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нина Jul 2020
once inhabited
for containment
bottled up cider
— soon too sour

that we do is beautiful
but fleeting – living
a vile act of pure free will

blissful less peaceful
the corpses we make
. . . . - - -  - -  .
Jade C Apr 2019
I am beautiful
I am an angel
I am a devil
I am my own pitfall
I am checkered tile floors
     Tissues in a bin
I am a flower pushing through the dirt
     A gust of wind surrendering to sin
I am red bruised knees
I am sunlight leaking through holes in leaves
I am betwixt and between
     Honey sweet
     Yet terribly mean
Michelle Argueta Dec 2017
you’re staring at a wrench display
in a failing sears 10 minutes before closing
and don’t recognize the reflection in the stainless steel.
you’ve been here a million times,
run your fingers along band saws a million times,
memorized the store’s playlist, learned “Love Hurts" by Nazareth
but you’re still trying to find something that connects,
something to retrace the steps to what pushed you out the door,
placed cold hands in empty pockets, made you stop
to buy cigarettes and brought you here again.
your blood pumps slower in places of transition,
only walked through to get to the mall
or back through to poorly parked cars
and you know a lot about
being used to move on
but left behind.
an employee asks if you’re alright
and you say yes
because you know they’re running out their shift
and don’t want to deal with your ****
and how could you tell them
that today, your skin feels foreign.
maybe you’ll find something in
winter coats and blackout curtains
but until then you make a home
on a display mattress
because you only live in liminal spaces.
you’re only grounded
between phases, in inbetweens.
you rely on uncertainty and in this economy,
the sears might be gone before you realize you’ll miss it.
"love hurts by Nazareth
seeps through the speakers
inside of Sears."

- Julia Champagne "By Nazareth"

if you've been inside a sears at any point after like, 2011, i think you'll agree it's an otherworldly experience in the worst ******* way. we all find comfort in weird places sometimes though.
Lucy Crozier Feb 2015
there is a certain liminality to airplanes
even the ones now fixed to the ground,
all museum tours and rot held at bay,
for a while.
yearning for the strain of metal,
a voice calling out safety procedures
(don't tamper with or disable the smoke detector in the lavatory),
and someone who loves them to come back to brush
knowing hands, since gone to claws, over their instrument panels.

in the air there doesn't seem to be a good reason
for planes not to tilt,
tilt down inexorably,
till they kiss the earth again.
all crumpled aluminum and fire
and a small black box
to tell those we left on land
some of how it happened.
I can tell myself about physics and engineering,
about this being my second flight today,
and about how (if nothing else) I made it onto this plane.
the turbulence pays me no mind.

touching down, touching ground, it hesitates.
there's a ghost of movement still.
a waiting. a breath.
the rush of air and engines,
not gone so much as paused,
halted only for a moment.
I am a little afraid of flying
but I'm more afraid of moving on
moving past this moment,
all muscled grace and limbo,
a portion of earth held up in sky.
then we land and walk to baggage claim
while behind us the airplane-
the airplane holds.
version 3ish. Probably done editing.

— The End —