Submissions still closed. Pieces added to the gallery only at my request, based on nothing more than the whim of the founder.
Oh, the pent-up frustration. I'm feeling better already.
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narrativewhynarrative by thetaoofchaos
do they continue to see the world
as being told,
like when you wrestle with indifference
as the phone rings and rings
and some girl you've forgotten
leaves a hundred messages
while you are playing video games
on an ancient contraption
your father bought you
10 years ago
in a rare moment of
which you promptly
and every dish you own
balances like a trophy in the sink
with ramen noodle scraps
and old mashed potatoes
and you contemplate for a fraction of a second
the time when you realized that you could live,
you could breathe and sleep and breed among men
on $20 a week, and they had to let you in
when you walked into the headshop
wearing your chrome plated
looking for pipe
and you slink home
with the stink of cloves
in your venerable toyota
your mother discarded
and cave into your little hovel
and carve a path of dirty clothes,
a swathe through your dark efficiency
silver and ice think twice besilver and icesilver and ice think twice be by riparii
think twice before you spite your braid
entwined in my miniscule molecules
ginger and cinnamon overswim
the baleful gale
and it's almost Hallowe'en
because the ghosts are splashing
in the mint juleps
of a sparkling past
and the fish are gone
oh the golden, wind-finned carp
would you come to me in the nail-polished dawn?
I am old but the cakes are not dry.
sweet whispers slip like legs between the sheets
and music plays
and the notes they glide
on the pitch of the broad old sea.
PostcardsPostcardsPostcards by swansisters
In the parking lot, my brother shoots plastic arrows
at our station wagon, sleeping bags piled in the back.
"Can we have a pool shaped like a bass guitar,"
he asks, "when we get to California?" I float gum wrapper boats
in the shimmering heat mirage, my knees barnacled
with scabs and mosquito bites. As we drive, we count road kills,
eighteen wheelers and truck stops named after some guy.
You can drink it," Mom says cutting open a barrel cactus.
"Even if you get lost, you'll never die."
She taped Dad's latest postcard to the dashboard.
"Found work. I love you all. Come." We have postcards
from almost every state: amarillos from Louisiana,
pine flats from Arkansas, a Texas gas station with pipestem hoses.
Dad once worked in a diner, brought home day old cherry pie,
placemats I could draw on. When he kissed me goodnight,
I could hear jukebox songs. "Be my baby, do wah."
Mom stoops beside me, touches my spearmint boat with a bitten nail.
"Where is this one going?"
the tease of Earl Greywhen leaves speak they rustlethe tease of Earl Grey by alapip
but shan't talk of lost cattle
out of bags like cats lying
purring perhaps stirring
gainsaying the language
of pictures - much fewer
than one thousand words
whispered soft - softer
ours to read into
by catching a hint of
some spiciness brewed
a sugaring of love -
or upcoming danger
a giving or taking
from whom in this strange land
once was a stranger
by this chance assessed
through one's cup or glass
darkly lit yet it be
from wet leavings of tea
hopefully let it be
the sugaring of love -
llp - dA - jan2013
DD - feb1/2013
NolanderI remember looking downNolander by neonxaos
across dark mountains, spring snow,
a blinking light here and there,
maybe a car, maybe something else
Maybe she will, I thought.
Maybe she will
I looked for the state border,
but there was nothing to cross.
It was simply the land,
hard-lined and jagged,
old and black and blue.
Maybe it will be fine, I thought.
Maybe it will
I don't remember if it was day or night now.
I don't remember any descent.
Only the drift-dirty mountains,
and those wild hermit lights.
Then the vortex of foreign law.
She is right there, I thought.
But she wasn't really
FallFor a while it will seemFall by riparii
as if I was never coming back,
like summer or a childhood dream.
Your toes twist in the September sand
and the chill reminds you
that some thoughtless time,
some apple-scented eve
the old dog will growl low,
the night shadows stir;
moths will dart desperate
through an open door--
and you will watch solitude disappear
like broken, restless love.
Tallmy words are green tonightTall by Bark
written in the air in a neon glow
standing on the corner in the snow
reciting poetry from memory
i feel very tall
there is power in words
and tonight i'm in control
looming large and strong and
and feeling very tall
have i had too much? no,
just enough to clearly see
my shoulders are straight, my
head held high
speaking green words
and very, very tall
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