AS Jul 2011
How do you explain

to your children that the

horrors of the world are real?

How will I tell my son, We

found a place you can call home but

your bus might not make it to school.

Do not look too Jewish in this part of town

Do not play in the train station

Do not get used

to the weight

of a machine gun.

Or look my

daughter in the eye and say, someday

you might say “no” and someone stronger than you might

not listen

You will not tell me

Know that this happens a lot

Know that your wrists pinned against a

backboard will

echo in the way you move your hands

for as long as you let it

But

human hands aren’t as heavy as metal shackles

And I’m so sorry

but I won’t be able to

take the weight for you

You’ll wake up in the morning

That I can promise you

You’ll wake up

and your lungs will fill with air

whether you tell them to or not.

One day

I will hold someone

small, with my face

and they’ll cry and I’ll say,

*I know.

I know you’re tied with little yarn strings to the last life

I know it hurts to be here and

(honestly)

you’re never going back

But

the older you get the less you’ll remember

what it was like

before you had a body

when you were made of ash and infinite light

You’ll convince yourself you live here and

that your hands are you,

But remember that once you were boundless

Inside my body, without yours.
Tanya Ward Nov 2012
We are the people that you created.
A generation going nowhere.
We are the kids that you hate.
Brought up by fear and paranoia.
The technology era,
distinguished by guns and violence.
Raised and spoiled;
aggression and hate the new emotions.
Alienated from each other.
Passion and empathy completely diminished.
A dystopian world,
ruled by liars and thieves.
Pain is coupled with pleasure.
Angst and depression consuming the minds.
Break away from the hate.
Become a better generation.
We are not the nowhere kids.
And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of
Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,
not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you
with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that
is stable.
Austin Boston May 2015
“Children Attacking Stray Dogs with Tire Irons”


‘Reaching out her hand, she smiles. “I can’t help you. But can you help me?” Realizing there is virtue in giving what is needed, not in giving what you have, you walk. There, then, do the dreams begin. And they are beautiful dreams…’

Author’s Forward

“Tizita” in Ethiopian means ‘Memory’, and refers to a genre of music culturally synonymous with the American Blues. ‘Tizita’s’ temperament strongly resembles a specific real-life person, as most people in her narrative do; and indeed, all ‘street-names’ as well as their actual ones are shrouded in secrecy—to protect the innocent, the guilty, and anyone in-between. Most of these characters existed in a brief chronological context, but their memories live. These people had definite opinions, outlooks, thoughts, emotions, personalities, curves in their lives. Unfortunately, I must confess, the narrative here only provides snapshots; and aptly, the main character’s name refers not only to herself, but to all those along the way—memory being fragile, a singular moment in time, and in that way, somewhat empowering. But enough about the word “Tizita”— her real ‘street’-name (and her actual one) were more authentic and more poignant. It fit her.




Preface
Interpretations of Two Birth Charts, both in Leo
(*It’s wise to preface these conversations with a warning—contradictions are a part of life, and the contradictory things said in this conversation are intended to reflect the inner and outer contradictions of ourselves.)

    E: It’s interesting because your ascendant is also in Leo, but rather than being the Leo of the individual concerned with the public persona, it’s on the verge of Virgo, which is very communicative, it’s this border between the individual creating and narrating his own life and communication as a sort of communion, a personal religion. I see this balance and this jovialness, but the jovialness is disconnected from the rest of the chart. The jovialness comes from possessions, and with possessions comes physical materials, physical creations. And I would say that your unconscious perceptions of the world fence in the dreamer—these unconscious perceptions of reality. There’s a fluid balance between sending something into reality and reinterpreting it creatively, and you’re sending it from perhaps an ethereal place, but it takes time, and it takes practice. It comes from the soul level. It’s almost medicinal. A daily dose of something. Your moon is in Pisces. It makes me think of how you describe your mother. The moon is your mother. And Pisces is drunk in a way. Not literally drunk per-se, but more of an emotionally drunk; and interested in mysticism. There’s a coat around the mother. I look at my mom’s mom. My mom has the coat around the mother too, and I look at my mom’s mom and she was depressed and ended up dying of cancer. It’s not related to everybody, but it’s a spirituality. There’s a communication that’s paired with Pluto. Normally, I don’t think this is a focal point for people. It’s an understanding—Pluto is like Mars, but on a higher octave. Pluto can be used where you’re able to interpret multiple generations at once. It can also be used to interpret domestic violence or personal violence. And you have Pluto in a protected spot. It’s connected to your (IC?) and your IC is the soul. It is the opposite of the public image. Sometimes people have an overwhelming IC, and that’s interpreting the world through your ascendant with a focal point of the IC of your soul-level going outward and it’s almost an inverse. In other words, the outside going inward. And you have Pisces and Scorpio on the soul-level in a precise pattern. Oh, that’s funny. Mars is in Mercury’s sign, and Mercury is in the 11th house, in Cancer. And Cancer is nurturing, Cancer is home. It’s the father who’s super-soft, and it’s all the power of this super-soft father who cares for the big ideas in the people he meets. But it’s powered by Pluto. It’s a constant story—whatever Mercury times Pluto is—where Pluto, when it comes into Scorpio in twenty years, it’s what’s concerned with other peoples’ resources, what we make one-on-one, what we make as a society. It’s a paradox to me where the soft father is mixed with Pluto which is complete intensity. Any questions?
    A: Not at the moment…what do you mean by super-soft?
    E: Softness and malleable creativity is the same thing to me. A constant reinterpretation rather than grounded idealism. It’s more about nurturing and communication. But at the same time, a firmness in the way you speak. You have a soft outer shell in your interactions with others—I see that a lot in our generation, where we take the inverse of our hard fathers. I believe I’m firm, but I’m also--
    A: Soft?
    E: …crazy.
    A: It’s nice to meet another crazy person. I mean that.

E: I can see that she’s like a tidal wave, and the tidal wave is her public image, it’s the surface of the water, and as she moves forward it rips her soul apart. But that’s her face, that’s the experiences—it’s an introverted process. She’s constantly calculating something that nobody else can quite see, but they reap the experience that’s on her front, her voyage. And that shoots straight into her insecurity. It’s like ripping her pants—everyone can see it, and you know it’s there, but you just have to keep going until the end of the day when you can go home and sew your pants. And it’s finding that nurturing spirit in the experience, and that can be the experience itself as god in sex, but it can also be sex itself, which is an insecurity, pointing at one side of the triangle when the triangle needs complete balance; disregarding the actual adventure, the actual spirit, the mutual sacrifice, the mutual learning, because when you tie into that learning, that sacrifice, it becomes a realization that there isn’t a division between the natural and the human worlds, but that these are a singular thing. And you use this knowledge and these relationships that are in the human world, but are actually in the natural world as well. You can’t let go of it and say ‘I don’t want to do this’ because it’s still going to exist. That, I think, is the trouble with a lot of people. The passage in her life is about accepting that, and the transition becomes moving from other people, and that other partner, and being abused by that other partner, into a quest for the self, and realizing that she exists in everybody else; the networks and maps that you make collectively--you can’t focus on a singular other person, because when that happens, the map is still going to fly forward.
    This is the story of everything happening and you only paying attention to one thing at a time.
    She has a really interesting aspect—her chart forms a Star of David. It’s in all these water and earth signs, and that is mud. It can hold you down in a really grounding way if you’re willing to accept it, but otherwise it can be tedious and a pain. It can be wading through something, never enjoying that something. That wading through something is a form of sexuality.
    A: It’s an earthiness.
    E:  Less of an intellectual earthiness and more of an emotional earthiness.
     I see a lot of people have a correlation where the mother in their lives represent a spirituality, where the mother is losing but losing as a child—these experiences happen to them and they don’t fall apart or break, they take them as a child and it’s a nice lesson passed on to the person who has this aspect in their chart. It’s a strength in the connection to the spirit, where you’re able to make your way through it all. She has these generational aspects, and in her history, she’s lost a lot, where her mother had a psychological issue and the father was tormenting. She learned a lot of cultural values, street-smarts, and that’s part of a larger picture. That’s knowledge the way anything else is knowledge. It’s tormenting to the sense of self to be strictly surrounded by street; with no sense of inner knowledge. And I see the way she creates, this philosophy of trudging through the mud (earth and spirit), and I see how that corresponds to Austin Boston the poet; the way you try and put yourself into the world. It’s her whole creating essence—in her sun sign—and the sun is a focal point, and if you’re connected to somebody’s sun, you’re connected to their soul’s purpose; and your ascendant is on the cusp of Leo and Virgo, just as hers. So you’re able to absorb it. You act as shoes through the portal.
    Huh. Lilith. Do you know the story of Lilith?
    A: Tell it again.
    E: Well Lilith is Adam’s original wife, and when God’s law came into play, she was replaced by Eve. And Lilith became the snake in the famous story, and you can see that as biting back. The Lilith in her, though she’s been given all these tools and perspectives, the Lilith in her embodies her past life. Imagine looking at a flame, beckoning you forward; she has this snake charmer’s way of letting these events and the mud that’s floating around beckon you—it’s her way of coaxing the illusion. But we all coax the illusion. You know, I read these astrology charts and I hide behind the shell of me, and you write stories and hide behind the shell of you. It’s coaxing the illusion—
    A: For yourself and everyone else, so you start to believe that mask you wear is real.
    E: Her chart is really beautiful.

ONE (Vegas)

“If there is no love in the world, we will make a new world, and we will give it walls, and we will furnish it with soft, red interiors, from the inside out, and give it a knocker that resonates like a diamond falling to a jeweller's felt so that we should never hear it. Love me, because love doesn't exist, and I have tried everything that does.”
--Jonathan Safran Foer

So as you sat waiting for a tire iron on the I-5 between Tacoma and Seattle, you had the nagging feeling that all life is is a bunch of flat tires in hard and unusual places, and you guess then was the time to thank whoever was running this train-wreck-piece’a-shit-magnificent.

Got a spare tire on your car two hours later, with help from a buddy of yours Logan AKA MacGyver, and right about then you knew you don't know what you’re doing at all, just trying to make it, try things out, challenge yourself over and over to only come up a bill short.

At least the weather's nice, you joked to MacGyver. He thought that was funny enough. Then, like anything else, the battery wouldn't start. MacGyver meanwhile went home and got drunk and you found someone to give you a jump-start, only to find your spare tire flat from dry rot. You swung the Chevy off the freeway, almost got hit more than once, prayed, heard the rims hitting the pavement, found a gas station, attempted to fill the spare with air, ran into a lonely/ desperate/ potentially violent crank-smoker, got MacGyver to come back across Tacoma at 11 at night, drunk, the tow truck driver Tim, you talked to him about the tow truck business, unemployment checks, trimming marijuana north of Berkeley, how he used to do it, and how you were gonna do it before everything went so bad with your last relationship or friendship or whatever the fuck she/you called it.

The next day gave another headache or two, this time driving out of a Pepboys onto a four lane road, traffic meaner than a muthafucker, only to have your driver's side tire pop from the front of the car into the street, leaving you to drive on the brake rotor for fifty yards, the whole time just wanting to crawl back in bed and sleep the day away.

In any case, maybe this story should start back in Vegas four months earlier, a Saturday night cruising with a fifth of vodka on the Strip bouncing from casino to casino, taking the view in with all the tourists, the Strip itself a microcosm with the Stratosphere on one end taller than the Space Needle and designed in the late 80s to be astronaut-themed, but was mismanaged and now towers above Naked City like a torch to the dispossessed, on the other end Mandalay Bay which, like most everything on the Strip, cries out a classist chant of “Money can buy you happiness, look at our shark tanks and buffed marble floors and golden sinks”, the world falling off after it, symbolized by the airport and car rental return and miles of freeway through the suburb of Henderson.

You and some kids were just passing the time when on a bridge you dropped a Hare Krsna  card in the hat of a Head, dreads and a purple handkerchief tied over his head and his voice was angelic and he was bearded and sang folk songs, and he casually offered if you wanted any acid.

You had twenty bucks on you, so you said, “Yeah I'll take a couple hits” and took one and gave one to your dear friend at the time, Samwise. Now Samwise's a character himself, coming from Mexico when he was a kid and can't work legally and smokes pot (sometimes meth) and plays video games and listens to the Smiths and underground hiphop and punk and ska and is really into street-art, filling notebook after notebook with tags and sketches, as well as more recently poetry. Sam’s quite childlike, seeing life as a video game, and you suppose that's how you got along and you both love and despise that whole little kid air about him, and next thing you know you’re both tripping balls, driving around town like a dream, laughing at nothing and after awhile you started seeing colors and on a journey so disconnected from reality it was incredible that you only took one.

You got the Head's number. There were two of them there that night, Howard and Sean, and they’re brothers, hitchhiked their way from Minnesota to Vegas just trying to make money and get by, playing music and selling drugs and
following the Grateful Dead's Bob Weir around like most other Heads, Howard being twenty-five and Sean nineteen, and they're living the dream you want so bad to live, only to realize you’re either not cut out for it or you’re just not there yet. Maybe you have more growing up to do.

A couple Saturdays later you ended up at their rent-a-shack third-floor motel a few miles east of the Flamingo, seven or eight or nine kids there drinking and laughing and being loud through all hours of the day and night, you drinking champagne and taking a line of speed and having a ball just being your obnoxious drunk loud self with a kid named Blondie, a twenty six year old painter/carpenter/rancher Tennessee James, another named Mitchell, this kid Jonah, more men than women and faces you remember but no more names, and y’all are talking Fleet Foxes and Modest Mouse and one of 'em has a tattoo: “The Good Times Are Killing Me” (from Isaac Brock, the front-man of Modest Mouse) and you’re singing along to the song 3rd Planet--

(“and the universe is shaped exactly like the earth,
if you go straight long enough you'll end up where you were”)

--But eventually you meet a hippie couple, both dreaded up pale-skinned train-hoppers, one named Adam (he's about 30), the other Lily (she's only 22 by comparison) and she has a three year old son Tracks (after the trains they hop) who's a genius and sociable and loves everyone and everything, and it's fun to play with the kid but it's becoming dawn and you have a couple more hits of acid and they have a boatload of marijuana from Northern California, so you bring up an idea that you've had since you've met this beautiful group of people, and that's to take a bunch of your acrylic paint and some of these hippies and go to the only thing in Vegas worth sticking around for, a state park by the name of Red Rock Canyon.

So at their place which was downstairs from Howard and Sean and Tennessee James', waiting for Adam and Lily to get ready at 6am you met a man Rob who's misplaced among all the kids shuffling around, a man they picked up in Hemet, California, not too far from your boarding school town, with kids and a wife who cheated on him and kicked him out of their house, did jail-time for some bureaucratic mistake (working, driving paint cans to a drop-site), so his story goes, Rob in his forties hopeless at the time, he decided to stick around with Tracks and sleep with him while you all went on your little excursion.

And then out of the blue comes a girl with eyes so powerful they'll shake you,  she's broken too but s
Written a few years ago. I wish the footnotes transfered. Thanks for reading!
Lilian Cortis Mar 2015
?

when an orange drops from the tree

in my garden

i do not leave it in the soil to rot

but gently pick it out and wash it

and place it in the fruit bowl .

there it stays upon the kitchen table

as if made to be admired !

and when it cannot be admired more

(having somewhat lost of its appeal)

i do not throw it out

as all ungrateful mothers' children do

i eat it and Thank God
Grabbing crabs
in the New Jersey sand
demands quick hands.
Creeping deep
they dig down under

away

from the wind
in their seldom seen shells,
but my brother has a shovel
and can snatch them
even in the midst of sea foam
from small waves climbing the shore.

And at cousin Barb’s pond
Our hands swipe swiftly,
But stealthily enough
In brisk Michigan winds
to grasp and capture
the frogs lingering
near the edges.

Hardest to catch though
are cicadas
in our back yard
hiding in the trees
calling out to play.
My brother and I,
ages 8 and 10
cast our fingers
and clench only their wings
enough to fill two milk jugs.
Marium Iqbal Nov 2014
"We teach children not to use violence. Yet we raise them in a world where violence is the only way to get things done."
Ross J Porter Sep 2010
Small hands holding tight
To strings of laughter
On ends of floating
Bubbles of wonder

Sand filled toes in shoes
On quick feet, dancing
Through my greatest dreams
Of who she will be

Soft kisses from lips
Formed from my own heart
Melting into a
Stream to her future.

Sweet songs of her love
Belted with fervor
From within the small
Light flowered sun-dress

Mischiv'us smiles with
Doll filled hands playing
Games to fill the day
With her glow of joy

Bright eyes signaling
A future brilliant
As the twinkle of
the stars they've stolen

Trusting complete love
Holding tight to life
As it floats away
On bubbles of wonder
All rights reserved. © 2010 Ross J Porter
Liam Wales Jul 2015
Don't push them
You're moulding them instead of letting them flow
You're stunning their movement, you're not letting them grow

I like being pushed
I am superior and better than my peers
They've taken over my body and they are the ones who steer

Is this wrong?
Is this right?
Is this my desired flight
The Devils are pitched on both shoulders
I can't take over until I've grown older
Fox Midnight Mar 2016
oh yes, I remember when I was just a lad,
I was really quite bad.
I remember this one fall,
I drove my parents up the wall.

Up in the air the conversation flew,
And to annoy them more I answered with a "mew".
As I climbed the stairs and up into my room,
I slammed the door with a loud 'boom!'.

I stomped so loud on the floor,
And thought "oh, what a boor!'.
And up the stairs my parents sprung,
Their nattering in my ears rung.

I kicked and lashed out, not knowing what would happen next,
As I looked down, I thought I was hexed!
For if you stomp and kick,
You will be changed quite a bit...

Long grey ears grew high above my head,
"Help, help me!" I plead.
Hooves grew down to the floor,
And I gasped as I saw...

The little boy was no more.
Frantically I looked to my parents who said,
"I thought this would happen, I guess you need a new bed."

Now the boy is no more,
My parents bought a farm with a large moor.
And I help out more now,
As my job is pulling a plough!
Never be naughty ;p
Margaret Apr 2014
Sometimes I wish
When I put on my eyeliner
A toddler would say
you look like a raccoon
And when I put on my lipstick
a child might tell me
your lips look like their bleeding
and when I wore my eye shadow
one might tell me
it looked like someone punched me
and I had a bruise
and when I wear powder and foundation
a child would say
you look like plastic

But they never do.
In fact when I wear                                                                     makeup
a                                                                                                          girl
came up to me and asked me why I was so                                 pretty
and I thanked her, and said
You are too!
but she walked away

I wanted to tell her that my beauty was                                     artificial
I wanted to tell her that my visage was                                       fake
I wanted to yell to the world that this                                           face
was what society                                                                           created.
I wanted to blame it on                                                                 society
which I could, if I                                                                         wanted
But more I wanted to blame it on                                                myself
I felt so                                                                                            pretty .
But was that what counts?
Is pretty what matters?
        what about internal beauty
        and intellectual beauty
and natural beauty.
When did powder caked
darkened eye
red lipped
blue shadowed
become
pretty
Sometimes I yearn for society to tell me what went wrong.
GaryL Dec 2016
born with a halo shattered
human afterbirth in dirt
withered wings, feathers tattered
protrusions of pain and hurt

only an angel can be born
held by the devil's hands
flesh becomes hard, when its torn
only an angel understands
I wrote this a few years ago. I don't think I have posted it for a while
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