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Don't waste your days away
write bad poetry
I mean absolute garbage
and draw stick figures
with squiggly lines
and paint with your fingers
and laugh when you ****
and blame someone else
for the terrible smell
and sing and scream
whenever your driving
to wherever you may be driving to
and stay up too late
and get up tired
and nap
and sleep through church
or at church
and snore really loud
and day dream
and live dreams
and when the nightmares come
enjoy the fear and the rush
and the pouring sweat
on your forward
as you wake up screaming
but don't look out the window
because there isn't anything
out there that is more scary
than your imagination
and make a deal with the devil
and cheat him his dues
and leave a rubber corpse
on your death bed
and live another day
and out run the sun
and give a butterfly the moon
in exchange for
the hidden treasure map
painted on its wings
and hang that map in the sky
to cover the hole
where the moon used to be
and don't worry
no one will notice
because they look exactly the same
and ask the stars politely
not to tell anyone
and don't forget to say please
and thank you
for stars never ignore a request
for a favor that is asked
with a manner of grace and kindness
and build sandcastles
to close to the shoreline
and watch the waves
wash the towers and walls away
and listen to the mist giggle
at the mischief it has done
and fold a boat
out of the song
no one else can hear
and give your hopes and prayers
to the wind
and sail away
and find yourself
and lose yourself
and give time and love
your full attention
and no matter
how bad things may ever get
or how good things may ever be
I will always be a fool
and a dreamer
and a magic bean believer
and I'll write you bad poetry
really bad
absolute garbage
whenever you need
because I can't think
of any better way
to waste my days away
 Sep 2017 - JP DeVille
Alyssa Yu
one thing that used to disappoint me was that all of the superheroes and book characters i admired had eyes blue as the ocean, or emerald green, even grey like a thunderstorm, but never brown like mine or yours. brown was plain, common, nothing special.
well, that is someone else's loss if they refuse to see how truly beautiful you are, and i will selfishly stare into your eyes forever

for they are the color of espresso with a splash of milk, and you make my heart race like a double shot
i feel like making lists and conquering the world if it means i can keep waking up to the smell of you in the morning

they are the color of the mnms i set apart when i was younger because i thought they had more chocolate
and even if it wasn't true, the thought was sweet enough to make me happy

they are the color of kindling and i am burning to ashes then rising like a phoenix, ready to set myself on fire again and again just to feel your warmth

they are the color of baked bread and i've been starving for a love like yours to sustain me

they are the color of fresh soil and i want to bury myself so i can love you until i die and then turn my body into a garden of your favorite flowers

they are the color of a knot in the trunk of a sequoia tree, and i am imperfect but growing and even though my love for you does not come without mistakes, it is still the largest thing on this planet
 Aug 2017 - JP DeVille
joe thorpe
the girls in the back
of the local pathetic
laundrymat
(where nothing,
none of my things,
comes out clean)
speak ugly slavic.
their loads must be light
as they're only half dressed.
I put my clothes,
all I own,
except the one's on my back,
in five dryers
and go sit
on the paint-peeled
two-tone maroon
bench in front.
today's heat is indefinite,
and I wonder if someone
has stolen my
soap and basket yet.
this is downtown,
the turf occupied
mostly by addicts and foreigners
and the rich,
the richer than me,
meander lazily in and out
of bars and salons.
the beautiful plump brown skin girl
I've been falling in Love with
has straddled her bike and left.
she didn't even see me
smile at her.
now there's the asian man
stereotype, smoking incessantly
like me.
who spends most of his time
daydreaming of some other life.
his thousand yard stare sees nothing
and I'm hungry, but I won't eat
the restaurants are all white owned
and nothing is good or cheap.
there's garbage everywhere
and no one seems to mind.
when my pencil stops moving,
terrible writer's fear
I'll never have another thought
worth writing or bought.
time to fold up
and maybe scrape that
marines sticker off
the back of my truck.
If I could walk, I’d march with
The black and civil rights folk.

If I could walk, I’d carry a baby
On my shoulders to let him see

The evil behind him, in front of
Him, across the street he plays in.

If I could walk, I’d wrap love in
A blanket and give it to an old lady.

I’d sell my car and make a
Bandage out of its metal.

I’d be in a parade right next to the
Pastor from down home.

If I could walk, my tears would
Dry up, and my gut, as tight

As steel, would scream, fighting
Against the hate in the world,

The empty hearts emptier by the
Day, the hopeful souls dried up.

I cannot walk, but I can sing, and
I will sing songs of praise and

Melodies of strength and support
For those who hurt and whose

Eyes and ears are numb with
Grief and pain and chaos.

I cannot walk, but I can protest
Against betrayal and lies and

Corruption and bloodshed,
And protest I will.

© Lewis Bosworth, 8-2017
She is an open book...
In Quantum Physics
Written in Chinese
 Aug 2017 - JP DeVille
Carlyy
She left for New York City
I told her
"Don't miss me too much."
Silence grew.
I reassured,
"We share the same sky"
She told me I was poetic


                                         «c.h.b»
I just recalled this memory of my photography mentor
There are few things I hate more than watercolor,
I muse to myself
As I sit watching
A rigid man
With the perfect posture, really,
Casually watercolor the coffee shop around him

As if we all are just the backdrop
To a life of routine normality
Succumbing to the occasional confrontation
With hot beats of caffeine--

A subject to be posthumously entombed
Executed marginally
Flattened and kept in a sketchbook
That will,
Most likely,
Be a dust collector given one year's breadth.

The cynic in me
Hopes he mistakes the water cup
For his coffee cup
In his feverish efforts,
Sitting slack and unaware
Right next door.

But unintentionally,
It's the bias
Creeping in.
Secretly,
I've never really been
That *good

at watercolor.
the women of the past keep
phoning.
there was another yesterday
arrived from out of
state.
she wanted to see
me.
I told her
"no."

I don't want to see
them,
I won't see them.
it would be
awkward
gruesome and
useless.

I know some people who can
watch the same movie
more than
once.

not me.
once I know the
plot
once I know the
ending
whether it's happy or
unhappy or
just plain
dumb,
then

for me
that movie is
finished
forever
and that's why
I refuse
to let
any of my
old movies play
over and over again
for
years.
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