Going through the motions, creating a tune sublime
differing types of notions, not always prose, or rhyme

Assembling our choirs, composed of family and comrades
weeding out the dire fools, trusting, true friends we've had

Reveling in the loudest lion's roar, and all that it can, possibly portend
discarding the dissonant chord and rejoicing in, the harmony of friends

Keep your friends closer than your enemies, the good ones, will deflect the descending dagger, with their life......
WJ Thompson Mar 18

It was an atmosphere.
It was an atmosphere.
It was oxygen mixed with southern fog,
Southpaw gloves tied in sailor knots,
Waves of golden grains in ocean wind,
The rolling hills behind property lines.

It was the question you asked,
It was the question you asked,
Not with words but in the way you breathed against the window glass,
While I leaned against your Corolla,
And we sang under the overpass.

It was graffiti,
It was graffiti.
It was the cavernous concrete cats with purple
hair and acid wash jean jackets,
Melting the light of their city's street lamps into the obsidian void of moistened pavement.

It was the way the reverb spread the major 7th across the sky with burnt orange cascading into the violet of the minor 9th which reminds me of crickets and summer nights (and violins and cellos and midwestern jazz bars), and how bar chords are a guitarists way of flipping off a crowd,
Surfing the web for an answer to why I'm still single-
handedly the handsomest man in my car currently.

It's the cloth in my empty passenger seat,
soaking up the air of my A/C heat.
And the scent of the soil spilt from the succulent I was given at a wedding last fall,
And now I don't know if my trunk will ever smell clean at all.
It was how my energy dripped away into the floods of San Jose,
And how her eyes began to sink into her iPhone 7's screen.
It's in how I long for prolonged eye contact,
It's in how close the answer is but never slips,
I'm not interested in the electric work of fingertips,
I'm interested in connection.

Inspired by the poetry slams of Livermore, amongst other things.
WJ Thompson Mar 18

Words etched into the wall (above)
by the augmented fifth
Merely (below) displaced fifth
Blistering drywall
Voweling (in) out the love song
Caramelizing (out) paint
German Shepherd tilts
his (between) her head
Doesn't quite like (around)
The augmented fifth

What an awkward chord.
sweet ridicule Oct 2016

i Keep rubbing my wrists and my forearms nervously anxiously and can
feel the tendons ache and the muscles on my left forearm snap back and forth: a (broken) guitar string slapping the frets every
time it is
strummed.  If i push on the muscles --or the string, perhaps there is no difference-- too hard my hand (goes numb) and the cord (chord)-like muscles seep exhaustion into my skin --forgive me for this. there is little i can do and big i can do but all i remember is everything
it starts small a little bit of pain but i know I will willingly take it for just

( a little bit of you )

infiltrating me I don't know why my legs ache and my skin fights against me I am grateful for You fighting for me grateful for me fighting for You

this has been full of change full of upside down i am proud of my START AGAIN abilities of my explore: drive anywhere you want GO GO mindset
but sometimes I ache. calling you nightly is
not enough but I promise to make it enough
to try to make everything you do
feel like more than enough

                                             i love when the sun is warm and it is cloudy and i get the opportunity to trip over you Accidentally or (not so accidentally). falling into tears every time I hear a symphony play-- perhaps there is no love in the world comparable to a
symphony or perhaps I am
sinfully biased due to my
experiences with symphonic beings

i Intend to live my life Running or dancinG with symphonies blossoming between my tender and temporarily not calloused
fingers and
with you and we
Constantly reinventing what it means to be Alive  
I will try my best ( for you and for Me) but
there is not
enough time

Noah Guthrie Jul 2016

Water speaks in torrents
Lightning screams through me
Out here lost, who am I
Thunder hits that augmented chord
Branches sleek with rain
Creek runs dangerous, covers all
Till stones flee the hills and crash in
Gale leaves none untouched
Swirling round leaves then surging to the clouds
Only to be scolded by bolts of yellow
Grey was the day, dark was the day,
That I found peace in storm.

AJ Jun 2016

I can't write a poem
Right now
It's killing me inside
I can't write you a song
Once more
Forgive me, it'll be alright

I can't sing a tune
My voice is all but gone
I can't paint a picture
My fingers are stiff and wrong

If I could see your face
Once more
I swear I'd strum a chord
I'd dance around and click my shoes
And slide across the floor

But now you're gone
And I'm still here
I guess they call it fate
I eat alone in this empty house
Surrounded by ghosts and crates

But if the stars align
And I keep shining
Maybe the world will give
Another glance, another dance
And a chance for me to live.

Duke Thompson Jun 2016

lonely chord tired guitar play
soul numb as callous fingers
heart hollow as sea rusted string
flat wrought steel,
peeled off tire
fire face melted

fleeting garish glimpse of starch shirt 60s
itchy lice life like gene spliced flight patterns
bioengineered space age

Han Solo with (hold) full o'Spice
Synthetic Cannabinoids sprayed on Marshmallow leaf ruin life

Chewie grab the bowcaster, ill grab the glock foe blaster
Smash, mash and crashed'er like Britons of Lancaster

trash i wrote drunk
Cecelia Francis May 2016

My body will scream
if it wants.

My body will do as it
will as long as I
allow it.

I will not soften
the sound of the screams
from my body
for the sake of sensitive ears

when the point
of a scream is to
be heard.

My body can scream
loudly, if it wants.

Cecelia Francis Mar 2016

Is the line under
the signifier: a thing
not self-originating:

And the I that takes
a pleasure in watching
it identifies with the self
watching it happily identify

This representation of the
self in verbal and then
ideal form to be faster,

Faster, faster, because
Mommy is near and I have
wings and can murder
you with my bare hands

It's an understanding
in an unconventional way:
To say that the utterance
gives way to strength

I sense a pattern
Cecelia Francis Mar 2016

Well fuck me if
I haven't had this

memory before of a
love expanding during
its reconstruction.

The purpose of such
a thought is to make it
like a poem- all pure and
full of the meaning its given,

and I remember the point
of remembering: to whittle
away the excess and reveal its
ideal form, but what if

it gives you a back kick

a little bit of Joyce, a little bit of Yates
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