SPITvolume POETfourZINE
good world gotta be, past eyes-see. I’ll center a gainst dim-planet blues, choose my a live well JETHRO MCCLELLAN
Letter from a "Shmeditor� In this, the 4th Volume, we the poets release our inhibitions and allow our work to stand out, speak for itself and be judged for it’s raw being. We allow the world to consume our eager souls through our poetic musings, and we beseech you, the insatiable audience, to feast on all the deepest parts of us one page at a time. Thank you poets and participants as always for bringing a dream of mine into reality. Thank you for believing that the ability to freely publish work when, where, and how we want to has inherant value. This is necessary to the process of the modern poet gaining exposure and growing as an artist. When we lose our voice in the media, we lose an opportunity to change the world.
Big thanks to cover artist Thomas Berger, find his work at @thomjberger on Instagram
and to contributing artist Yasmin Gunberg, whose work can be found at @yasmingunberg on Instagram With lyguistic love, Caito Foster
Your poetry is not art, she said to me.
Art is beautiful and celebrates the wonderful things in this world – paintings of landscapes and Shakespearean love sonnets. Art is The David – alabaster beauty and perfection. Your poetry is guttural and base, like all that literary stuff about flies and death and etherized patients. I told her to fuck off because The David isn’t real – I’d never want to fuck The David in all his naked muscled glory. Hell, if I did let him into my bed and asked him to bite my nipples or spank my ass, he’d probably go into shock and cry in the corner until morning and then block my phone number. I damn well want to know what kind of a freak Poe was and Eliot would probably blow my socks off, particularly if I got him while his wife was locked up. Poets are happy to paddle around in the mud and the grime. We hang ribbons on the decay of the world and dress it up pretty so that you want it at the dinner table for a conversation piece. Those beautiful, still, flawless things only shine while they are new. As soon as we have them, touch them, use them, they bore us. Face it: we want life’s slime. We crave it. Life’s dirt is far more appealing than sweater-vested politicians speaking with precise grammar and eloquent vocabularies. Life is that guy who always came to class in motorcycle leathers who I just wanted to take home and lick. Because I’m a vegan with a fetish for men in black leather. Because something I find attractive is made more enticing by wrapping it in something I find repulsive and I’m just a bit fucked up like that … and I like it that way. Life’s beauty is packing up that last box and walking out the door when someone begs you to stay and you know whatever’s out there is better than what’s behind you, even while you cherish the dust of what was and mix your own tears into it so the memories won’t be lonely as they die on your dashboard in the summer sun. It’s knowing that life is worth living even when it makes your brain ache with the effort of figuring out how you’re going to last another day. Life is depraved and brutal and harsh. You have to look to find the reason to wake up the next morning, to keep going. Finding the beauty in something that’s trying to destroy you takes effort.
And that is what fucking art is.
I. V. Lindstrom
There is a love that keeps coming to get me. It fights loneliness in the cold and doesn’t get old Sneaks by the door in her bag or blows through open windows Lays on top of the blanket stoned listens to music And it’s all good for a moment This love that keeps coming to get me commands any form. I hear what you are saying, Hear what he is playing, I touch your face like it is the perfect note in the chorus sequence. I feel you. I say so. I say I feel you and touch your face. You look at my eyes, I see myself in your eyes, We close our eyes and kiss. Your lips are sweet. We laugh about syrup. My favorite color is fire, favorite flavor is red. You take yours with a twist of lemon. We feel the burn. This room is burning off our clothes. This room is burning out your ghost. I am naked and alone. The floor still needs sweeping. I don’t have enough love left to. Wait for you to come back with it. Wait for it to come back without you. Chew the sheet. It tastes of toes not yours.
MATT CLIFFORD
It smells like yesterday and the candy is gone. Eat an orange instead. I only know a love will return because I only know love to return. What will I know when love doesn’t return? How late will it last? How lucky have I been? How open? The orange peel makes the garbage can smell better. I look in the mirror instead. Hear the song you sent the day before you left. I cut my hair. Appear a little more lively. Maybe those noises are God coming to get me Older. Wishes. Feel. Love, please take me with you
There’s a yearning in my heart to go home I suppose that’s why I wander I suppose it’s why I roam I wonder if I can find that place it seems stuck in my head But I’ve felt at home before Like I’d found a long lost friend It wasn’t anywhere really It was just you and me being sincerely silly Do you know what I mean? There’s a yearning in my heart to go home I thought I found it the other day When I heard you sing like you were alone A wild call, a call to return To that place beyond, the natural order I suppose I saw you there You said you loved me again And that you always did You just wanted me to remember That where it ends is where it begins There’s a yearning in my heart to go home Where nothing is an achievement And the king doesn’t take the throne Where no one is better and everything is Where lies can’t be told And gifts abound to the glorious sound Where people are being whatever they please No one has to hold back It just all falls out It’s messy there, just the way I like it There’s a yearning in my heart to go home Where I’ll find you waiting I’ll crash into you like Dave Matthews And you’ll laugh at my bad jokes We’ll laugh and we’ll cry We’ll wonder why it took so long For us to understand The celebration of us, is for all of man It’s a love story baby Won’t you say I’m crazy again? There’s a yearning in my heart to go home I’ll wander on for now Working on my love song for you You’ll know it when I sing it You’ll know it to be true The one with the fairy tale ending Where the hero rights the wrongs As of now it’s just a lump in my throat A tear in my eye A memory of a dream, silly you and me There’s a yearning in my heart to go home.
Destination Unknown BY
JAKE RUNDE
Engineer in Love Dan Lauresta I'll let the transistors amplify my love to reach you across the sea, design a yagi that will propagate my feelings directly, or attach a crossover just to send it effectively. Love, I'll do everything to make you feel happy. People might say that we are a mismatch, but I'll use a balun, yeah that's the catch. I'll never let the noise distort the love match, guarding it with my life and the 25 kHz band batch. And even if the resistors resist the current of my feelings, or the fuse explodes due to so much sweetness and clingy happenings, I will solder the diode to rectify everything, and alter the damaged signal as what we do in heterodyning. Always remember, My heart will never stop oscillating for you, My mind will always send a pulse that will pass the straight through, My hands will keep on splicing the road between me and you, and I will keep on etching the love story that we want to.
I’ve tried to live in my dreams but My eyelids keep moving I’ve tried to atrophy my body but The mental torture of Self-squashed potential Kept me from staying still Almost tripping won’t kill me and I’m running out of hills I want to earn my broken crown Not like Jack His cracked skull was an accident Unintentional Jill never forgave him For spilling the water She started going to church Praying to God Blaming others for not She made a nest out of denial Swallowed every pill that Helped her forget the life she Had before forgiveness was just A few Hail Mary’s away Every night she fell asleep Mouthing the Lord’s Prayer Each morning she woke up Subservient Threw self-reflection out More than the trash She wants to be better, but For a god who thinks Jealousy is love and Slavery acceptable
The Modern Martyr by GORK Neglects bodies and abused lands The culprit? Man. Man? Brains socialized to be man because Their body has a penis The penis has a godhead Penetrating the mouth of truth til It stops trying to use it’s voice Kill the land, Mutilate the body Let the ego have it’s junkyard palace Call yourself King and drink from the Red solo cup chalice It’s rat piss, but we’ll call it Natural Ice so You drink it, cloud the mind, feel nice Your throne is a tree stump Mine is my feet You’re sitting on death Before it looks like chairs I’ve tried to give in to apathy But I have too many cares
The only thing to ever know her smile Hug me during a major freeze Is her toothbrush, twice a day because We’ll be stuck like this forever Cavity is sin Our embraced bodies, a popsicle A flaw on the body or in the body For future generations of beasts Is a sign that God’s temple is Our flesh, the chewy center Being managed poorly by The groundskeeper There is so much comfort in thinking Human My death will somehow contribute to life Domination I want to be a good-tasting, nourishing Has a consistent message: Bag of meat when I die “Your body is not yours” How do I prepare for that? “You are not free” A tasty death? I’ve heard this in the words Lifeless flavor? And seen it in the actions of I’ll slit my wrists in a bathtub Religious bigots Full of barbeque sauce Police officers and I’ll slather honey on my skin then Rapists Kick the stool out from under me Demanding schedules Monotonous routines I’ll martyr myself Keep us from listening to For the consumption of others What our bodies need They’re smarter than us
Until No Words Remain Guy crouches by bag on the side of the road reaching for substance digs in deep but his fingers find a hole. “Ah, look over there what the ship left”, they’ll say cruising cars past what was dropped off so suddenly. Jolting you out of this present moment. I want to see the looks on their faces as they see me exit the ship and crawl out of a bush onto the cracky streets called society but I am afraid the men in black might come take me away. So I disguise it all as going off to take a leak down by the river. Draw too much on the city and the city starts to leave it’s paint on you draw you in closer, find your groove, dig your tracks. The city is a thirsty canvas of empty boxes and blank spaces. I find myself looking for more meaning in between these urban lines. Footsteps, the familiar sound that brings me back into my body as it passes down the street. These words until no words remain. Footsteps, the familiar sound that brings me back into my body as it passes down the street.
BRyAN UTESCH
you shrugged your way into this situation slipped between dusk and something after you wrote your way into this corner all lips and Saturday afternoons and Sunday mornings when the man said to you and your group of friends “I didn’t know white people could dance” you held your tongue and didn’t let him know you were passing through a sieve this Sunday morning all tongues and hips and cold brew and everyone wearing white and you too wearing white because it goes with this Sunday morning from church pew to sober rave you wear linen wear your bf’s t-shirt wear your little romper who would know the color of your mother’s skin on a morning like this you dreamt of a cobweb resting on your shoulder a spider laying eggs in skin you’d give your flesh to almost anyone who asks or even looks pools pour a mimosa with grapefruit juice on a porch on a morning like this your fluted skin red blood coursing thrum through didn’t your grandparents come out of a portal in ’62 so you could have a morning just like this? the city sterilizes itself beneath you can pay rent for now but what about the next month or the one after a blonde woman with a flower crown and a headset asks you all to consider what it would be like if we only said the words “thank you” and “I love you” thank you I love you thankyouIloveyou!!! you take a bus to a larger city and breathe a different kind of air this morning like
the first morning your mother spilled from an airplane toddled into a different tongue a new history discreet categories pulled hair pirate doors soft spaghetti your mother wraps you in a version of a story that you can claim or ignore you paddled from shore you are not white and not not white you are dancing like someone who upends and slams bare feet so hard into concrete on rooftop on mornings like this
Mornings like this
EMILY DUFFY
To my mother who feels like a daughter To my sister who misses her mother To my mother who needed a sister To my sister who needs her mother Who am I to you? Someone to lean on Someone to project on
BECKY LEVIN
What you’d like to other one To see To the little girl in me who wants her mother To be Her mother To the grown woman in me Who will nurture all before herself A trait she learned all too well From her own mother And to the women who are trying to just be women Trying to breathe the way we should breathe Speak the way we should speak Be happy in the way we should all be happy And yet we can’t We are lost My mother is lost My sister has never quite been found And I couldn’t tell you where I was if my life depended on it So my mother will be my daughter I will be my sisters’ mother And I will float Longing for the warmth I once felt When I would laugh at her lullaby Or nestle in her bed Longing for the moments that taught me what true love Really feels like
spell for holding space not like a border but like a boundary *to be sung in any tune that feels true
OLIVIA BLU @TIMEASLOVER
orev b'lev sheli TREY CASEN We talked about everything from our mutual judaism and God to 1984, Which i’ve never read, To conspiracies spiraling and I couldn’t dial it down if i tried. I got Goosebumps sitting across from you Like my favourite book series as a kid That my mom took from me and hid in a cardboard box in the basement because it gave me nightmaresBut oh, these were completely different. No way to know i’m not dreaming Seeming like another world with you Just outside of Flatiron coffee. And I know it is a sick and tired trope in this day and age for a man to describe a woman as “Fascinating” I mean some John Green Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind Ramona Flowers Manic Pixie Dream Girl bullshit, but I digress As far as I know, that is not what I am doing here with you, but it is always a worry. Hard to worry with your eyes like the Arctic Ocean, And I know you’re a person, Maybe not but a soul like me, Recognizable like namaste right here in your light. I’m on the edge of my seat while melting through the terribly uncomfortable metal and I’m trying to figure out Where I know you from, Because I know you and I’m just trying to figure out how, Not this realm but past lives as your eyes are locked with mine and I see no surprises there, Just depths I want to reach, can only do the backstroke but want to dive into them and swim to see what I can find. You tell me everything Orwell predicted, We both know the government has been hiding so many secrets from us for so many years, My jaw dropped, catching flies, surmising, paralyzing, Paranoia already running through my veins Knew then what we know now How convenient From there to Universal terms Energies colliding Energies coinciding Paranoia somehow subsiding Your smile brighter than the sun reflected in the snow that is probably still on top of a few Colorado mountains, compelling , a voice telling me to stop selling myself so short And a spell in a breath in a wish in a prayer My ears are exploding and brain bursting, Heart a spiked punch bowl splashing over the edges I cannot say what kind of falling this is but it is definitely Some kind of falling. Hands reaching across the table and getting more information than i feel I am able to comprehend but I just want you to keep talking to me, About how you are a bird and I will understand if you need to fly away, You are not mine to keep, you are not caged, and I would never even consider that. I’ve never viewed this that way, but that is my most familiar bird metaphor. Feet in Boulder Creek and collecting crystals. Catching gazes and I don’t know how long it would take me to look away, Did I ever really have to? Rain and wet grass You’re standing on your head to ground yourself And i’m feeling upside down on this day with you. An angel in my hand and right beside me, I wanted to kiss you but was too afraid to ask, if we did maybe it would all come back to us But I am just as comfortable with our fingers intertwined on the couch. I shock myself with how easily I tell you that I love you. I am so ready to continue getting to know you on this plane of existence. background image by @yasmingunberg
Temptations Trembling, Trillions, Temptations, Wanting, Not waiting, Wondering, Wandering, We take our wings, Instead of earning them, We fly as a united entity, Until we disagree, Separated quantities, Silenced, Strengthening slowly, Struggle after struggle, Remembering to stay humble, Especially times you don’t tumble. Don’t take that for granted, Appreciation never ceases, Acknowledgment needed. Pay attention to changes, Sun salutations start some mornings, For others its news on the tv. People don’t actually want to know whats happening Beyond them and their friends, People remain in bubbles too often. Patience is popularly, Forgotten.
MARIBELLE HOLMES
1. You are a hurricane of mismatched puzzle pieces Most days you don’t even make sense to yourself Your lips were put on backwards And your voice box put in your throat upside down. It’s okay. Someday you’ll be a picture you can be proud of Someday you’ll look in the mirror and see a masterpiece instead of a mistake.
TEN THINGS TO TELL THE GIRL I NEVER WAS
2. You are a roadway with broken stop signs You are growing too fast for your own comfort Collecting flowers from your concrete cracks To make a bouquet of self hatred Like the one you thought you’d have to throw on your wedding day
3. Our lungs are like a pack of cigarettes,
always wheezing out addictions. Use them. Be addicted to the trees Be addicted to being kind Be addicted to love To art Earth Flowers Laughter Forgiveness To music To adventure To adrenaline But most of all, be addicted to breathing. I know its hard sometimes to take in the oxygen you deserve, But you deserve life So give it to yourself
4. You are not alone. You are not the only one that feels as though your bones are caging you into a skin that binds a bird with broken wings You are not broken Or wrong Or weird
5. Cut your hair. Your mother wont be mad, and your friends will still love you Even when they say “But it made you so pretty!” 7. Show the world your heart.
6. You are not just pretty, you are also handsome
Even if its been stepped on Or bruised Or torn up Even if it doesn’t look so pretty anymore Wear it around your neck like a medal saying “I made it.”
9. Change is the only consistent thing in this world. This is not permanent You will not be sad forever. Someday you won’t avoid mirrors and You will feel pride growing inside your chest like a dying star every time someone says your name. You will be cosmic. You will someday wake up smiling You will someday wake up. I promise, You will still be alive. It feels like the end of the world And it’s true. The world you know is ending
8. There will come a time when you won’t feel so heavy The world will be a beautiful place, and things will be different because.
10. Someday, You won’t feel so mismatched.
HUNTER GANTZ
A white supremacist came into rehab to get better, self proclaimed "white power" he says he has a history of being racist and the tattoos to prove it. He talks to me with tears in his eyes, with years flashing back to the time a man may have hurt him. "Women make me feel comfortable" he says, "my pancreas is shot and I woke up with a gun in my mouth last night, please help me." A few hours later, a Hispanic man came to check himself in. "I drank on the way up, I want to be here." He talks about the gang life, the desire to walk away. He never had the cops knocking on his door to make him come here, yet here he was, fumbling for ways to tell me he doesn't know how to live anymore, and that he has been peeing blood for 2 weeks. They both say "yes ma’am, thank you ma’am" and all I can give a damn about is if they are going to like each other. I watch them closely, shifty eyes side ways looks. I don't want to have to call 911, I don't want to have to call for back up. I'm so conditioned for people to hate each other, I'm waiting for their backrouds to catch up and have them going rounds with their hands. I walk away for 20 minutes, looking at the job I have and why I have it and why I want to have it and laughing about everything being a God moment. I walk back to my nurses station and both the men are not in sight, my stomach sinks, "fuck, they are fighting in the bathroom" I think, I rush into the male detox and see more than what I could have ever asked for. Two men, who could hate eachother, with the same disease, playing chess, tattoos exposed, laughing, talking. That's when I realized, this disease doesn't discriminate like the world does. I can now say I'm grateful for addiction and it's ability to bring two opposites together, and together, they don't have to walk through this alone.
JOSIE MARIE
Ancestors, Forgive me, I treat you like an answer to medical paperwork: White, History of; heart problems, Diabetes, Skin-cancer. Ancestors, Forgive me. I know none of your stories. No oral history to guide me. I treat your dramas as embarrassing gossip, As a sitcom on TV. Ancestors, Forgive me. I do not draw upon you for strength I do not approach you for counsel I do not seek your wisdom for fear You have none I have been shown my white privilege And it makes me sick. I have seen the injustices my kind has caused. So brutally, so casually… And I am numb. Ancestors, Forgive me. I am ashamed of you. Sangre De conquistadores Runs through my veins; British, Spanish, German, Portuguese… I did not dig much deeper… The ground was still too full of so many shallow mass graves
ANCESTORS
Ancestors, Forgive me. I do not know how to undo what you’ve done, Nor do I know, who you were. Were you the captain, or the sailor? The generals or the money holders? The priest or the teacher? Were you, in short, The villain, or the accomplice? .
Forgive me, I do not know. My shame is such I’ve looked away Feeling I had nothing to learn from you. But without my history, I am lost.
I forgot the druids, I forgot my roots, I forgot my language, My sacrifices, my herbs, My magick. So long drowned in conquest. My Midwives and tree teachers chopped down And burned They’ve been so long buried Beneath Roman stone Concrete and bone Ancestors, Guide me. How do I… evolve and remember Who I am? How do I relate To brothers and sisters Beyond my own sun-burnt race? Ancestors, Teach me, How to love my self When I see the genocides, the homicides, The economic inequality. Teach me To shout for justice, For transparency
ELIZA BETH WHITTINGTON
Ancestors Guide me In giving myself the gift Of knowing I’m no more or less evil Than any other person Because of my skin. My morality is decided by deeds, actions and inactions. May I never settle for Comfortable complacency . Ancestors Guide me, In walking tall and proud While humbly wearing This weighty burden Of my people’s history.
I want to write a thunderous poem. One that rocks your soul like the bass sound at a rock concert when you stand too close to the speakers which reverberates through your every cell making you wonder how much of you is you and what's left after the sound tears you apart.
A Thunderous Poem
I want to write a sensory poem that makes you smell smells of your childhood you haven't connected with for years and years. Smells of the woods, smells of your house, grassy backyard, musty basement, savory kitchen, soapy clean smells of your father after he shaved or sweaty with a tinge of stink, or your mom with whatever characteristic fragrance emanated from her pores. I want to write a poem that inspires you to be you and not some contrived image that marketing agencies falsify to make better consumers instead of better humans.
Yeah, that's what I want. A thunderous, sensory, inspiring poem that defies convention. That propels you to defy all that is not you. Defy what's not your heart and soul. Defy what goes against your inner knowing Defy what's not human. Stand against the manipulation, the profit focused fantasy they design and sell to enrich the rich while they abhor the poor. Watch, think and penetrate the veil they hide behind that insulates their greed and divisive lies with fashion and glitz and shine brainwashing the mindless masses but not you. You have the critical eye. You can see behind the motives the control, the thievery, the pollution, the pollution of the minds the pollution of the earth the pollution of the hopes The hopes of freedom and love. There lies the opportunity our sole opportunity not to exact revenge, though deserve it they do, our opportunity, our calling to live free even within constraints.
bruce sterling
A POET AND AN ALCHEMIST How do I turn transform these untamed swirling thoughts into poetry? A novice to alchemy, I try to break it down, rather it than me Step one: a quill, a pen, an instrument, my motivation, organization Step two: dip into the inky depths of these emotions, These feelings a mess aching to happen I yearn to pour and splatter them onto the page, the stark white hue of it taunts me, but in the aftermath of the jet black gore, the chaos haunts me so alas... Here we are Reaching into in this endless abyss Grasping for a light, for some semblance of creative prowess or progress at least All in the name of a masterpiece. I long to master at least one piece of this puzzle of life Shapeshifting vexations lacking solid form, it’s all an illusion anyways Tongue tied, so tired. Sluggishly Alive. So many dreams, irony is they can’t be achieved without sleep But don’t sleep on your dreams child A beautiful conundrum A paradox Paradigm shift Thank goodness for this poetry It keeps me alive It reminds me of the meaning of life It helps me cherish and thrive Maybe my struggle is self created Maybe I’ve had it all wrong Epiphany: The poem has always been the Alchemist And I need surrender to it So it can transform me I write these words to be immersed in their magick Cyclical figure eights In flowing we are so great I meet my maker And it makes me
BECCA WOLF
"PINK"
like bubblegum, the pink of you sticks to the roof of my mouth, crosses soft my tongue’s solid pulse, sugar-round and waiting sugar-round and waiting sugar-round and waiting.
(you are my favorite candied prescription.) pull my unspun hair. watch me swallow the romance of restless eye contact and superstition. what is indigestible boils honey-thick in my stomach. for seven years. (you are what every doctor warns against.) our bodies angled in the after-arch of affection, breath slick and saccharine, leaves me wide-mouthed and praying, just so pleased to hold this temporary sweetness of you.
SARAH RODRIGUEZ
leaves the shorE POEM and Illustration by yaelaed my moon addled savagery the quick whip of spray my salt stings against siren songs my moon graced lullaby the soft lap of waves my rising meets crumbling castles a testament to dancing my surface breaks even wood warped and whiskey sanded throats my nets seek more than I bargain for a crashed and creaking calamity algae gravestone and seashell eyes shining my moon spoken melody leaves the shore unsatisfied calypso kisses my ghost ship who’s haunting who?
He Fired His Gun He fired his gun, and his entire body was overcome with power. He was enraged to find the strength he’d always imagined he wielded but never had the proof of. Staring down firmly at his hands his fingers crawling inward into grip he saw the hand of god before him. I am become predator, swallower of entire oceans in the face of drought.
For now, I know the merciless face of divinity as that of natural disaster and that which I now manifest myself to be. He quaked at the fire of his own gun, as in the ripples of the last lake he saw before him the face of Narcissus, he who refuses to believe the truth about himself.
BRICE MAIURRO
Upon autopsy it is revealed that Vincent Van Gogh had an infestation of starry starry sunflowers. Turns out all that happy yellow paint he ate had taken root just south of his heart and bloomed beautifully. His lost left ear finally returns to join his body and when his brother cries his tears are seeds for a brighter future. After examining his body and taking note of Picasso’s spastically geometric organs they discover the goat horns that grew from his head he worked so hard to sand down. Opening him is like playing a violin when the coroner report comes in it is critiqued for being too abstract making a smile tug at cold blue lips. There are many muses and mistresses to weep an ocean for his boat of a body to sail across. When Basquiat dies all the epigrams that were painted over reappear so his messages can still speak despite his still lips. A crown grows from his head, his body explodes into color, and while swords grow from his toes his Mother Africa comes to collect her lost prince. As Georgia O'Keeffe begins to decompose deers antlers begin to grow and no matter how often they are sawn off they return by morning. The flowers that grow from her are symmetric, they find a sea shell under her tongue, and a building by her backbone. When he’s gone the sky turns Rembrandt blue. If Pollock’s blood drips it spirals mathematically magnificent into greater fractal dimensions. With Christopher Wood gone the ocean cries and the rain sends him off with their bow. Digging through Rothko they find his true colors. Dissecting Dali distorts time, sends doctors spinning into sand, and the butterfly’s scatter into the elements with the elephants. Monet’s body becomes a lake for flowers to fall into. Looking closely at Seurat they see he is only tiny dots of color. When Frida dies they find that her pelvis has become solid gold before suddenly monkeys carry her into the clouds on flower wings. She only comes back down when Diego dies so she can laugh in his face and they dance on their graves. Making art lives in the heart for its with you till death yet your art will live beyond these mortal coils. When you create with blood, sweat, and tears your art wears every piece of you. So make something and then die so you make more. When your heart stops beating your art’s heart will never end. I hold this for it is the only thing I know to be true is that what you make is what makes you.
D.o.t.B.
I hear there are people who are not poets who are not artists Who do not pine away in their misery until their veins stretch into meaningful paintings I hear that somewhere there are mundanes who wake up, go to work, come home, watch TV, go to bed, repeat… and love every moment of it… I hear there are pills that make this tolerable. The surgeon general warnings on substances have become big yellow attractant labels claiming “this makes it all feel normal” I hear there are people who don’t feel who watch the news without nausea, who buy IKEA furniture, have 2.5 children & support the artistic endeavors of Kenny G I hear that I want to burn it all down… mostly from the ghosts that whisper in my ear… to burn it all down… like a real artist should…
SETH WALKER
Caffeinated to the Touch A lawless day Ignites a green static From which I lie my 8-pound, or more, I have not weighed, Brain with trivial thoughts atop Of a faux-feathered head-melter. A limitless fade into eventuality Howls like a peppered wolf on the Butte of the double-edged mountain. A wish I would have Is to be said wolf, Alone and free. Though, my spirit would Beg to differ as the side Of the plaintiff’s story Of the crime scene Falcon, it would implore With a fork full of sugar. The medicine goes down easier afterwards. The raspberry jam, or jelly, Spring-rises its charm Across my sugar-dusted pastry Of a skinny, rectangular form; Raspberry has always been My preferred forbidden fruit. With my cappuccino-warmed heart, I dedicate the afternoon to my Mind’s conversations with itself, And allow my writing hand, Brain-controlled, right, To inscribe my caffeinated thoughts Onto papyrus to liberate themselves I am going to need to acquire Another leather journal in the Coming weeks of thunder and electricity. A true renaissance.
Brendøn @brendon_poetry
I Love Flowers P.J. Ziols
The flowers told everything missed kiss of the summer bliss around every day Now going, on to the next wave Standing tall & proud with chips forward, eyes on the brink, the beginning, the finish of something uncountable like a mountain Sitting now, coming down off that pleasure moment, owning the castrated province of victory deceiving us all Getting into the vision of living near top heaven no flooding just floating like the Amen above the rafters of the pink & gold church Rebirth is a bitch, frankincense & myrrh the horror of the mirror still within the aura to declare full frontal freedom Beneathe within we win the backwards walking progression like a trumpet too good We know it’s all meant to be breathing, expanding & contracting like the moment—easy livin’ & this is how I can make a living? Then go get it, Fuck the flowers & their prediction
Sunshowers hey, i don't know you i don't have to i can see pretty clear from refractions in the air who you think you are with raindrops on your scars and band-aids cross your heart i don't know you i don't have to people come and people go it's only natural clouds fall and heart strings fray it's okay to feel this way it's how muscles are made i don't know you i don't have to i hope you're well i'm okay too
jonnom
On The Nature of Love and Online Dating T HERE ’ S
NO ONE NEW AROUND YOU . ALL BEEN HERE WAITING IN THE WINGS READING BORING MAGAZINES WAITING FOR YOU TO LOOK UP . D O YOU HEAR US SHUDDER LIKE WINDCHIMES IN THE BREEZES OF LIFE ? F LIPPING THROUGH FACES FEELING NO FASCINATION
W E ’ VE
W E ’ RE
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ALL JUST BUS STATIONS SOME PEOPLE STOP BUT , MOST PEOPLE GO RIGHT PAST REAL FAST BLURS -- THE STATIC CRACKLE SPACE - FREEZE -OF A BAD CONNECTION AND ISN ’ T THAT WHAT THIS IS ALL ABOUT ? S EARCHING FOR A BEING TO BE WITH ? BUT CHASING A FEELING BY THE PHEROMONES GETS YOU NOTHING BUT BROKEN - FEELINGS YOU ’ D RATHER LEAVE UNSPOKEN . I THINK : BEING IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH SOMEONE IS WAITING WITH THEM AT BAGGAGE CLAIM HAVING NO IDEA WHAT THEIR BAGS LOOK LIKE OR HOW HEAVY THEY MIGHT BE BUT OFFERING UP YOUR STRENGTH IN SACRIFICE ANYWAY ... BUT LIFE ISN ’ T AN AIRPORT NO MATTER HOW MUCH IT MIGHT SEEM WHAT WITH ALL THE PEOPLE COMING AND GOING AND YOU CAN ’ T GET SERVICE BECAUSE THERE ’ S NO CONNECTION W E ’ RE ALL JUST SPARKS FLYING BY EACH OTHER FANTASIZING OF RICH ROARING FLAMES LICKING UP OUR FRAGILE FORMS FIRES WE COULD BECOME ALL - CONSUMING BUT DON ’ T YOU DARE FORGET TO LOOK UP . T HE DIRT UNDER YOUR NAILS IS STARDUST AND YOU GET IT FROM WORKING NOT WISHING .
FORREST SPEAKS
Ticking & Talking Maggie Saunders
If I was to be truly honest I’d walk around with a sign that read, “Please, ask questions before believing, my sentences stretch as far as my thoughts” I am a funhouse of mirrors reflecting back all I observe in obscure ways. I am reason without a rhyme. A human with bad sense of time, I am ticking. Unexplained verbal breaks, deep breaths, mmhs & ahhhs, fear you won’t hear if I pause for too long. I am ticking. Every sober slurred sentence, my tongue a terrible circus clown dropping sounds as it juggles brain cells to present to you, in hopes you will enjoy the show. My heartbeat channeled from external sources. My mind forced to disassociate from the body which I illuminate. The power of my heartbeat makes me so unsure, I surrender to the demure of a body that asks no questions and a mind that listens to everybodies answers.
Cool Beans Love Had my phone confiscated while texting the scumbag dunked in tattoos who refused to give me my favorite pair of black underwear back A manager complained I was drawing porn on the guest checks, it was a cartoon man’s collarbone, but I see the point, it can be quite erotic My future ex lover walks in, their red pick up truck and impatience are the same shade, that should have been obvious enough Got rejected by my coworker for a straight woman at the gay club, came in with a neck full of hickies the next day. They were created by an on again off again friend who would gladly marry my hips if I let them, but I don’t, and they get sick of it eventually, fall in love eventually, stop flirting with me as if the world would end without it eventually, My boss keeps pointing out whenever I come in with hickies, I could be more careful, but where would the fun in that be, Someone beautiful walks in and the queen lesbian of the city gives them my number. I was excited and then I wasn’t. Cried for ten minutes. Obviously, I didn’t forget them, only forgot what exactly made them beautiful A teenager named Elvis gives me life changingly good hugs and kisses me on the cheek for months on end, until they get a girlfriend Spent a morning shift writing about Mondays on the cash register iPad, but that was okay because if I read that one on a Sunday night, I draw a crowd, I draw regulars I draw Dave. Not the David, but I’d gladly make a reference to poor soul He comes in and watches me, a book about Einstein in his hands but, barely gets one page in before he leaves Satisfied because this helps distract me when the high school English teacher who I refused to fuck, walks in with a first date the for the fifth time this month One of my best friends stays a witness to the shit I call romance Her future husband happily oblivious to the wreckage Sherbet man orders vanilla ice cream and the world is ending I make swarms of odd combinations of tea blends and gush over anyone’s homemade CDs that I stuff in a sheet of paper and play over and over until my car dies Until my dad is in the hospital, and he pressures me to write a screenplay in three days, Until I leave for Colorado to absolve my heartbreak in a fantasy, which sticks for far too long, Until I leave for another job that pays more but sucks my soul from my body instead of letting me get away with hell in high heels and a tight dress and a real loud laugh Stopped playing closing time and shutting the lights off one by one Stopped coming in for a free cinnamon english toffee coffee and running into familiar faces back to back to back Never leaving until I do Key around the corner I know where to find it at least I think it’d still be there
SAM ALBALA
Food for Thought My Grandmother’s brain ate it self. It was a gruesome meal to watch. It changed me. I was only a boy. I had never seen any thing so fascinating. Maybe I got too close; it swallowed my eyes; I still see it whenever I open them. Funny thing is: I did not have to smash open the old woman’s skull, sift the slimy, red puddle for my favorite organ, scoop the goop, pour it back, glue her head and wait for her to wake up. The thought had never even crossed my mind. A few years prior, I sat front row to the splitting of her daughter’s skull, close enough to dip fingers into a river, running from an actual brain, —who could imagine that was a mere nose-bleed seat next to the ocean-view of her mother’s mind dissecting it self in to dismembered memories, fragments of every thing she had been. For a child to see all this, from behind a full-head of hair and bone: it was a mind - opening experience!
SUAVACADO JONES
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