Jump to content

Leaderboard


Popular Content

Showing most liked content since 04/24/18 in all areas

  1. 8 points
    waxen citrine sunlight turns our eyes to tinted crystal from the side, they look evil- not like i'll destroy half the universe and call it mercy evil, more like i'll slice you down to marrow with a smile we sit on bottle green park benches three girls, with nihilism seared into our cerebrum (someday, our generation will get a better name) laughing into the golden hour around the peridot-hued grass is cold under bare feet, so unlike the tar lines in the road we sing hallelujah as we walk home harmony melting into the pavement and into our hearts
  2. 5 points
    Logan suggested that I make a Logan-esque post about my experience making snow cones for 30 kids...Here we go. Hot college girl that my aunt and uncle hired almost made me out myself. Holy shit, she was really hot. I burned some sugar on the cotton candy machine. It turns out it was missing a part and never worked again, even when we got the missing part. Whoops. Little kids do not. Forgive. When you say there's going to be cotton candy but it doesn't work out. However, if you offer unlimited snow cones, they'll forget about it for a little while. The unknown red colored flavoring was a favorite. Something about the red dye? Hot College Girl knows my sister. She's too old for me, lowering my risk of outing myself anytime soon. Little kids will back up twenty steps if it means getting their snow cones. Even the ones that can't count. To little kids, short hair+cargo shorts = guy. I didn't correct them. Not once. Why do little kids like scaring frogs? Frogs are just sunbathing. No need to scare them. Let them sunbathe for christs sake put down the stick say douche bag one more time and not only will I not give you anymore snow cones but I'll ban you from the bouncy house you 5th grade piece of shit Yes, 11th grade is a lot harder than 1st grade Ran out of the paper cups, so I gave a kid a plastic one that came with the maker with instructions to give it back. No one ever saw it again. One 3rd grade girl came with an iphone. She got a minimal amount of cotton candy and left the party. One kid kept looking for drinks in the cooler of ice for the machine. There was a polite little smartass of a 4 year old who forgot where the front door was. I wanted to babysit him so bad but he lives in a different state. His sister came back to the machine like 5 times. I had to tell 5 kids "No, don't touch the machine. This is my job. Yours is to have fun" I stumbled. My mom laughed and asked "Too much to drink?" I replied, having made snow cones for hyperactive kids for the past three hours, completely deadpan "Not enough to drink" My 2 year old cousin made me chase him for two hours straight after the party was over. I am never going to be an elementary school teacher. @drowntown is very helpful in keeping what's left of my sanity.
  3. 5 points
    infinity must be shades of blue war paint old brushes flutter over forearms fingers sweep across jawlines in groups of three drips of royal rain collapse down necklines drizzle into hair (stained further as we card our hands through) legs are pressed by palms handprints left as memory streaks of darker-than-sky swatches bridging wrists ocean-dipped fingertips tangle drying paint coats the curves of our necks a second splintering skin splattered inverse stars freckle cheeks stretched by grins lips half-touched by blue
  4. 5 points
    i miss when everything was an achievement when getting out of bed was not a responsibility and things did not start at 6:00 AM i miss when friends were just playground buddies and bathroom partners gossip was just crushes and not who just killed themselves or who is high right now and where can i get some of that i miss when we called hanging out play dates, when we played make believe because we wanted to, and not because we are afraid of real life
  5. 4 points
    i. find a subject. it can be life or death or nature, emotion, love, pain— pick something. ii. get out your paints. your alizarin red your yellow ochre your ultramarine blue iii. paint me a sunset. paint me your pain, your love— paint me a sensation. iv. realize your subject changed. it's fine. perhaps this was intended. v. write on parchment with old black quill. scritch-scratch of metal end of paper, words forming in loops and lines— condense your canvas onto the end of a pencil and place your sunset in the alphabet. twenty-six letters to paint a universe. vi. name it. name it 'my heart is here' or 'the sun is bright' or 'the world is burning'. or, perhaps— do not name it at all. leave the outside of the envelope blank. let it be a surprise. vii. press your lips to the seal. this will mark it yours for eternity. even without your name, it will hold your essence— and your essence goes beyond your dna. viii. nail it to a tree. tie it to the leg of a bird. make a deal with the fairy queen. 'this is my heart,' you will cry from the hilltops, or from the barstool, or from the lonely tree trunk. and though you may think you are alone— someone is listening. ix. 'i don't think it's very good,' you will say. 'perhaps i should not be a bard.' 'ah,' the old beggar will respond, for all old beggars carry wisdom immeasurable: 'but it is yours. of course it is good.' x. breathe out your essence from the tree stump, the hilltop, the corner of the inn— bid the old beggar goodbye. your mark is made— immortality is at your fingertips.
  6. 4 points
    I caught the paper not seeing the paint opposite you laughed when I scowled when I swiped at you with yellow fingertips you dodged you asked me to teach you a game you said you had never learned so we started slowly right clap left clap both back clap and again right clap right clap left clap left clap faster now both back clap both back clap you stumbled I laughed that time I said we could stop only if you wanted you insisted we keep going And so again right clap right clap right clap keeping time with raindrops left clap left clap left clap It’s easier to smile when you are, too both back clap both back clap both back clap and I can make eye contact but you stay focused on making our hands touch right clap right clap right clap right clap your hair falls in your face slightly into your eyes I brush my own hair away without breaking pace left clap left clap left clap left clap you shake your head at me both back clap both back clap both back clap both back clap You ask to keep going I step to the side out of the way I hold out my hands right clap right clap right clap right clap right clap I nearly miss half distracted you call me out with every syllable of my name you can remember left clap left clap left clap left clap left clap I reply with every syllable of yours You asked if I knew your middle name David, isn’t it? You shook your head said something in Hebrew that most certainly was not a name I must have looked stunned because you laughed again Yeah. It’s David. both back clap both back clap both back clap both back clap both back clap You grabbed my hands before we could keep going not anything affectionate You said we had done it perfectly I said you’d only just learned the game and in a moment you had let go you had seen the yellow paint that stained your hands now, too I wonder if you washed me off with the yellow note: fuck fuckity fuck I don’t like feelings how do people cope
  7. 3 points
    here, in these heavy, yellow-bellied clouds swelled with the storm, pleased by the weight unraveled & mouthy comes thunder where spindle-weak fences pin down the hills & the hills let them, & the winds scream praises, & the barbed wires rename themselves please small suns dot the gaps between lightning fingers & the sky sobs yellow-green, like the stomach of a frog here, under these dripping prayers, sweetgrass laid limp over itself and dew-shining, i ride my bike to the end of the sidewalk & that, where the rain peels itself up from the concrete humid for the sunlight, greek iris in prosper & that, where i stop propped on one foot that is what love tastes like
  8. 3 points
    there is an entire science to the tectonic plates. but we are not continents, so why are you so far away?
  9. 3 points
    hewwo everyone! im doing alright and im feeling pretty safe bc my decoy worked and since my dad thinks it's broken im going to get it out of the house and say i threw it out...my qpp stella has my working phone so it's 100% safe and i hope i can get back to you guys soon. also i have silly art of my polycule to show u guys soon sdhskjdgksjdfs
  10. 3 points
    I'm working on editing some of my better poems from middle school right now, so here's one of those edits: someone lit your Hate aflame and taught you not to see when you Kill now you're shooting bullet holes in the cosmos splashing the night with Blood and everything you've forgotten
  11. 3 points
    i. drunken bees dip and bow through blueing twilight and past solar-powered pseudo-suns gilded flickering wings ii. toeing the sunset lines stars lift borrowed light from topaz-yellow honeycomb iii. may tastes like summer's first kiss like pirouetting barefoot from tar line to tar line to streetside curb like bolting through the forest heels kicking up and out as if they don't touch the ground at all may tastes like things might be okay iv. and after the rain falls, all that glitters is gold.
  12. 3 points
    So I went to the clouds and hails sprung down down clatters rock solid tiny pebbles of ice! On the windshield they hit like golf balls Oh but they are small bouncing like glass beads And then they're gone! melted sublimated I can't tell And then they're gone. Just the drizzle of a lazy rain and stuffy air. Note: Wrote this with the rules that I couldnt go back and fix anything or think about the next line for too long. Feel free to make critiques and suggestions. -Hydralio
  13. 3 points
    maybe it's the way jasmine coats string lights coat rooms with the magenta you feel humming under your skin or maybe it's the way you fill the space between him with galaxies like puppets strung from your fingertips i don't understand your effervescent feeling, the sight sound smell touch taste you have come to crave so much or how your name rolls off my tongue like skinny jeans cuffed high on a summer afternoon maybe that's why i didn't bother making a rhyme scheme, or why alliteration failed me this time i really fucking like you. the end. author's note: this is just a thing i wrote about my boyfriend in 10 minutes, idk
  14. 3 points
    My teacher just threw a field trip form at me and I didn't realize I'd caught it between two fingers until he said "damn. Nice catch."
  15. 3 points
    @queenie_flower in a sense @drowntown die @Connor not exactly so basically the answer is jess is incapable of telling the difference between liking someone as a potential friend or as a potential romantic interest and it's frustrating
  16. 3 points
    Y'ALL I HAVE GAME AF I PICKED UP A GIRL ON A FUCKING PUBLIC BUS AND WE'RE FLIRTING HOLY SHIT
  17. 3 points
    i wrote so much about you, my love, and like the timeless greeks, i compared you to marble and the gods, and i deified you so much that when i think about your name, i do not know who you are and I know i said i was over you but, i am bad at quitting things and as much as i hate it, i am weak willed, my love, and like wicked ivy, the gorgeous idea of you has trapped me in a firm embrace, and i am running out of oxygen. author's note: back on my bullshit
  18. 2 points
  19. 2 points
    set me free from the möbius strip infinity of this ever-expanding universe where I keep asking myself too many questions what are you asking from me? I will not learn the answers when every answer is itself a question the tilt of your head how you bounce on your toes the curve of your smile a flicker of something in your eyes you stand in my way on purpose? another game? nothing is certain I know not which way is up I never know why or what or the universe curls in wavelike collapsing on itself chaos dangerous evolution beautiful restless or running or maybe something? nothing
  20. 2 points
    there's something about brand new bright red converse that just instills confidence in a person
  21. 2 points
    I want to write something real, Something worth more than Dark doorways and empty rooms, Broken light bulbs that will never glow again. I’m stuck in the gear rooms, The wheelhouse and all the springs and screws Are rusted shut, but it’s like I thought I could keep them turning. We’re both running Out of time and memory and the words Are only echoes now. I know time weathers all things but I thought that my parchment Would never turn yellow, curl up at the edges, That the ink would never dry. I’m trying too hard To bring the words back, make them sound good Against each other and flow like rivers Or maybe magic, until they reach an end. Then maybe I can rest, assured Because I’ll have written something That has a meaning And isn’t only soulless noise.
  22. 2 points
    when do prayers become bedtime stories, when do holidays become histories? when is candlelight a memory? why must star necklace become a weapon? why do i nail blue glass to wood frame, and do it because i feel i have something to prove? (why do open doors become silent thieves, why must i resent what i should welcome? when does adopted bird become unwelcome cuckoo, resting in my nest of sparrows?) that song is a call above— rather, it is a history. i open my arms and welcome you, but inside i ask myself cruel, unfair questions. there are my ancestors, heads bowed in forbidden temples. where are your ancestors? where is your history? i clutch my necklace and my histories and i cannot stop the beat of my heart that turns your words into lies. why must your presence turn me into the liar? (this is not a torah but a history book. this is not a religion but an identity. i am defensive of that which i should not be, there is bitterness in my welcomes.) i wish i could greet you warmly. (i am sorry that i cannot.)
  23. 2 points
    let my walls crumble even if I am tossed beneath the columns the rubble of what I was once constructed of the remains of my potential, all my what-ifs and coulds and shoulds red-smeared marble is impure crumpled; unnatural in texture corinthian carvings etched onto my skull for now I see through the glass darkly and commaless phrases only add my dearest to my destruction of structure the demolition of myself from the inside daggers wedged below my skin since childhood cloaked phrases swim below the surface there is beauty in destruction in pain in ruins no candles to light the way to the top sparks must come from somewhere else one by night two by water maybe the sparks have died when they touch the ground dew-coated grass smothering the small infinity of an explosion my walls will fall from within
  24. 2 points
    i. find a subject. perhaps life? (gold-red ichor in veins and laughter on rushing wind) or, perhaps, death; (bones in dirt, in earth fed to plant roots and worms, dark crypt-shadows, ashes on wind that is dry and tastes of smoke) or nature, emotion, love, pain— pick something. (find those worms in your bone-dirt and find the life and death tied together with handwoven red yarn, red like blood in veins and lips for kissing) ii. get out your paints. your alizarin red your yellow ochre your ultramarine blue iii. paint me a sunset (bird calls in the night, cricket song; paint me i love you's in the violet evening) paint me your pain, your love— paint me a sensation. iv. realize your subject changed. it's fine. (love turns to anger or vice versa; grief becomes tranquility with the cyclical patterns, the geometric consistencies.) perhaps this was intended. v. write on parchment with old black quill. scritch-scratch of metal end on paper, words forming in loops and lines— condense your canvas onto the end of a pencil and place your sunset in the alphabet. twenty-six letters to paint a universe. (twenty-six letters for the birth of a star, the spinning of a galaxy, the first cry of an infant as she opens eyes into a ever-moving world— twenty-six letters for eternity.) vi. name it. name it 'my heart is here' or 'the sun is bright' or 'the world is burning'. or, perhaps— do not name it at all. (names hold power, after all, and your poem already holds your heart; take care not to trade away your soul as well) leave the outside of the envelope blank. let it be a surprise. (here is a secret that is not a secret but a gift) vii. press your lips to the seal. this will mark it yours for eternity. even without your name, it will hold your essence— and your essence goes beyond your dna. (it is beyond your blood, your name—your essence, perhaps, is closest to your heart.) viii. nail it to a tree. tie it to the leg of a bird. trade it to the fairy queen for something precious. (leave it untitled for the latter. to fae, your words are weapons when named, and perhaps they are right: the pen, after all, is stronger than the sword.) 'this is my heart,' you will cry from the hilltops, or from the barstool, or from the lonely tree trunk. and though you may think you are alone— someone is listening. ix. 'i don't think it's very good,' you will say. 'perhaps i should not be a bard.' 'ah,' the old beggar will respond, for all old beggars carry wisdom immeasurable: 'but it is yours. of course it is good.' x. breathe out your essence from the tree stump, the hilltop, the corner of the inn— (the crackling fire, the people laughing, the mead sitting warm in your stomach.) bid the old beggar goodbye. (his songs will follow you on your journey, humming in the back of your thoughts.) your mark is made— immortality is at your fingertips.
  25. 2 points
    This is the you I remember loving The girl curled up on the floor laughing so hard she can barely breath let alone do another set of crunches This is the girl who used to give me bedroom eyes on Sunday afternoons while everyone else was still at church Who used to pull me into a broom closet and put her face so close to mine we were breathing the same air This you is the reason I fell so hard Not just because I have a soft spot for big brown eyes and the gentle touch of your lips lightly grazing my neck But because you used to have this amazing fire inside of you This passion I could feel from across the room I fell for your wildness And it’s these moments where you’re smiling brighter than I've seen in practically forever When I have to remember not to lean in not to wrap my hands in your long dark hair not to touch your skin not to do any of the things we used to because people change but not all that much
  26. 2 points
  27. 2 points
    I want to be a lighthouse, to look out at the sea, To stand at the edge but never fall in. I want to call you home with glowing eyes, Tell you I’m here, I’m here, In golden yellow blink-rhythm time. I want to be tall, something steadfast That won’t ever crumble In a thousand years of storm. I’ll wait by the water for lost souls like you, Call out over the tossing waves, say Hold on, because I am a sentinel, Guardian of the wind-swept and weary And my light will bring you through The jagged rocks without a scrape. If I was a lighthouse, I could bring you back Safe, steady, protected from the wear and tear Of life on an angry, unforgiving ocean. Green, foaming waves would turn Into dry land and gentle rain, Smooth sand and windless calm. And if I was a lighthouse, I would still stand there, Over the cliffside, waiting as the years, Like gulls, flew over my rusting, red tin roof, Eyes wide and searching, hoping To rescue the wanderers, and even If you are beneath the blue sea now, Perhaps lighthouses can lead ghosts Back to shore, too.
  28. 2 points
    @thepensword R E L A T A B L E
  29. 2 points
    how does one tell one butterfly from another? when they both reside inside your chest, who can know the color of their wings?
  30. 2 points
    dammit jess stop eating all the samples in biology class
  31. 2 points
    there's a fog in my mind and bees in my throat there is a deafening silent pain to being sick and things to be done are sailboats caught on a tide i am reaching, grasping— wading through molasses my voice is locked inside my chest and my thoughts alongside it drop it to the bottom of the ocean may the mermaids guard it i'll see you when i relearn to swim
  32. 2 points
    The principal is on the loud speaker And everyone is silent my senses breathe a sigh of relief until I hear what she says the school has more police than usual because someone made a threat everyone is scared but we don't say it instead we bury ourselves in matrices and multiplication pretend that we're gonna live forever a youthful fantasy for a generation that has ages years in the past two months we go back to our studies like we aren't bracing ourselves for lockdown like our hearts aren't pounding like our hands aren't shaking like we didn't know deep down this day would come I am not going to die huddled in a dark corner dying a sitting duck is no way to celebrate this life I've fought to live Schools these days feels less like a learning environment and more like a warehouse full of ready made martyrs A surplus of names for a list we all say we're going to memorize but shouldn't have to in the first place
  33. 2 points
    ive been jolted awake enough shoved out of sleep, aftershocks the split-second startled impact back on the mattress to stare blind-eyed at the ceiling like a mammal shutting down from too much adrenalin rabbits close their eyes as they die i never have the god damn common sense to i always stare straight at the trigger finger flinching at the kickback, the warm red stain soaking my shirt, waistband and draining into my shoes it's not always so quick as being shoved off a cliff or the silenced whisper of a gun i have woken up rattled to the marrow because my mind has cracks and edges and memories might have fallen through my subconscious is that even possible? is the human brain capable of erecting walls so impervious that i could forget-- could forget-- it's too impossible to put words to. instead i more easily brush off nightmares wherein again at gunpoint im used, his thumb shoving into my mouth this is easier because this i can remember though the firearm was absent in the waking world i should have bitten down. should have saved myself is the human brain capable of really forgetting? rather: is it capable of fabricating? through dreams, of course but nightmares so vivid i couldn't forget-- consider touch (back against his chest) sight (blank ceiling) taste (bitter fear, one of his hands over my mouth) sound (his breath in my ear) smell (this, blank) how do i end this poem? closure? don't give me 'im sorry's and 'im here if you need to talk' if you touch me i'll flinch.
  34. 2 points
    i grow out of clothes often, but i never miss them, quite as much as i miss my horse sweater, all itchy and pink with rolled up edges or my purple dress, that i only wore when we made banana bread or at my birthday party in australia with the sterling roses and tea cakes
  35. 2 points
    tonight, i will not drown myself tonight, i will not spend hours wallowing in my own sorrow. i will not hate the way my body feels or lament about how dresses make my skin crawl. i refuse to. tonight i will not kill myself over the size of my chest, or my stomach. Tonight i will not chastise myself for having a complex identity. i may be a frustrating puzzle, but i believe i am a beautiful one. tonight i will not drown myself. tonight i will celebrate. AN: i saw an article/post/word thingy that was talking about how there is a sad lack of poetry about celebrating lgbtqia+/queer identity, so i thought i'd make something to contribute to that! coming off of a stressful week, this was really nice and relaxing to write, and definitely helped me feel a little better in the moment.
  36. 1 point
    I know a dragon dark as carbon With blue eyes like bilberries That shine in the blackness. She’s beautiful, slender, Delicate fingers reach out to me As I trace her soot-streaked sides. She’s quiet, too, soft in a way, And her billowing wings unfurl gently Each time she glides towards the sky. Sometimes I try to follow her but I’m heavy, iron-plated, steel talons That scrabble across the cobblestone And I can never lift off. Sheet metal wings could never fly And she’s so scared every time I throw myself off the cliff again Just to see if I can reach the upper atmosphere. But she’s always there to catch me When, inevitably, I plummet back to the ground. She sighs, then, and it sounds like Angels, or maybe the very first dragons That walked the earth four million years ago. She tells me that even though she’s bone and breathing And I’m bubbling magma and embers, Copper scales and built by other hands In some forgotten forge, I’m beautiful too. On those days, when she takes my dented hands In hers, the rust fades from my tarnished heart And perhaps I’ve started to believe her.
  37. 1 point
    This is a great question! I am a big-time planner. I usually write out (like in a notebook or a word document) a general idea of a story, kind of like a book report. Then I thumbnail out the pages, which is where you draw quick, small sketches of what each page might look like--planning out panel design, where characters go on each page, how much text can fit on each panel, how quickly the story reads from page to page, etc. The thumbnailing process can take forever because that's where most of my writing actually happens! I go through lots of drafts before feeling comfortable moving on to final art. For each final page, I do a light pencil sketch and then draw on top of it with ink.
  38. 1 point
    Hello Cicada! This is Marnie--I'm here to talk about comics, art, writing, or whatever else you are interested in. Add a comment to this thread and I'll jump in!
  39. 1 point
    I want to be satisfied with what I have I want the whole glorious world in my arms I want to laugh until I can't breath and talk for hours without losing our casual flow I want to touch the hair he keeps shaking out of his eyes I want her curves against mine and no hesitation I want to do more than imagine and not be afraid that outside my head nothing grows I want the soft-blankets past and the open-air future I want confidence when I step with my eyes closed I want to cradle you in my arms and be reassured by the beat of your human heart I want the wind and the storm and pure power in my veins I want the gentle darkness under the ocean's lull I want to be frozen until I am ice immune to winter and to this illogical species I want to know everything including that I am right I want perfection that never stumbles though the way is bleak I want to be strong enough to stand alone until death welcomes me and I lay down in that good house
  40. 1 point
    Because, what if it happens again? What if the hallways are full of children and you can smell the fear in the air as we run? Because nobody will be walking. The teachers told us to run now. Forget order over safety. How disturbing is it to hear that for the students? Because we know that we need to cut the shit, nobody will be walking if we don’t run. What if there’s nothing we can do? What if it’s one of our own, and warriors are left fighting for their lives instead of the state championship? What if we hold the door for them to turn on us? What if there’s more than one of them, and there’s no longer safety in numbers? What if they get onto the roof, and blood and bullets water the grass? What if they come during lunch when it’s sunny, and three hundred students are outside enjoying the sun, and not paying attention? What if there is no safe wall? What if the announcement comes on while we’re changing classes, and nobody hears the PA? What if not enough people hear? What if there’s not enough rooms nearby? What do you do when the doors and windows are staggered? What happens if the forty-year-old blinds jam? What if were are faced with the reality that a glitter-covered poster can’t stop a bullet? What if we have to move the filing cabinet and the bookshelf and the ancient pink couch to barricade the door with the key that has been lost over the course of forty years? What if the multimillion dollar renovations leave freshmen hiding on the floor below broken windows while history is made instead of taught? What if the teachers have to make good on their promises? What if someone does come in? Will we all throw our shoes like we’ve been told, battered Converse and strappy sandals and fresh new sneakers hurled in the direction of the door? Will she actually throw diluted lab acids in their eyes? Will they even need their eyes to shoot? Will award-winning yearbooks be enough to hurt? Would they actually do impossibly more for us? Would they leave us all in their debt for the rest of our lives? Because what if it happens again, and we aren’t ready, despite everything we’ve tried to do? Will leaving the school where we’re supposed to be safe be enough to remind people what if? What if nowhere becomes safe? note: I wrote this between the parkland shooting and the walkout. Just decided to post it. My teachers talked about it almost non-stop in classes the week after. We have new rules because of it. It’s created way too many alternate pathways for what could happen.
  41. 1 point
    sending all my love <3 this is a beautiful poem, queenie.
  42. 1 point
    Yesssssssssssssssss yes yes yes He fucking dumped her I’m so fucking happy me and Kate are back together 😀😃😄😁😆😅😂🤣
  43. 1 point
  44. 1 point
    “It’s a rather blustery day.” The wind blew over our fence lol. Coming home from school we saw a tree hit a power line and catch fire 🔥💥 The wind is shaking our house which has neaver happened before🧐🤷🏽‍♂️ Kate if you are reading this, quit stalking me. We broke up remember. If you decided you don’t like Kela I’m cool with that. Shit I’m in fucking denial.
  45. 1 point
    I got into an argument with my friends over whether I take care of myself enough to date someone, and the crowning point was "Dude, you're stoned on Benadryl"
  46. 1 point
    I taught the oaks and the maples because I support equal education opportunities.
  47. 1 point
    ive got poetry behind my teeth and an itch under my nails and glitter on my eyelids and im beautiful like candlelight
  48. 1 point
    concrete rivers bridges traversing open, rolling seas; brown-green grass and hay-bale yellow, scraggy trees and pickup trucks. each gas station is alike to the rest, each red pump and beer for sale each rusting faucet and shelves of cigarettes. here is a grove of old farmhouses and mobile homes. the fenceposts lead into eternity; this is a special kind of purgatory. i am nose-to-the-glass, or unsettled indifference. cow, i point— that's our game, our roadtrip pastime, though here: points are far too easy to come by. (maybe we should switch to counting tractors.) timeless expanses and rolling, similar fields. there's cotton, there, clouds cast in miniature among the brown stalks, and, squinting, can i see the ghosts of the people wronged? (how many points for that sheep? how many for a race's dignity?) this is a special kind of purgatory one in which i am a stranger passerby, migratory bird: bright feathers, exotic, flying past sparrows on fences, home to my concrete trees and shopping malls. this is a haunted universe, but who am i to judge it? who am i to judge the people who sleep beneath those graves, in yonder church after church after church, nestled among the cornfields? (i am but a stranger, and cannot know their lives. yet, with feather-eyed opinions, i will be glad to return home.) ~~~~~ aka the southeast countryside terrifies me in a guttural way and i cannot help it please forgive me it's all cowfields and republicans hhhhh
  49. 1 point
    "Hey Betsy? Can you—" "I'm cutting intestines." "I didn't eat lunch today and this liver is actually making me hungry."
  50. 1 point
    "Damnit Beethoven."
×