it is my attempt at reliving our past one of us must finally admit it was mutual.
the crash of that initial moment well that went as all crashes go I mean to say accidental but between the collision, claim and repair you stood beside and wound your fingers in mine and committed in ways beyond one so do not paint me red or pin my breast with the insignia of la loca, of the woman with her fingers gripping, curled in your collar you too had your fingers wound in my hair, murmuring that I was beautiful, confessing that you felt blindsided
yes I but you too
All that Burdens Mark Hierholzer
Steals life, steals it Without reason. Religion of exclusion.
I can be the Taliban On any night of sadness Or hatred, so I live alone In a sordid bedroom and smell My own scent. Like a gym Shower room.
The Sun, thank you For pulling me beyond My own shoestrings And placing me in a world Beyond the world Of damnable Expectation.
Gloria.
Dirt Nabiha Zaman
Brown and broad from dirt we were made with dirt there can be no fraud not at any time will it fade
Dirt brought life in this world Although some go astray Bare feet walk on it every day Leading us to the right way
Postmodern Ekphrasis #17 Roger Sedarat
So this disaffected artist goes to the docks of the Jersey shore with a fistful of dollars to watch the boats return at twilight
from the shark-fishing competition, his eyes fixed on the scales for right the blend of blue/grey skin and bloody-toothed jaws.
He bids on third place. They unhook the chains, letting it fall with a thud. Said artist single-handedly drags his prize along the pier to a U-Haul truck where he’s pre-lined
the floor with bags of ice bought from a nearby Wawa. Spectators watch him wrestle the eight-foot monster over his back and onto the bumper, its rubbery tail
starting to slip between his arms. Once in said artist rolls down the back door and padlocks it shut, driving like mad without sleep for days to a recollected childhood setting.
Somewhere between Austin and San Antonio, he pulls along I-35 and hits the blinkers. Setting his camera on the tripod, he unlocks the latch,
the curtain of metal revealing a greyer-blue body as blood-slushy ice spills onto the freshly tarred road. He pulls the shark out by its tail, dragging it into a field
of knee-high bluebonnets, curling it into a U to face the camera that he clicks and re-clicks. As the sun sets in the hilly horizon,
he slowly drives away from his principal subject, leaving it there for drivers to rubber-neck and ponder in all its random glory.
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