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 Jan 2013 Sophia Granada
travis
I look at my skin to find the very same dots found on the fern
I can find them in my sleeping thoughts as well as wide awake
Even behind resting lids
the spindly lines on the leaf match the blue on the forearm
the ridges of a nail
bark
does the elm recognize my follicles as grass?
Come join the network with me -
Watch your friends in the freak tent, see,
See their pictures when drunk,
Their reactions when dumped,

Just sign here to... 'tacitly' agree.
I wonder how much
A barrel of blood,

Costs in dollars...
"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
...
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)
Chills are running down my back,
Eyes are flitting everywhere;
Breath is shallow as I run,
I'm not afraid,
Nor am I done.

Feet are pounding solid earth,
Arms are pumping through the air;
Jaw is clenched as if in pain,
I've made the end,
Now I am done.
 Dec 2012 Sophia Granada
Bill Guy
A shoemaker toiled each day to provide for himself
From dusk until dawn, leather was washed and cut, laced and stained

The living room was stacked with books, found, bought, or stolen
The kitchen supplied with only some fruit, vegetables, and a few loaves of bread

The town was healthy, and run well
The neighborhoods were peaceful, but not without trouble

A widow and son were watched over and provided for
But the loyal cobbler received not even a wave

In desperation, the shoemaker returned to his work
For that is all a man can do
All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the lustre as of olives
where she stands,
and the white hands.

All Greece reviles
the wan face when she smiles,
hating it deeper still
when it grows wan and white,
remembering past enchantments
and past ills.

Greece sees, unmoved,
God's daughter, born of love,
the beauty of cool feet
and slenderest knees,
could love indeed the maid,
only if she were laid,
white ash amid funereal cypresses.
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