t jump it anddon’t be late on the starting gate Oh please let it be me, the one with the most speed Racers ready onthree, starting gate down You launch from the ground-A kicker Then into the first turn, down and aroundto the finish I can’t wait, for the next starting gate Smoking

James Thayer Riverton, Wyoming

Onlywith the most serious syntactic discipline can poetry stay loose, and discipline can only come fromrepetition. Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. This sucks-I attend Westview High School allday long I dream about snowboarding I sit in ass class and listen to some dipshit who doesn’t know whathe’s talking about anyway but I do have a lot of respect for you Interns you clown on people and Iclown on people for a comical effect I picked up a Todd Richards the other day I can’t f-king wait to getto Hood or Bachelor and try this shit out-by the way your mags are the only things that pull me throughthis shithole school if you bitches are hot mail me a photo with autograph

Bastard Boy Trevor Portland,Oregon

There are as many ways to write poetry as there are to educate oneself. If you don’t,you’re only cheating you, Bastard Boy.

I sit on top of this hill, with my trusty board slider besides me,and the white gold about me. Like an eagle I watch the sugar. Falling silently to the ground around me.Until the pillows get pulled away. And slowly the yellow demons come out. I jump and yell and scream.But the Master shoots his demons all around me. I hop on my board slider and try to cover my gold,moving faster and faster to outrun the demons. But every year I fail, and the demons take my white goldaway from me. For my desperate attempts, the Ice Queen promises me, that she will come back in a fewmonths-as long as I bear the demons patiently-and bring my white gold back to me.

Olivia LyonsOstra55@hotmail.com

In today’s Peanuts, Linus was asleep in bed, and Sally came in and told himthere was a blizzard outside that canceled school, so he could stay in bed. He closed his eyes andpronounced it “poetry.”

Life As A Liftee

The alarm wakes me up at f-king 6:30, I throw on someclothes that are already dirty. Struggling with zippers ’cause my eyes are still shut, I look to my bed andthink, “Who is that slut?” After a long, morning piss to drain all the beer, I have flashbacks of last night andshudder with fear. Walking through snow to my home at Base 2. Hacking up loogies due to the flu. I lookwhere I’m working, “Oh no, Magic Chair!” Minus 20, how much more can I bear? People stumble, theyfall, one gets hit in the head, I call Patrol Dispatch, “I think this guy’s dead.” In the toboggan they take himaway, he probably won’t live to see one more day. I laugh and I chuckle, no pity from me, Then get stonedon my break and go for a ski. My wage is so meager, yet Blackcomb so rich, payroll must be run by somePMS bitch. Some days I go crazy, some days I ask how. My itching addiction-steep chutes and freshpow. The day is now over, the time clock goes click, I see foreman Tom, he’s an ass-kissing prick. Jiffgives advice, “Life balance is key.” Lots of booze, lots of pow, that’s balance to me. Now life as a liftee,some think it’s a curse. You could be my liver, it’s really much worse!

Al Coholic oster@online.bc.ca

“An obscenity-laden poem written by John Lennon and signed by him and Yoko Ono will be put upfor auction in London by the fan who received it in 1969. The typed work is made up of afour-letter expletive repeated 104 times around the single word, “You.” It was sent to poet SusanBaker after she wrote the Beatle requesting a poem.

This is The Angry Interns, reportinglive from the People section of the newspaper.”

Pray For Me

Anguish arrives early when she isstrongest. The silver-gray light of morning rings the horizon’s crisp edges, and I lay awake in bed, wishingI could forget. I tried to leave my past, but it haunts me like a spoiled lover I regretted taking, refuses toleave and demands I repeat the carnal indiscretions of a sexually misspent life. At 2:00 a.m., in a seedybar, I rationalize wrongs. Pretend that less-than-total treachery means I have improved. I am talking ofmy wife, trying to focus on my son’s face, but my hand is brushing alcohol-thin cobwebs from hertwenty-year-old face, and wondering why angels break.

L.W. Stinson Cody, Wyoming

This has beena test of the emergency snowboard poetry system. If this had been an actual snowboarding poem,you would have been instructed how to send in your own unique genius. Like a blast of breath onan intricate Buddhist sand painting, that is God, sideways children. And this is only a test.ooze, lots of pow, that’s balance to me. Now life as a liftee,some think it’s a curse. You could be my liver, it’s really much worse!

Al Coholic oster@online.bc.ca

“An obscenity-laden poem written by John Lennon and signed by him and Yoko Ono will be put upfor auction in London by the fan who received it in 1969. The typed work is made up of afour-letter expletive repeated 104 times around the single word, “You.” It was sent to poet SusanBaker after she wrote the Beatle requesting a poem.

This is The Angry Interns, reportinglive from the People section of the newspaper.”

Pray For Me

Anguish arrives early when she isstrongest. The silver-gray light of morning rings the horizon’s crisp edges, and I lay awake in bed, wishingI could forget. I tried to leave my past, but it haunts me like a spoiled lover I regretted taking, refuses toleave and demands I repeat the carnal indiscretions of a sexually misspent life. At 2:00 a.m., in a seedybar, I rationalize wrongs. Pretend that less-than-total treachery means I have improved. I am talking ofmy wife, trying to focus on my son’s face, but my hand is brushing alcohol-thin cobwebs from hertwenty-year-old face, and wondering why angels break.

L.W. Stinson Cody, Wyoming

This has beena test of the emergency snowboard poetry system. If this had been an actual snowboarding poem,you would have been instructed how to send in your own unique genius. Like a blast of breath onan intricate Buddhist sand painting, that is God, sideways children. And this is only a test.