SAF: Favorites

Mar 2012 SAF

Elle Dougherty

we collided under the wet-paper smell of the moon, threaded through the black grass.

there were no stars to see us, wild and crying;

i was cold for the first time in my life that night.

the moon’s color was our color, and we shined

icy bright, cycling and spinning through the wind like

so many machine parts and restless breaths.

we are so strange and perfect.

so bleak and so breathtaking.

shoot me.

shock me.

kiss me.

**** me.

i have separated myself into such disturbing places, such

dark corners,

the air sparkles with fresh beauty every time i come out to breathe.

and this is not home, there are no stars,

but each moment sees me more alive, and glad.

Mar 2012 SAF

a passing thought while bent over the arm of the sofa

Mar 2012 SAF

Elle Dougherty

a passing thought while bent over the arm of the sofa

nestled in this husk of half-light, we Are.
you so very
hauntingly swift and strong and me —
so pantingly still.
gripping.
swinging into rest atop rumpled fabrics
smoothing down far
far into this suspended night’s end.
rising we Are to this blue darkness
through which lurks
forever.

Mar 2012 SAF

Soon My Friend

Mar 2012 SAF

Joseph Brooks Nickell

Soon My Friend

When you lay me in the ground
and my feet never walk again
leave my shoes by the door
because I'll return

When you lay me in the ground
and my mouth refuses to sing
keep a tape recorder by your side
soon I'll sing again

When you lay me in the ground
and my hands can write no more
leave a pen on my nightstand
beauty will again grace your eyes

When I'm finally gone
left to feed the earth
don't try to hide your tears
soon I will return to wipe your face clean

Mar 2012 SAF

Money

Mar 2012 SAF

Wesley Espinosa

Money

The winding never-ending road begins in the forest
The root of all evil is an exchange of nature’s breath
The root of all evil isn’t born in any sense
The root of all evil begins with a death

The carcass is driven to its’ after-life
It’s given a new face and a new shade of green
Most of it won’t make it to hell, every day it’s shredded
There is no reminder that what it is, isn’t what it seems

Each and every piece that makes it, starts in the same place
In this place it is still meaningless until claimed
It is then transferred for some purpose
Could be violence, could be music, could be life….

It continues on this-never ending path
The stock broker to get coffee
The coffee worker to get burgers
The burger griller to eat bread
The baker to ride a skateboard
The skateboarder to smoke ***
The drug dealer to get a weapon
The gun shop owner to have ***
The ******* to keep living
The pharmacist to play the market
The stock broker to….
We’ve reached the beginning again.

The root of all evil is our fuel to survive
Our fuel to achieve, our fuel to happiness, our fuel to wrath
So when does this stop and what happens when it dies
The root of all evil begins with a death, it’s a never ending path

This belongs to Wesley Espinosa.

Mar 2012 SAF

Half An Hour

Mar 2012 SAF

Constantine P. Cavafy

Half An Hour

I never had you, nor will I ever have you
I suppose. A few words, an approach
as in the bar yesterday, and nothing more.
It is, undeniably, a pity. But we who serve Art
sometimes with intensity of mind, and of course only
for a short while, we create pleasure
which almost seems real.
So in the bar the day before yesterday -- the merciful alcohol
was also helping much --
I had a perfectly ****** half-hour.
And it seems to me that you understood,
and stayed somewhat longer on purpose.
This was very necessary. Because
for all the imagination and the wizard alcohol,
I needed to see your lips as well,
I needed to have your body close.

Mar 2012 SAF

we make war

Mar 2012 SAF

virginia ilda baker

we make war

i took the ideas
out of my skull
and i placed them on the mantle
above the fireplace
I watched as they twitched
in the orange flame

i am the weary product of destruction
you were just another friend of mine
i once knew what to do with myself
but i soon forgot

we sat on the couch
and observed my half-born creations
you spoke empty wisdoms
into my hollow mind
all the while pretending
that there was something
to admire

before long the distance became
a pocketful of torn ticket stubs
a collection of subway maps
a string of missed phone calls
i doused the living room in gasoline
and dropped a match on the floor

through the window i watched
as the ideas on the mantle
turned to orange flame

— The End —