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 Jul 2020 Yashashvi
Sirad
Where are you from?
My answer is
Does it matter?
This question requires a five part answer

Where are you from?
When you say from?
Do you mean -
The road travel by me or my mom?

Where are you from?
If I say Somalia?
Will you leave it there?
Or ask me if I belong to the north, east or the south?  

Where you from, your accent is unfamiliar?
I know, language is imperative
when you're lost.

Where are you from?
The answer is nowhere
I am stranger to places
no matter where I call home.
 Jul 2020 Yashashvi
Rupert Pip
gore
 Jul 2020 Yashashvi
Rupert Pip
Break my bones;
cut my throat.
Pull me open,
learn the ropes.

Breath me in;
taste the fear.
Shank my skin;
stand and cheer.

Kick my head;
let me bleed.
Unbolt my veins;
enjoy the read.

Gouge my eyes;
punch my face.
Wrap me up
in your embrace.
Get to know me like I do you; inside and out.
 Jul 2020 Yashashvi
Masindi KEJ
YES WE DO BLEED ON PAPER
NOT BECAUSE WE ARE AFRAID TO EXPRESS OUR EMOTIONS
NOT BECAUSE WE DO NOT HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY
NOT BECAUSE WE DON'T HAVE PEOPLES TO TALK TO
BUT WE DO BLEED ON PAPER

WE DO BLEED ON PAPER
JUST BECAUSE A PAPER WONT BETRAY US
IT WONT CRITICIZE US
IT WONT JUDGE US
IT KNOWS THE WORD SECRET
AND HOW TO APPLY IT
BECAUSE IT IS ALWAYS THERE
DURING OUR DARKEST DAYS
THAT IS WHY WE DO BLEED ON PAPER

WE BLEED ON PAPER
BECAUSE ALL WE NEED IS A PIECE OF PAPER AND AN INK
 Jul 2020 Yashashvi
Maria Etre
If I see it
then it is

If I hear it
then it is

If I taste it
then it is

If I read it
then it's
a different
story
If I see what you see, and they see it too, that doesn't mean I am crazy!
 Jul 2020 Yashashvi
JJ Hutton
In Farmington the misfit suffers the jukebox and dances to an unknown song. He dances on the pool table. He wears black—black skull cap, black
duster, black shirt, black slacks, black boots. He's in Farmington and
the women here drink Bud Light. He dances slow. It's similar to a dance
you've seen before. You have that friend that climbs on couches after a few and half staggers, half sways. The women here watch him with unhappy eyes and hands stained blue from the textile mill. He seems to mouth the words although he clearly doesn't know the song. They, the women, dig their elbows into the bar. Pocked and graffiti'd, the bar soaks up spilled beer and ash and nail polish. Behind the bar a sign reads: Free Beer Tomorrow. And for some reason, you must admit, this sign's effect never dulls. The Misfit pantomimes a dance with a pool cue. His face is severe, serious. He's in Farmington dancing with a pool cue on a pool table to a song he doesn't know like a drunk friend of yours and the women are watching. Next, he does something amazing. He removes his cap. He's got shocks of bleached hair and burn scars run like rivulets between the patches. He tosses the cap toward the bar. One lucky woman catches it and summons herself to the pool table. You want them to have a bit of dialogue here, to say something oblique and innocent. Instead the lucky woman dances at the man's feet. He surrenders a smile and he's got small tracts of bleached hair and burn scars and he's in all black and he's dancing. The lucky woman, she's in a canary yellow patch dress. Her dance, although clumsy, still mesmerizes you. It's without ego, without shame. She is a child. She is the light in the room. She is, in this moment, the world entire. He pulls her onto the table. It's time to appoint the Misfit and the lucky woman names, you think. His name shall be Joshua. Her name shall be Anna. Palms together, her head resting on his chest, they sway. The smoke and the tracers of light meld and Joshua and Anna's outlines become muddied. Their bodies merge and they are both yellow and black and covered in burn scars and bleached hair and the women are still watching. As the song starts to fade, someone—maybe it's you—drops a few coins in the jukebox and it begins again.
 Jul 2020 Yashashvi
Daniel
I have never thanked you,
for the conversations.

I have never thanked you,
for the smile.

I have never thanked you,
for asking me how i'm really doing.

I have never thanked you,
for staying alive.

Thank you,
thank you.
 Jul 2020 Yashashvi
Feliz G
Tell me
 Jul 2020 Yashashvi
Feliz G
I always thought we were friends,
just say the word and I'll leave,
don't make me suffer,
in all the lies I believed.
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