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I used to cover my hands
In the mud of the mountains,
Snatch the setting June sun
And watch it glow in my fist.
I remember the sounds:
Lighting bug wings tapping,
The sealed jar lid,
Flopping on their backs,
Sliding down the transparent glass.
The howl of a distant whistle,
The echo of laughter,
Illusions of liberty.
In this valley between mountains,
We’re taught to extinguish freedom.
We learn what was wild is wonderful
Only if it can be bottled,
Burned, mined, or mounted.
When the neighborhood sleeps,
The lightening bugs scatter,
To somewhere past the tracks,
Seeking taller grass.
Or high into the cloudless constellations,
The heavenly arboretum.
Come sunrise.
The abandoned jars
Collect dew on the front porch.
The mountain trees weep,
With mourning light.
We’re promised,
Scholarships and homecomings,
Welcome signs and wilderness.
But we do not learn to fly.
We do not know
We too are winged creatures.
We do not know
The laughter echoes at us.
Scholars, pressure us into diamonds.
Wash our hands of the dust.
I cannot recall when last I saw,
Trees filled with blinking lights,
Fairies suspended in the Potomac fog.
Or when last I reached,
Palms down, into the Appalachian dirt.
I learn
To spit upon the ground.
And hate the land that raised me,
To speak snobbish words,
To release bitter anger.
We learn resentment.
We are taught to laugh.
And for a moment,
When we find our noses in dictionaries,
Teaching our tongues not to trip,
We choose to forget.
The wise mountain asks,
Who do you think you are?
And the aching of my heart,
Teaches me that I have been unkind.
All I stand to lose is dirt,
River rocks and storm-blown branches,
Wind chimes and tumbling leaves.
If I leave,
All I stand to lose
Is everything.
The free fireflies fall from the skies,
The grass hugs my ankles in apology.
The stars align a new way.
Another train departs,
And I stay.
For there will always be fireflies
In the valley between mountains.
I lean against the sweet Maple
And forgive.
I open the jar lid,
And let go.
In the mud of the mountains,
Snatch the setting June sun
And watch it glow in my fist.
I remember the sounds:
Lighting bug wings tapping,
The sealed jar lid,
Flopping on their backs,
Sliding down the transparent glass.
The howl of a distant whistle,
The echo of laughter,
Illusions of liberty.
In this valley between mountains,
We’re taught to extinguish freedom.
We learn what was wild is wonderful
Only if it can be bottled,
Burned, mined, or mounted.
When the neighborhood sleeps,
The lightening bugs scatter,
To somewhere past the tracks,
Seeking taller grass.
Or high into the cloudless constellations,
The heavenly arboretum.
Come sunrise.
The abandoned jars
Collect dew on the front porch.
The mountain trees weep,
With mourning light.
We’re promised,
Scholarships and homecomings,
Welcome signs and wilderness.
But we do not learn to fly.
We do not know
We too are winged creatures.
We do not know
The laughter echoes at us.
Scholars, pressure us into diamonds.
Wash our hands of the dust.
I cannot recall when last I saw,
Trees filled with blinking lights,
Fairies suspended in the Potomac fog.
Or when last I reached,
Palms down, into the Appalachian dirt.
I learn
To spit upon the ground.
And hate the land that raised me,
To speak snobbish words,
To release bitter anger.
We learn resentment.
We are taught to laugh.
And for a moment,
When we find our noses in dictionaries,
Teaching our tongues not to trip,
We choose to forget.
The wise mountain asks,
Who do you think you are?
And the aching of my heart,
Teaches me that I have been unkind.
All I stand to lose is dirt,
River rocks and storm-blown branches,
Wind chimes and tumbling leaves.
If I leave,
All I stand to lose
Is everything.
The free fireflies fall from the skies,
The grass hugs my ankles in apology.
The stars align a new way.
Another train departs,
And I stay.
For there will always be fireflies
In the valley between mountains.
I lean against the sweet Maple
And forgive.
I open the jar lid,
And let go.
Bad Decision Brew
Sydney Barmoy
I am a tea bag of poor decisions
and the only thing worse
than shitty tea,
is shitty cold tea.
Loose leaf sanity seeping
out of the holes burned in my skull,
the resulting caustic concoction left
unattended for too long.
More harmful to drink
without sympathetic sugar cubes.
and the only thing worse
than shitty tea,
is shitty cold tea.
Loose leaf sanity seeping
out of the holes burned in my skull,
the resulting caustic concoction left
unattended for too long.
More harmful to drink
without sympathetic sugar cubes.
The Hills Have Their Secrets
Rachel Schlosser
The grass tickled
Her palms and ankles.
She and the boy sat close,
But not touching.
Young and curious.
Why do adults kiss? Was it magic?
What did he think?
They agreed it would need to last
a couple of seconds to see if
the magic worked.
She watched his freckles blur.
They were cute, like stars.
They pulled apart. It was nothing
special. It was just skin against skin.
There is no taste
of danger; the adults had
not seeing them.
It was muddy under her palms.
It rained the night before.
Her palms and ankles.
She and the boy sat close,
But not touching.
Young and curious.
Why do adults kiss? Was it magic?
What did he think?
They agreed it would need to last
a couple of seconds to see if
the magic worked.
She watched his freckles blur.
They were cute, like stars.
They pulled apart. It was nothing
special. It was just skin against skin.
There is no taste
of danger; the adults had
not seeing them.
It was muddy under her palms.
It rained the night before.
Love Poem
Micaiah Fetz
It should be powerful, all consuming
wanting
to smell the balm on his beard
to feel his warmth close to me
hear his laugh, his chuckle
it calms and empowers
inspires
to dream and I mean really
dream of wealth and giving
ourselves everything we never had
to turn wishes into something more
me loving him unlike his last
him trusting like he never thought he could
it shows the day we’ll be powerful
that cinnamon smelling balm
wanting
to smell the balm on his beard
to feel his warmth close to me
hear his laugh, his chuckle
it calms and empowers
inspires
to dream and I mean really
dream of wealth and giving
ourselves everything we never had
to turn wishes into something more
me loving him unlike his last
him trusting like he never thought he could
it shows the day we’ll be powerful
that cinnamon smelling balm
Panties
Josh Wilson
Bleak afternoon
light through the window
shines along that empty dent on
the mattress, now a cradle of despair
without the warm pink shape
of her lying there. I wake from dreams and find
Them wadded on the floor,
frilly and fragile, a sensuous red curl like
a love mark I pick up and
as their silk flutters
through my fingers, I see
her shadow, a love-mad ghost
that dances across the wall, and I remember
the hasty, breathless moment she slid
them down her thighs and tossed them there.
light through the window
shines along that empty dent on
the mattress, now a cradle of despair
without the warm pink shape
of her lying there. I wake from dreams and find
Them wadded on the floor,
frilly and fragile, a sensuous red curl like
a love mark I pick up and
as their silk flutters
through my fingers, I see
her shadow, a love-mad ghost
that dances across the wall, and I remember
the hasty, breathless moment she slid
them down her thighs and tossed them there.
Untitled Poems
Jayna Raines
"Never trust a boy
With eyes made
Of sea glass
And ocean waves
He will make you feel like
Bursts of color
Before he suddenly
Renders you colorblind.”
“Your presence fills me
With empty calories.
It tastes sweet,
But isn’t enough
To keep me satisfied.”
“I know I have caused pain,
Anger,
And confusion.
I have created tears
And scalded others
With my fire.
I hope to find
That I’ve healed more
Than I’ve destroyed.”
“You blend in
So well with my dreams
That I’d nearly forgotten
Your nightmarish tendencies.”
With eyes made
Of sea glass
And ocean waves
He will make you feel like
Bursts of color
Before he suddenly
Renders you colorblind.”
“Your presence fills me
With empty calories.
It tastes sweet,
But isn’t enough
To keep me satisfied.”
“I know I have caused pain,
Anger,
And confusion.
I have created tears
And scalded others
With my fire.
I hope to find
That I’ve healed more
Than I’ve destroyed.”
“You blend in
So well with my dreams
That I’d nearly forgotten
Your nightmarish tendencies.”
Summertime Sadness
Rachel Schlosser
My aunt whispers, he’s looking at you.
He should be. Wrapped up in sweet shyness,
without falsehood, I’m more woman than those
other girls. Water dripping down exposed legs,
down new me’s new skin-tight, but
modest bathing suit—sea foam green,
boy shorts, tank top—even tighter,
because of water and warm, sweet summer.
This image made more tantalizing,
Because of its modesty. I lick my
lemonade lips after a sip.
It reveals just a hint of
what he could have had.
This is his summertime sadness.
He should be. Wrapped up in sweet shyness,
without falsehood, I’m more woman than those
other girls. Water dripping down exposed legs,
down new me’s new skin-tight, but
modest bathing suit—sea foam green,
boy shorts, tank top—even tighter,
because of water and warm, sweet summer.
This image made more tantalizing,
Because of its modesty. I lick my
lemonade lips after a sip.
It reveals just a hint of
what he could have had.
This is his summertime sadness.
Mama
Blaire
Do you know, did you know,
About the girl buried in stone?
She's your daughter, see,
and she's angry, burning,
trying to erupt
and love herself to death.
You don't even know she's there,
and you'd hate her if you did.
Soot blankets the sky, mama,
and you're hitting the breaking point.
You'll want to stay in the ashes,
but she'll break free without you.
The rubble will fall, the sky will clear.
She'll see her future for miles around her
and never look back.
About the girl buried in stone?
She's your daughter, see,
and she's angry, burning,
trying to erupt
and love herself to death.
You don't even know she's there,
and you'd hate her if you did.
Soot blankets the sky, mama,
and you're hitting the breaking point.
You'll want to stay in the ashes,
but she'll break free without you.
The rubble will fall, the sky will clear.
She'll see her future for miles around her
and never look back.
Status Quo
T. Scott Crosser
Seen, but unseen I remain frozen by
self-made shackles, longing to reach
out to those who have broken
free, all the while refusing to use
the key, dangling within my grasp.
self-made shackles, longing to reach
out to those who have broken
free, all the while refusing to use
the key, dangling within my grasp.
An·ec•dote
Sidonie Brown
Girl
You have become undone
Once tightly strung
And now
You are barely one piece
Girl
Who got into -what?
When
Did you lose yourself?
Needless to ask
Why
Needles and thread
Would make you
You again
Porcelain to Rag Doll
You have become undone
Once tightly strung
And now
You are barely one piece
Girl
Who got into -what?
When
Did you lose yourself?
Needless to ask
Why
Needles and thread
Would make you
You again
Porcelain to Rag Doll
Behind her smile after There Was a Child Went Forth by Walt Whitman
Maeci Curtis
There was a child went forth every day,
And the first object she looked upon, she became,
A broken razor became a part of this child.
And the harsh, scornful words set upon her, and the marks left on her body, and the sounds of a
noisy brawl just above her ceiling, and the feelings of depression and low self-esteem and the
breaking heart within her chest.
And the reminiscent pieces of her past, and the lonely room while other kids got to take their
naps, and the large bed only she laid in, and the strange man at the end of it, and the strange
moans he muttered silently.
And the plates crashing into the wall, and the sounds of another hole in another wall, and the
sharp ringing of a mirror being broken, and the bright flashing of red, blue and white lights in the
driveway.
And her siblings hiding themselves so others wouldn't notice their facades hiding their fears
And the monochrome days, their violent apexes all became part of her.
Her desperate, fruitless efforts and those of the therapist, and the legal papers she had to sign,
and the computer on which she typed in information, and the toys by the book case.
And the riding home from the counseling center when she had just spent an hour playing with
sand and answering questions about the past and the heavy black weights that dragged from her
ankles everywhere she walked.
And the indifferent people that passed and the ambivalent looks on their faces.
And the abundance of purple dead nettles wherever she walked, and the faint yellow lines on the
roads, and the potholes that made the car jerk, and the dull grey clouds covering the sun.
And all the changes of nature and weather wherever she went.
Her own parents, gave this child more of themselves the mother at home cooking dinner on the
stove.
The mother with fine brown hair, light brown eyes, her body stout, and fierce demeanor, a
frightened mother trying to obey her husband and standing silent as she watches abuse.
The father strong, powerful, mean, oblivious to his illness, angry, temperamental.
The many objects broken from being thrown, the dread of coming home, the dull colors of the
two story house, the pale cream colored walls, forgiveness that will not be seeked,
The questioning of actions and the thoughts of self-hate, the curious children wondering if this is
normal and if other children have the same lives?
Living and prospering in the world, if they are not achievable or enjoyable, what are they?
The scars themselves and the emotional pain of the past, and the grass in the front yard had one
in common, they’re always there, they can hide, but they’re always there.
The antique gates of the neighborhood, always open, like the wounds of her past, the long row of
trees as she enters which suffocate her, the steep hill on which her house rests upon, she has
fallen down many times.
The gorgeous illuminating sunset on the water seen from the highest hill in the neighborhood, the
water in between.
The monotonous patterns of the streets, the old dilapidated houses, the old prosperous pear tree,
the old cars driving on the old dirt roads and the edges of the main road or boats seen on the
water, many miles off.
The yellow lab that ran out the door to a nearby road where a van was speeding down, the thump
of the collision, the whining.
The child running now, crying, the limping lab, resting by her side, licking her at first, then
nothing.
The patch of fresh, brown dirt in the front yard, stillness of the night, carried away by gentle
sobs, the blame and guilt all like the dirt on the grave.
And the first object she looked upon, she became,
A broken razor became a part of this child.
And the harsh, scornful words set upon her, and the marks left on her body, and the sounds of a
noisy brawl just above her ceiling, and the feelings of depression and low self-esteem and the
breaking heart within her chest.
And the reminiscent pieces of her past, and the lonely room while other kids got to take their
naps, and the large bed only she laid in, and the strange man at the end of it, and the strange
moans he muttered silently.
And the plates crashing into the wall, and the sounds of another hole in another wall, and the
sharp ringing of a mirror being broken, and the bright flashing of red, blue and white lights in the
driveway.
And her siblings hiding themselves so others wouldn't notice their facades hiding their fears
And the monochrome days, their violent apexes all became part of her.
Her desperate, fruitless efforts and those of the therapist, and the legal papers she had to sign,
and the computer on which she typed in information, and the toys by the book case.
And the riding home from the counseling center when she had just spent an hour playing with
sand and answering questions about the past and the heavy black weights that dragged from her
ankles everywhere she walked.
And the indifferent people that passed and the ambivalent looks on their faces.
And the abundance of purple dead nettles wherever she walked, and the faint yellow lines on the
roads, and the potholes that made the car jerk, and the dull grey clouds covering the sun.
And all the changes of nature and weather wherever she went.
Her own parents, gave this child more of themselves the mother at home cooking dinner on the
stove.
The mother with fine brown hair, light brown eyes, her body stout, and fierce demeanor, a
frightened mother trying to obey her husband and standing silent as she watches abuse.
The father strong, powerful, mean, oblivious to his illness, angry, temperamental.
The many objects broken from being thrown, the dread of coming home, the dull colors of the
two story house, the pale cream colored walls, forgiveness that will not be seeked,
The questioning of actions and the thoughts of self-hate, the curious children wondering if this is
normal and if other children have the same lives?
Living and prospering in the world, if they are not achievable or enjoyable, what are they?
The scars themselves and the emotional pain of the past, and the grass in the front yard had one
in common, they’re always there, they can hide, but they’re always there.
The antique gates of the neighborhood, always open, like the wounds of her past, the long row of
trees as she enters which suffocate her, the steep hill on which her house rests upon, she has
fallen down many times.
The gorgeous illuminating sunset on the water seen from the highest hill in the neighborhood, the
water in between.
The monotonous patterns of the streets, the old dilapidated houses, the old prosperous pear tree,
the old cars driving on the old dirt roads and the edges of the main road or boats seen on the
water, many miles off.
The yellow lab that ran out the door to a nearby road where a van was speeding down, the thump
of the collision, the whining.
The child running now, crying, the limping lab, resting by her side, licking her at first, then
nothing.
The patch of fresh, brown dirt in the front yard, stillness of the night, carried away by gentle
sobs, the blame and guilt all like the dirt on the grave.
Pen
Skyleur Watkins
For so long I wondered what for
A purpose was hidden behind a closed door
Only a matured mind could understand
A golden door needs a mighty hand
The matter of time and tears rang a bell
Three fingers are a magical spell
Wishing to poke hesitant souls
Diverse thoughts will unfold
As they can be delivered in many ways
My work is in a phase
Breathing in the ink as if it were oxygen
Powerful pages to hold hostages
A purpose was hidden behind a closed door
Only a matured mind could understand
A golden door needs a mighty hand
The matter of time and tears rang a bell
Three fingers are a magical spell
Wishing to poke hesitant souls
Diverse thoughts will unfold
As they can be delivered in many ways
My work is in a phase
Breathing in the ink as if it were oxygen
Powerful pages to hold hostages
Always Greener
Ross Clapsaddle
To settle is a simple task
with feet planted in growth.
The foreign lawn now brown –
Drought inflicted,
infected with reflections.
Broken shimmers from
shards of hope.
Tending to one’s own garden
softens soil,
sharpens blades.
Distant lights, once illuminated by
“What if?”
Cut off.
Still between us,
riddled with spots of leftover fate that
it spat in predestined directions,
is the fence. Dividing
split decisions.
Picking sides.
The other – always
greener when you’re past your
prime.
with feet planted in growth.
The foreign lawn now brown –
Drought inflicted,
infected with reflections.
Broken shimmers from
shards of hope.
Tending to one’s own garden
softens soil,
sharpens blades.
Distant lights, once illuminated by
“What if?”
Cut off.
Still between us,
riddled with spots of leftover fate that
it spat in predestined directions,
is the fence. Dividing
split decisions.
Picking sides.
The other – always
greener when you’re past your
prime.
Ancient Metaphors
Paula Navarro
To know you as I do
I had to have been buried with you
graveyard dirt and rain
bound us together
and now the sun and moon
know our names
Beseech me to open the skies
part waters and bend the trees
have my left arm be the axis on which the world turns
and my right be from which I hang fruit above the desert
tell me to drop it all and I shall
your breast is the mouth of the river
your legs, the roots below
as long as you breathe
I can eat
as long as you bloom
I can move
fires spark in your name
clouds form to emulate your love
the wind moves to your sighs
make me the ever-fixed mark
I shall pick the brightest stars
and construct a constellation to wrap around you at night
for no nature's law can keep my adoration at bay
I had to have been buried with you
graveyard dirt and rain
bound us together
and now the sun and moon
know our names
Beseech me to open the skies
part waters and bend the trees
have my left arm be the axis on which the world turns
and my right be from which I hang fruit above the desert
tell me to drop it all and I shall
your breast is the mouth of the river
your legs, the roots below
as long as you breathe
I can eat
as long as you bloom
I can move
fires spark in your name
clouds form to emulate your love
the wind moves to your sighs
make me the ever-fixed mark
I shall pick the brightest stars
and construct a constellation to wrap around you at night
for no nature's law can keep my adoration at bay
Smoke Signals
Alexander Drolet
We live across a canyon
A river at the bottom with waves so strong
That it consumes all who dare cross.
We cannot speak for our tongues defy
What goes through our minds.
So we use smoke signals
Everyday until each ember fades.
I say how I want to be with you
To know a connection that I have never felt.
As you reply, I feel puzzled
For all I see is a smoking babble.
We live across a canyon
Ashes of effort on each side.
A river at the bottom with waves so strong
That it consumes all who dare cross.
We cannot speak for our tongues defy
What goes through our minds.
So we use smoke signals
Everyday until each ember fades.
I say how I want to be with you
To know a connection that I have never felt.
As you reply, I feel puzzled
For all I see is a smoking babble.
We live across a canyon
Ashes of effort on each side.
Untitled and Unclaimed
Anonymous
I.
Tamam shud, his name is
Lost in the sands of
The beach on which his
Death throes were ignored.
II.
Boy in a box, found in Philly
First by a trapper who
Didn’t report it. Afraid
The cops’d take
His muskrat traps.
III.
Little Miss Lake Panasoffkee
Wasn’t in Florida too long
Before her murder. Could’ve
Been Greek. Never found a
Name, just a belt wrapped round
Her neck in the lake.
IV.
Ishi, his name is
Unable to be given in the absence of
A fellow Yahi to speak it for him;
The countrymen of their
Killers named him Man.
Tamam shud, his name is
Lost in the sands of
The beach on which his
Death throes were ignored.
II.
Boy in a box, found in Philly
First by a trapper who
Didn’t report it. Afraid
The cops’d take
His muskrat traps.
III.
Little Miss Lake Panasoffkee
Wasn’t in Florida too long
Before her murder. Could’ve
Been Greek. Never found a
Name, just a belt wrapped round
Her neck in the lake.
IV.
Ishi, his name is
Unable to be given in the absence of
A fellow Yahi to speak it for him;
The countrymen of their
Killers named him Man.
As the Lion Lay Dying
Alex McAfee
he thinks of the wet seasons he spent
basking in the spears of light
that illuminated and silhouetted
the distant acacia trees.
Beneath the sheltering green lies the
hyena, spotted with bite marks
and stripped with scars. She dyes
her pelt, licking her wounds
and remembers the lion.
With age, his teeth have cracked.
With time, her limp has worsened.
Together, they hunted softer
And slower flesh.
Soft meat seeks comfort in numbers
And claws of stone and metal.
The storm passes as the lovers’
Memories fade in
The mist that heralds dawn.
basking in the spears of light
that illuminated and silhouetted
the distant acacia trees.
Beneath the sheltering green lies the
hyena, spotted with bite marks
and stripped with scars. She dyes
her pelt, licking her wounds
and remembers the lion.
With age, his teeth have cracked.
With time, her limp has worsened.
Together, they hunted softer
And slower flesh.
Soft meat seeks comfort in numbers
And claws of stone and metal.
The storm passes as the lovers’
Memories fade in
The mist that heralds dawn.
ZESTY FLOUR
Breanna Santana
Pop’s got his boxers in a twist--
knot like vice around his scrotum--
hot air out his rectum like a steam boat
that lost its port but keeps chugging
to sandy shore, too gritty for fluid docking.
Grannie says “your banana‘s not so ripe anymore”.
Bet she thinks that a bitter blue pill will go
down much better the second time. Blow
him up like a balloon animal and
lay him on sandpaper planes.
He’s looking at American Gothic, jealous
that the farmer’s pitchfork stays so sharp.
How hasn’t he driven it into her head?
The hand Pop’s been dealt doesn’t grasp
onto hay like it used to. Now he’s got particles
scattered on his corduroy pants
and paper back romances mold in her nightstand but inspired by
a glistening captain, she’s smoldering
come hithers and flutterin’ in her knickers—dammit Pop let’s try.
knot like vice around his scrotum--
hot air out his rectum like a steam boat
that lost its port but keeps chugging
to sandy shore, too gritty for fluid docking.
Grannie says “your banana‘s not so ripe anymore”.
Bet she thinks that a bitter blue pill will go
down much better the second time. Blow
him up like a balloon animal and
lay him on sandpaper planes.
He’s looking at American Gothic, jealous
that the farmer’s pitchfork stays so sharp.
How hasn’t he driven it into her head?
The hand Pop’s been dealt doesn’t grasp
onto hay like it used to. Now he’s got particles
scattered on his corduroy pants
and paper back romances mold in her nightstand but inspired by
a glistening captain, she’s smoldering
come hithers and flutterin’ in her knickers—dammit Pop let’s try.
Jump, Man
T. Scott Crosser
It ain’t easy when you’re a player
2. Many times have I heard that.
If I had a coin for every time I did, I could
probably afford a vacation home on that one sunshine island resort.
Sure, would beat all those haunted mansions. Though to be fair
I could probably earn the money myself, gold grows practically
on trees in this kingdom. But, the issue
here is that people see me as the second banana (not now
DK) and they think that’s a bad thing, that I’m doomed
to a life of poison mushrooms and being pelted
by blue shells. But, here’s the thing: you never have to worry
about blue shells when you’re not in the lead.
When you’re number 1 the only thing you get are banana peels
and the occasional green shell, you never get your hands
on a triple red or especially a star. When the big king comes a knocking
and the princess starts her shouting no one buries you
with their expectations when it’s your feet that always
hit the trail after your brother. No one expects you
to brave dry bone chilling tundras or volcanoes so hot that
a doted eye red flower would turn to ash. Instead, they expect you
to stay out of the way and let the professional take
care of things. And hey, when his odysseys consist of
man eating plants and literal bottomless pits is that really
such a bad thing? So next time you think that I
got it worse than a troopa kicked between two pipes,
don’t fret, even though I may have won the stache
genetic lottery, it’s my brother’s face that everyone turns
towards when the day needs saving. So, take my advice:
there’s no need to be super when you
can just be a brother.
2. Many times have I heard that.
If I had a coin for every time I did, I could
probably afford a vacation home on that one sunshine island resort.
Sure, would beat all those haunted mansions. Though to be fair
I could probably earn the money myself, gold grows practically
on trees in this kingdom. But, the issue
here is that people see me as the second banana (not now
DK) and they think that’s a bad thing, that I’m doomed
to a life of poison mushrooms and being pelted
by blue shells. But, here’s the thing: you never have to worry
about blue shells when you’re not in the lead.
When you’re number 1 the only thing you get are banana peels
and the occasional green shell, you never get your hands
on a triple red or especially a star. When the big king comes a knocking
and the princess starts her shouting no one buries you
with their expectations when it’s your feet that always
hit the trail after your brother. No one expects you
to brave dry bone chilling tundras or volcanoes so hot that
a doted eye red flower would turn to ash. Instead, they expect you
to stay out of the way and let the professional take
care of things. And hey, when his odysseys consist of
man eating plants and literal bottomless pits is that really
such a bad thing? So next time you think that I
got it worse than a troopa kicked between two pipes,
don’t fret, even though I may have won the stache
genetic lottery, it’s my brother’s face that everyone turns
towards when the day needs saving. So, take my advice:
there’s no need to be super when you
can just be a brother.
Poison
Skyleur Watkins
Love is poison sinking deep in my veins
Like jumping to an everlasting fall
As the breeze runs through my body of pain
An end to come but I long for your call
No man with a rubber hand can heal you
Pain creeps faster than the body can feel
Time is passing and still I long for you
As the clock ticks, I know that this is true
When all else disappears, I won't shed tears
Who would dare put materials above?
And still I fall but never with my fears
Even when it hurts, diagnose me love
In a world of sorrow where love is lost
Still I love, still I love I pay the cost
Like jumping to an everlasting fall
As the breeze runs through my body of pain
An end to come but I long for your call
No man with a rubber hand can heal you
Pain creeps faster than the body can feel
Time is passing and still I long for you
As the clock ticks, I know that this is true
When all else disappears, I won't shed tears
Who would dare put materials above?
And still I fall but never with my fears
Even when it hurts, diagnose me love
In a world of sorrow where love is lost
Still I love, still I love I pay the cost
Barroom Canker Sore
Josh Wilson
He noticed what might have been a slit
in the back of her mouth during a tongue-kiss.
He thought it tasted like iron, that familiar metallic
bite of a blood blister.
It didn’t really bother him, not until he felt it
open, soft flaps like parted
lips in a sigh that his tongue probed
and felt a brittle nest of tiny teeth inside.
Horror flooded in frantic and he fled, the woman’s face
a blurred afterimage steaked in the bar’s sleazy neon and dappled
shadows. But he still awakes
every so often to the muttering traffic
on the interstate outside whatever motel room
he crawled into, the memory dusty
moth wings that stirred his dreaming brain, remembering the woman and
what it had been like
to kiss a girl and taste someone else.
in the back of her mouth during a tongue-kiss.
He thought it tasted like iron, that familiar metallic
bite of a blood blister.
It didn’t really bother him, not until he felt it
open, soft flaps like parted
lips in a sigh that his tongue probed
and felt a brittle nest of tiny teeth inside.
Horror flooded in frantic and he fled, the woman’s face
a blurred afterimage steaked in the bar’s sleazy neon and dappled
shadows. But he still awakes
every so often to the muttering traffic
on the interstate outside whatever motel room
he crawled into, the memory dusty
moth wings that stirred his dreaming brain, remembering the woman and
what it had been like
to kiss a girl and taste someone else.
I Will Wait
Sidonie Brown
I will...
Wait for you to come back
When you think you have to go
Leave the porch light on
When you feel that you're lost
When you need refuge
A temporary home
I will take my clothes
And use their threads to
To make you more
Wait for you to love me
Almost exactly as I do you
Tend to injuries that were inflicted
That I didn’t place on you
I would do so much
And wonder “would you?”
Die with disappointment waiting for a “yes”
But I would
For you...
Wait for you to come back
When you think you have to go
Leave the porch light on
When you feel that you're lost
When you need refuge
A temporary home
I will take my clothes
And use their threads to
To make you more
Wait for you to love me
Almost exactly as I do you
Tend to injuries that were inflicted
That I didn’t place on you
I would do so much
And wonder “would you?”
Die with disappointment waiting for a “yes”
But I would
For you...
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