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Lawrence Hall Aug 2019
Who can tell the Faw from the Aunty Faw?
CarryBOO herds in ballcaps, tees, and tats
Outlaw-scary-masks and gas-station shades
Parachute-pantsies and designer sneaks

          You write no books, you sing no songs – you shriek
          You do no work, you make no art          – you shriek
          You do no good, you help no one           - you shriek
          You make no thoughtful arguments      – you shriek

And all of you dressed like corpses-in-law:
Who can tell the Faw from the Aunty Faw?
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

A Simillacrum Mar 2019
The body positive aren't *** positive.
The *** positive aren't body positive.
Portland, I'm learning my lesson.
You're the city that gives no *****.

What about me, then?
Thirty years at home. No comfort.
My city, what about me?
Thirty years my home, no comfort.

The body positive aren't ******.
The ****** aren't body positive.
Portland, I'm positively down.
What lesson is this supposed to teach me?

Get fit and fall in line,
Get fit and wash my mind,
Get fit and fall in line,
Get fit and wash my mind,

My type wasn't meant to live,
When we do, we tend to live like this.
v Jan 2019
I learned of a love for treehouses,
And 8 mile.
Both the Detroit and Farmington sides.
I gave up deepthroating and cigarettes for New Years.

I developed an attachment to bridges.
Morrison, Hawthorne, Burnside, Steel, Tilikum
All pacing my afternoon runs.
My favorite thing about traveling is coming home at the end.

I met another soul mate, one I don’t kiss.
We read our poems between English classes,
Scrounge up quarters for midnight subway runs,
Bond over an old love of car rides and vampire weekend.
She says
Life is excruciatingly painful,
And as your best friend I’ll let you know
“I only smoke **** with you, on tuesday evenings.”
(“And I only cry in public bathrooms at noon.”)

I learned home is where the heart is,
And my heart is always with my mother
I inked our love onto my skin in June.

I know now, that ******* is less scary and more of a sad college kid thing.
(But ****** is just as scary as it seems on TV.)
I met the pigeon man on 6th and Yamhill,
Swarmed by hundreds of grey flying rats
Kissing each one on the head before setting them back down.

I finally lost my father.
It didn't hurt half as badly as I imagined it to.

I invited too many girls to stay the night.
And one too many boys.
But I never regret holding you all close because friendship is ******’ magic.
Thank you my little pony.

I learned no, you can't flush toilet paper in Asia
And yes, elephants are incredible.
That spinning on a pole makes you an artist before anything else.
That embarrassment is worth it.
That therapy is worth it only sometimes.

I learned a language where I can finally be quiet.
Admitted to
Guilty pleasures
In pop music
And fried food.
My body is a temple that can handle some mac and cheese.
And beauty is much more loving your current state than anything else.

I love my current state.
Rain, and no sales tax,
and a candlelit home.
v Jan 2019
I saw the red and blue sparkle of crime.
I felt my lungs overflow.

blood of too-much,
thoughts of too full.  
Tears constructed of *****.

dragging out the strength to emerge from admittance -
to find comfort
in a home built for destruction.

As the blood boiled over, spilling from my mouth,
spattering murmurs of naive hope before drowning out the cities’ cries,
I clawed through a sea of red,
light falling through fingers -
I let go.

Years of blue striped tablets
comfort in the church parking lot
bites you for getting to close.

Idolizing a sadness of sick children,
crusading on acid
Nicotine, aspiration,
the tongues of others -
who find a place in a world of unrequited love for existence.

This blur is the final fracture of bones worn thin from chosen malnutrition,
malnourishment of the skin.

So the reaper knocks on the back of your skull,
not to punish you
Not for
subjection to chemical poison,
but to remind you:
dreaming of her body on yours is cyanide.
Cingyeng Vang Aug 2018
Days were short, but nights were long
While I was with you, I drew my dreams in crayon
Messy sketches, missing puzzle pieces
But adding you, it felt like it was coming along

It didn’t matter if the sun was asleep
We danced in the dark like we could still see

Sweaters on cold nights and warm talks that seemed to last forever
Undercovered from the after-rain at coffee shops
Walks that were in summery weather
Always waiting by the max station by the Moda Center
Our destination didn't matter, we were on an adventure

The night was young and so was our love
Memories were long, but moments were short
I feel childish to hold on
This is why my dreams are still in crayon.

1 Corithians 13:7-8
Old Love, but was young.
A Simillacrum Jun 2018
There are poor neighborhoods
that are tucked into towns,
where the less educated,
where the lesser of means,
find in the dregs, the ability
to coexist with higher society.

Society is grown to the point of disease,
killing the feeble, disabling the lost,
in the name of and for some ease.
So here comes the city, meaning so well.
They said, "Let's add a train line
to a town that has none!"

Well, there goes the block.
There go the people who
barely have homes.

The Council wants to drop a line
where they see shoes bounce power lines.
What's the harm in displacing
the part of the community already dead?
The town now seems to be just fine
now that the poor are paying fines.
Why not double down and just
gentrify when history tells the story best?

Expand Portland, rid Tigard of blemish,
trade your rug for cement and track.
Beautify Tigard, please your ill desire,
don't be surprised when your eyesore
comes back.

Go ahead, pave your poverty.
Go ahead, clean your streets.
You're thinking, "Lines for dimes."
What do you think a new line means?
What do you think the traffic brings?
The sweet guillotine repeats.
KM Hanslik Feb 2018
January rattles her limbs with cold,
buffets her body with ice;
it’s been months since she left her hero.
She last saw him in the spring,
beneath the magnolias
She last saw him with his hands in his pockets,
and wanderlust in his eyes.
(She last saw him
waving goodbye.)
She last knew of him
walking some stormy shore,
a single set of footprints
where two should have been.
Zero Nine Nov 2017
Must have been the end of a delightful dream
Had my fingers around a power leak
******* up the light when I came to,
loosening my grip on a can of beans
68 cents, tacos on demand
counted the change pushing
through my pockets and
leaking through the seams
In a life like this I wish it
was considered decent to
decide for death even with
in proper company,
but only sometimes.
sip slip away
Zero Nine Nov 2017
Sad songs had their place
In the coming of age,
My songs sound the same
The sound, blase
Sad songs had their place
In the coming of age,
My songs sound the same
My songs are blase.

The answers I need, who do I ask?
Where's my fire?
Where's my immediacy?

The roof is overhead.
The walls surround my bed.
Food in the fridge.
Necessary electricity.

The ends I seek, where do I ask?
Where's my fire?
Where's my face in smoke and mirror?

Sad songs had their place
In the coming of age,
My songs sound the same
My songs are blase.

Where's my face in smoke and mirror?
Where's my face in smoke and mirror?
The End
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