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 12h
Nat Lipstadt
when does the poem end?


creation is never ending,
the earth is endlessly morphing

but you lean back and say
enough
not because the poem
is finished,
for it is never finished,
because an exhalation feels
satisfying, releasing

but the poem never ends,
nor does the need to

exhale

not with the final .


the next poem is

but a

continuation

of the previous poem;

a continuation

of you~poem,

inhaling

and

exhaling

& morphing.

Sat Jan 7
7:57am
Go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something. ~Kurt Vonnegut
 2d
jordan
as the cold december moon
descends into her mountain tomb
and dies another morning death
her light enshrined within my breath

i will remember her

within this fragile moment
and her glorious midnight shine
for she exists as borrowed light
just as my life is borrowed time
 4d
J
The sea is a man who takes without asking
bruising you endlessly, soft as undertow
His touch a quiet violence
Yet still people come, drawn to the light
the shimmer of morning sun on water
The glint of shells and sea glass bright
Seeing only the beauty, the grace
not what lurks beneath the surface
The sea knows how to hit
To drag you back and carve his name deep
A quiet ache left in the wake of water
Salt water slips into the cracks
Spreads like fingers on skin
Darkening every place it touches
he takes what he wants and leaves what he likes
her pain eroding into the shore
and while the tide still hurts
and the salt still bites
she can do nothing but
whisper defiance
into the night
If you take my words
you are stealing sand
which belongs to everyone,
there is plenty on the beach,
we share a bucket of language
play, make a tower of your own devising,
the castles I build are mine, and mine alone
 Dec 15
Tom D
How empty the heart
that cannot love itself
For it cannot give
what it does not possess
and the world suffers
 Dec 5
Barton D Smock
film 3

Tell them this was handwritten. Tell them Ohio locked itself in the bathroom to imagine deer. Tell them god’s eyesight was too still. Tell them I couldn’t sleep. Tell them I couldn’t die, but that I bled to sleep in a field I was eating. Tell them the field is gone. The field is gone, they believe.
 Dec 5
guy scutellaro
there was a wishing well
on the boardwalk. a fountain

spewing yellow and blue water.
I reached into the pool

grabbing change.

crossed the street
and spread the wet
green change across the bar

and got a beer.

2 a.m.

just in time for the turtle races.

so I rushed across the street
to get money for beer
and to bet on the race.

she was kneeling
in front of the wishing well.

she told me her name was Destiny.

the green-dyed water
dripping from her clenched fingers.


DESPERATE LOVE was the turtle
we picked. a 40 to one shot.

Destiny and me
spread the wet change
across the bar,
placed our bet...


...right after the fight
the cops arrested Destiny. the green

dye. she never washed it off
her hands, her arms.

Desperate Love came in first.
I took the winnings and bailed
Destiny out of the county jail.

it was love at first sight.

...meanwhile,

we're back at the wishing well...
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