C: Favorites

Aug 2011 C

Zoe

Air murky with the stale smell
of ****, we sit
on the couch, both mute.
I drape my arms across my belly,
pinching my Victorino jersey
nervously,
convincing myself
I'm having fun.

He lounges with the remote
in one hand,
our dying joint in the other.
There is something on TV.
I don't know what, I just

force myself to laugh intermittently,
while he sits back, looking
relaxed, even bored.
(I convince myself
I'm having fun.)
An abrupt commercial break, and suddenly,
an ad.
For what?
I squint. Flashes of
water, boats, and
what might be heroics,
but time has slowed, and I
can only focus

for a few seconds of lucidity,
the sheer volume of information
overwhelming.
(I convince myself
I'm having fun.)
A narrator's voice, and I understand
the ad is for the navy.
What I should have learned is that
it's a "bright career path"
for the "intelligent, determined, hard-working"
individual.
Cute.

He brings rolled paper to his lips
and pulls.
A sideways glance and
a restrained voice–
"I could have done that,"
the muffled words rush out,
as he waits to exhale.

I wish I could name all my poems "meh."

Aug 2011 C

All In

Aug 2011 C

JJ Hutton

All In

Putting up the red heels,
washing off the blush,
Anna sits,
grabs her phone,
calls me,
"I'm hanging up the gloves."

"What?"

Anna hangs up,
her cellular words
whispering on the wind.

She's going all in,
ambition ******,
picket fence planned.

I fester at the side of the shower,
while laugh tracks burst in the room
through my barricade door.

My world shrinks,
the fever girls find wedding bands
and turn to vapor,
while I wrinkle,
gather dust in the far corners,
and dose nostalgia until
I no longer care to breathe.

Aug 2011 C

Warchief

Aug 2011 C

Sean Critchfield

Warchief

This was written for Tim Burris. My best friend.

Happy Birthday, Warchief.*

The sky will break open.

Meeting shades of red, black, and white, as the sun settles into the void.

This is his brow.

Anvil hands. He marks the moving beneath, like earthen plates in shift.

Affecting change. Symphonic strokes.

War is on his breath. Hidden behind a smile that shines like pax.

Don't dare him or he'll ask you to look down.

Heed the drums.

The warchief comes.

Your victory is written in the fabric of his kilt.

Gilded in the golden thread of kith and kin.

He was watching. He is always watching.

And though the black steed has gone gray,

He snorts storm clouds into the valley he looks down upon.

The tides ripple beneath his skin.

His chest swells in pride and laughter.

Alpha. Hands curled in furious fists of might and mirth,

Trained for love and war and so much more.

Heed the drums.

The warchief comes.

His hug a phalanx.

His word, unbroken steel.

His hands. Anvils.

His history, legendary.

Mighty.

He is the spirit horse.

He is the edgewalker.

He is the vibration playing across the drum skin.

Carrying outward on wind.

Settling peace in the hearts of his own.

Heed the drums.

The warchief comes.

We will stand beside him.

For we are mighty too.

We that tie our spines together, like coursing veins.

We that are family, not of blood.

But spirit.

We that match our heart beats as one powerful rhythm.

Pounding off canyon walls.

Ringing in ears.

Shaking the fabric of the never forgotten.

We that are woven together.

A tartan of our own.

We that stand as one to love.

And laugh.

And revel.

And fight.

We that never run.

But run like blood.

We that are bound with him.

Storm clouds.

A phalanx.

A fabric.

A family.

A drum beat.

We are the drums.

We are the drums.

Look to the horizon.

The warchief comes.

Aug 2011 C

Truth or dare?

Aug 2011 C

Annabel

Truth or dare?

Say my name
And her name
in the same breath.

I dare you to say they taste the same.

Aug 2011 C

reflecting

Aug 2011 C

Pen Lux

reflecting

your friends can see themselves in you.
acoustic verses make me want to puke.
hearing them
in a fraction of exactly what
you said to me. It looks like
procrastination
in it's finest form.

Aug 2011 C

compartmentalization -->

Aug 2011 C

Kiagen McGinnis

compartmentalization -->

is protection from critical thinking
a safety net: if you don't tell,
i won't tell
it's the heart of security

in a land where babies are being spray-tanned
handed skin cancer and a shiny crown
                                        where the people hand over their ***** for t.v. stations to gleefully shove in their overflowing purse

                                        where the Bible is a buffet you pick and choose from,
fearful that you'll accidentally let something blasphemous touch the rest of your plate

where *** is such a taboo that teachers risk getting fired for even mentioning the word
******
and men learn everything they know about how to treat a woman
from the internet
and high school.
two very unbiased, reliable sources
brimming with respect and wisdom.

                       where it's  natural to drink milk from a hormonal, sick cow with a machine ******* at its udders until it dies
but a mother nursing in public is
         disgusting
and all the other ladies avert their eyes so as not to catch a hint of a glimpse of another woman's
                                                                                                                                                                                *******.

**** politics gangs government rapists religion
its
all
the
same
game

                                 i can;t think of a system that
                                                              isn;t corrupt

and i think the knotted, gnarly, ancient root of this dying tree
is the idea that

                                                          love
                                                                  comes
                                                                   with
                                                             conditions.

Aug 2011 C

The Ways We Settle

Aug 2011 C

Jon Tobias

The Ways We Settle

You slept on the 3 hour drive home

I didn’t mind the midnight silence

Or the awkward rumble of the engine

The vibrations settled the dirt in our souls

Packed down the memories so we could make more

Like when our mothers used to put us in the car and drive

So that we could finally fall asleep

Sometimes

My mother placed a back massager underneath the mattress in my crib instead of driving

My body is practiced in the art of settling

Settle into this

So that your soul might fit into the smallest spaces

Like dust on a mantle

Or the sand underneath the sand

That holds up the sea floor

Settle into me

Settle into my passenger seat

The way you did when you were little

Know

That you always have a safe place there

While I drive a hundred

In the middle of the night

The roads are empty

And I am wide awake

Know

That one day we will be no stronger than breaths of air

And we will be dust in a box that those breaths can blow anywhere

And find rest in the smallest places

Know

That if you want to

You can always find rest here