Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Mar 2013 Glen Brunson
Anne M
I'm a coffee ***;
you're in the mood for tea.
 Mar 2013 Glen Brunson
Anne M
We’re peripheral.
Bystanders rubbernecking
as our bodies commit
high treason.

Too caught in the frenzy we've created
to count the mounting casualties,
we remain unconvinced
of our burgeoning criminality.

We accelerate to keep ourselves from breaking,
shift gears and clutch
to these moments
just to feel the release.

But when the collisions cease,
we’re pried apart,
torn free by the jaws
of daily life.

As our eyes clear,
the sirens sound
and the wreckage
overwhelms us.
 Mar 2013 Glen Brunson
James Fate
my feet slip under the sand.
the wave that slapped my ankles moments before
retreating now,
somehow pulling the ground
beneath my feet
up between my toes
and away.
I say goodbye,
but there is no need to grieve,
sinking an inch deeper into infinity

a feeling like adrenaline;
am I coiling or unwinding?
a place where I could spend eternity
if only I could forever forget
my name
-
this wave.
a moment.
a kick and I am flying,
full of air and motion,
steps of spray

it rises to meet me,
stretching a hand up
higher than my heart
to catch me in a crash
like a rotten tomato hitting a wall;
toss, smack, splatter, gone

in the impact of light and sound
I can feel the sea
accepting my gift
of everything,
in abandon

underwater the salt and motion
washes all the dust
off of my bones
and fills me up
with clean, sparkling blue
-
they are breaking against me now
shaking me down
against the bottom,
then releasing me.
a rhythm like breathing;
like living.
rising,
falling,
holding in the depths
(the infinite distances of disorientation),
finding my feet,
and breathlessly looking
for the next wave
to pull me under
-
there is blood running down
my back and shoulder

scratches from the broken shells
and yet unpulverized gravel
I was dragged across

and I am grinning

laughing like a maniac because now
no-one will have to ask me
whether or not
I am
Alive
 Mar 2013 Glen Brunson
JM
******, addiction.
Baby ******, ******.
Self **** your own soul.
You pause to tell me
"Fools rush in,"
then tilt a beer into your labret;
  a tiny clink and
 your long practiced swallows:
I tremble with the aliveness of the room
and the miles you've traveled
just to turn up my volume.
progress.
chicago muse, 2012.
Next page