My head hangs
like a bridled horse,
I am worked to the bone,
I long for a loosened mane,
for open wilds,
for photographers to seek
my natural prancing
with praise
Oh I desire
to rear my giant legs
neighing unfaltered
and still
be glorified

Never trust the establishment
They do not exist for our benefit
For they believe  that we exist
For their convenience
Their only purpose is self-perpetuation
And they think that our only function
Is to accommodate that purpose
Whereas our true cause should be
To get rid of the *******

                                        By Phil Roberts

My voice leaves me
in no manner of conviction
as my pulse warms me
with minor habit-I'm drifting


Lately I’ve been dreaming about Berkeley  
and how the streets there are covered in fruit trees
I dream about New York and the separate life I lived two years ago
Speaking Mandarin in Boston
and English in Bologna
It seems more like a film reel than my life


I used to dream of what my heart looked like on the inside

I thought it was important

And when I was 16 I was convinced it was a mountain range

Now I worry mostly about my lungs quivering
and when my dreams will tell me what it means

Where did the artist go?
Not even she knows.
Is it depression that suppresses
those lifelong idealics
of stage and acrylics?

Has she broken from her cocoon
                                                       -too soon
still blind
to what she has become?

The artist wanders but does not wonder
The artist works but does not create
She nods her head but does not sway
She feels but does not write
She remembers the things she's supposed to want to do
but does nothing
                nothing
                nothing

the artist has gone,
she knows not where,
perhaps she refuses, this question, to ponder
for fear of learning
the artist has gone,
and shall not return.

white sheets on thigh
can't move too high
blinds closed-shut out the sun
can't tell me our night is done
white sheets on thigh
can't move too high
drunk eyes can't tear-away from your face
   this     is    the     good     place

If you wanted to take the blue from my eyes you could’ve just asked,
I probably would’ve given it to you
A year takes a lot of energy to light
Are you happy now that the fire’s gone out?

You tried to buy my meals
I think I’d rather starve
It’s not you...
(I hope you know I'm a liar)
it’s just that my exit feels eminent
like burning at the ends
to get smaller and smaller

I’ll pour this vial of pills
to fall through my neck
to push out my navel
so I can grow up and out

I’ll watch it all dissolve in my hands
watch my world dissolve in my hands
so it can finally be mine
something entirely mine

And as I’m standing on the big blue planet
eyes tunnelling into the moon
I will drape the reticulum
over some other creature
and no more burden shall I be
lying deep in the milky sea

I wrote no poems,
then I wrote them all at once,
falling into the satisfaction
diving into the acceptance
that he is all I could ever want
all I could ever need
all I had never dared ask for,
My heart was quiet,
then it shouted and sang all at once
it asked to be with him
it asked to deserve him
it promised to treasure him,
and all at once
quickly
deeply
I was encased
in unwavering loyalty and adoration
and I would not
deny it.

That these images have been part of my life is too surreal
I walked through Italian cobbles
Rested my head over canals
Bought a pastry each from the Lidl
With the same pack on my back then
That's hanging on my bedpost now

Fields in Maine
I never knew blueberries looked like fire in October
or that wine and cheap chocolate
are best at the boat dock in a thunderstorm
I soon discovered
three feet of snow is the same as six
and sea glass calls to everyone

I have wished and pleaded
for every gift, but
all I'm gaining is... questions

Like what place can hold me up
And who will not hold me down

I tried too hard not to need people
now I only love myself