Saturday, April 30, 2011

Changing Room



  


I’m changing rooms/again
One: cigarette smoke and stale sweat
Of last week
And last night

Now: upright- the grand ballroom of this place
Rent due,
Stove lit,
Aired out.

I’ll change rooms three more times before it’s wrote
Ink
And pen
And wall
And steps.

Hand-scratched in short stab letters
Projected on balcony-tops,
Tree tops,
Read
Left.

I’ll  take three more sips
-Inhale again.

Tell the landlord
Tell the jury
Tell them they strike the same match with me,
Tell them I’m working it out.

I’m changing rooms
To the steps outside
-with stove
And with tree
And with pen.

The borders in here are god-awful to the spirit.

 

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Justin David Koontz.

Friday, April 29, 2011

I wanted wine and jazz





I wanted red wine and jazz:
You brought me (smoke) (glaze) and a (headache).
I took in all you had to offer.
The drip, wisps of your gold hair glinted in the shadows and tree light.
My lungs inhaled the honey scent of your neck
and I sweetly sat with you.

I wanted calm exhales, forgetting and Miles Davis:
you brought me (leaving-behinds) (pot) and some (frustrations).
I wanted all the good in you and none of the disaster you made me.

The weight of your back pressed my chest.
My heart tried beating its way toward you,
to place its little hands behind you and show you support.
(This is what I imagined as my eyes became glassy
and our world's delicacy shown itself see-through)

The lights blurred and danced and faded and I started to hum the Kind of Blue I wanted.
You told me the low base buzz of my chest lulled your senses and made you a child.

I starred at the tree and the lights till the world became perfectly clear.

I wanted red wine and jazz.
I did not want you.
But I loved this golden, quiet moment.
But I did not love you. 



Photo by John Henry. Words by Jordan Shappell.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

the flower



Most things are concealed 
inside of
fluorescent light or
inside a bubble of
social anxiety.
But some things,
silent, delicate things
(imagine a hyena's
last breath),
while not moving, can
be exploding,
and ache with a 
muted tragedy or perhaps
a perfect happiness
(Imagine a plane crash)
(Imagine the same plane 
crash in slow motion).
I JUST DON'T KNOW.

And somewhere, thousands of miles away,
the hooves of a deer trample softly
the midnight snow.



Photo by Fred Watford.  Words by Randy Conner.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

onding on snaw




It's not the kind of thing you can see to explain. The refrigerator was open and snow fell outside. She had them in her hand. She said, These are blueberries. But they were not. She unpackaged them. See? she said. I didn't, and so thought maybe something was the matter. And if something was the matter, I wondered what it was. I made conditional statements. Statements that suppose or imagine. With conjunctions that join. To connect. Like transitions. Phrases like "for example" and "that is." Also images illustrate a point, or represent: The light inside the refrigerator flickered intermittently without seeming to signal. It was cold, not only outside, but also in the kitchen. Only these are words. Oh yes they are, she said. But no, they are only. Words, that is. For example, this is not a blueberry. She made a fist. The berries bled violet and red in veins down her forearms where maybe there were real ones underneath, beneath the skin. Where really there was blood. I saw no seeds. And yet, These are seeded, she said. She said, I know where you get your ideas. That's a technique I've seen: calling someone out for something they've done. She said, These are my conditions, or maybe, This is conditional, indicating "us" with her skin-stained hand. I'm forgetting something. For some reason there was snow in the kitchen, falling on the floor. I wish there was. I wish there were, she said. She said, unless it is the case, it's only hypothetical. In that case I wish there would have been, I said, more of it on the snow, all over, if that's what it would have taken. If these had taken the form of something more than statements, of anything like your seedless spheres there. There's red in it; what looks like red there inside the black then. It's not a metaphor for anything. Something inside the darkness presents itself as red. At least is how I see it. And yes, there is red in it.


Photo by Sadie Myers.  Words by Diego Báez.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Gypsy Potpourri



----------------


AS a matter of fact-

The car’s collision occurred around ten am, this placed me post-breakfast and thinking myself in circles near Third and Vine.

This placed me in the eye of the hurricane.

Two deaths, simultaneous;

Hopefully it didn’t take these two mangled strangers

Cemented to the metal

-And the glass

Their deaths to realize their lives

[often times this seems to be the case].

At least the Egyptians always placed that sack-old brain in the most

Ceremonial of jars.

[what a buzzkill reality]

I took another sip of Luke-warm coffee.

Scribble,

 scribble,

 scribble.

I wondered if the bodies knew that I was  writing about them

[I hope they’re weren’t self-conscious].



it’s just-

The protagonist and antagonist were the same.

-the ists.



The families arrived in a gleaming blue lexus, the color of a violinist’s sunny day.

The bodies (butterfly)

The families (hurricane)

A slew of human emotion.

Don’t get me wrong-

It’s not that I didn’t feel bad,

It’s that I just knew:

That ticket would be punched eventually.

I’m still quite certain

-After heating the coffee

-After filing the report

All lifeless parties involved would have certainly

Stepped aside

Reconsidered

Existence.

It’s inevitable.

[or we bought all of that life insurance for nothing].

Photo by Randy Conner. Words by Justin David Koontz.

Monday, April 25, 2011

Please Come Back Soon



Honey,

You've been gone for two weeks now. I miss lying with you at night. I miss holding you in my arms till your sweet breath slowly fades and shallows, grows with the depth of the ocean and you fall to me in sleep. I get your whole weight then. Please come back soon.


Honey,

The image of your hair has been so sticky in my mind lately. All images of your dense curls seeps through my brain. I miss your hair. I miss the way it veiled our faces when you lay on top, your face hovering only inches from mine, our eyes parallel, noses touching and our lips quivering with the fun of kissing. Please come back soon.


Honey,

Do you remember our last kiss? It was tasty with the wine on my tongue and whiskey of your lips. You were drunk. I was not. I don't know how it was for you, but for me, it was nice. It was one of the first times I felt the true fullness of your lips. I think your drunk swagger allowed you to lean in a little closer and push a little harder into me. When you are drunk you love me more. Do you know that? I miss you. Please come back soon.


Honey,

It's been months now. I miss the way you look. I miss your cocoa eyes. I have dreams of you. In my dreams there are rows and rows and rows of you. Each face the same. Each kindly smiling and unsuspecting. I know you are thinking of me. Or, I hope you are thinking of me. I miss the way you look. Please don't let me forget how you look. It's been months, Honey, please come back soon.


Honey,

I want to hold you till our skin sticks together and I cannot get you off my fingers. I miss you. Please come back soon.


Honey,

I miss you. Please come back soon.


Honey,

Please come back soon.


Honey,

Please come back soon.


Honey,

Please.


Honey,






Photo by Shonn Sanchez.  Words by Jordan Shappell.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Smoke Rolls,



I know that.
I see from the left and the right and the center
Where it climbs over everything that can’t be had
By hands
Or by fingertips
Or
L o n g
Forgotten signals
Of the calling machine;
Underneath the seat
-Where my brain sits.
                               These things happen
Smoke: the unaccounted for
And uncontrolled
In the Universe.
They appear left and right and center
-If they are seen like they’d like to be.
But the smoke’s indifference puts to rest
Every iron
Of astute assumption
In the vein of knowing.
Bent around my hands and still ascending
a-w-a-y
from where my breath and my eyes and my words go.
I don’t take it personally.
Through windows
You can hear the scientists gathered
-They are manic
Tossed hands raised up
And palms to the sky
They are reciting old prayers and incantations.
They are guessing.
They told me there are 53BILLIONPLANETSINTHEGALAXY
They told me not to take life so personally,
They told me to smoke-
Because the Universe needs more carbon
And the typewriter is out of ribbon,
And the ribbon is out of ink.
Don’t take it personally. 

Photo by Randy Conner. Words by Justin David Koontz.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

WHEEL




To the man who invented the wheel,
Thanks.
You gave us all whiplash.
I would let anyone 
punch me in the face
right now.


Photo by Angela Shields. Words by Randy Conner.

Friday, April 22, 2011

Tremors




The first time Jing Mao watched the child walk he knew his personal legacy was secure. The first time the young boy created a rudimentary painting for him, with crude green paste and stinking silver pastels ground of mashed freshwater tadpoles, he became aware of the unspoken distance between his own consciousness and that of this legacy. And somewhere in between, when the boy spoke to him, when he heard the distinct nature of his voice, Jing knew that although his physical being would move along past himself, the pure psychological essence of his life, and that of his ancestors, may very well not. He could hear the distance.

So although the goat’s legs quivered and seized under his full weight, and although his youngest son squealed and gasped at the inverted showing of the future before him, as the animal all three of them had fed and nurtured was brutally filleted and left to shudder in the humid afternoon air; he felt nothing but pride. Not because the boy had felt, in his hands, in his core, in that gruesome vibration, the taking of life for life, but because it was now immediately understood that the village would always have hands to feed it and the daring to face the tasks that kept it fed.

In a sense: His hands.

Or so he thought. It wasn’t until some weeks later, after he’d seen the boy milling around the rice paddies absently and pushing younger children down with random violence that he began to wonder where his legacy was really going.

The night he washed the twin dots of drying goat’s blood off of the boys cheek, there was nothing but pure static silence between them; a stoic recognition of the things that lay between what was connected and what was not. Jing had responded poorly at the time: he stayed silent alongside his son.

And yet one evening, late in a midsummer’s soup of overbearing heat, over the evening’s hard earned dinner, to which everyone could attest, the eldest son finally made him hurt.

That night, randomly, the boy said: “The difference between our pet goat, and my friend’s throats, should I recognize it? Is it even real?”

“Respect them both, but much differently,” Jing said quickly. Reflexively. Caught off guard.

The eldest boy did not lower his gaze.

“What are the differences?” He said.

It was then that Jing knew that he had not a legacy, but a reason to stay alive and well. A reason to keep teaching.

He had a son. 

Photo by Michael Seminer. Words by Paul Oliveri.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

"Tall Grass Can Be Violent"







Tall grass can be violent,
and so can a mistake.
Have you ever stubbed your toe
on a dead body?
Everyone is fashionable
somehow.
Take this grass:
Its hair is bleached 
and its knuckles are
bloody like
the jawbone of
a horse.
I'd like to show you something.
It's a word I just made up.
"Heiosueltkooawe"

It means I'm sorry.


Photo by Julia Kruy.  Words by Randy Conner.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

the ocean

See.
The open sea.
Live.
Come buy a house with me.
 
I want to buy a house on the ocean.
Not on the coast, the land, but on the ocean.
We’ll never need salt again, there is so much salt in the ocean.
 
It will be smiles. Food. Joy.
Wind. Travels. People. Fish.
Until we just can’t take it anymore.
 
Then we’ll dive in,
to cool off with the ocean.
Yeah, that’ll be the life.
Immersed in the ocean.
 
 
Photo by Sadie Myers.  Words by Amanda Grupp.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

... fieldgreen ... sunsetting ... earthours ... neverforgetting ...





 




 had a dream 
that i can't remember
that's what makes it exciting 
see
that's what makes it all so

fun






Photo by Sadie Myers.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Monday, April 18, 2011

We are tourists in Chicago




Wake from sun squeezed 
by stone and concrete
illuminating windows 
opening our eyes
to go  consume
an authentic Chicago experience.

We ride Lake Front path
with packed crate on bike 
and bag full of U-lock, lunch,
entertainment and essentials
balancing our experience of
naturous Lake Michigan
 and Chicago metropolis
on trail supported by concrete 
built over trash heaps
accumulated from e x p a n d i n g.

We exit the path and return
to feel-of-the-road directions
or Google maps stuffed in pockets.
If lost, we stop.
We buy Streetwise and
pretend that karma stopped us.

Fulfilled day of urban participation--

we re-enter bike path,
sit on concrete steps over
lake water absorbing and reflecting\
our wisdoms of the day.
 
Photo by Julia Kruy.  Words by Ciara Brewer.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

"Popular Science"



---------------------------------------

A meteor cannot ever touch the ground
Or else it becomes a meteorite.
This is a fact.
So is this:

"Before mating,
The male giraffe will
Drink the female's
Urine."

Two giraffes sit
Side by side
In a car at sunset.
(It's a convertible, of course.)
As they inch closer,
Painted pink by sweet
Sunlight,
A meteor is on its way to meet them.
Their giraffe lips almost touching,
A dog is heard barking in the distance.
Meteor... meteor... meteor...
Meteorite. 

Every photo is a photo of the past.

Photo by Sadie Myers.  Words by Randy Conner.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Walk me, Baby






So I walked.
Spending my last impulses
on a hope that walking away would erase me.
I wanted to be started over.
Redrawn a fresh.

So I walked.
I strolled with a stumble till the blood in my body
filled my feet and I was bottom heavy.
I tilted and felt light headed.
So I walked.
I tried to breathe with the rhythm of each step
with hopes my heart would follow,
and then my thoughts would fall in line,
and I could be whole again.
So I walked,
with hopes to control myself,
to find a single place that would align,
and no more outlines of what I could be,
would want to be,
am trying to get at.
So I walked,
to try to be me,
set this free
with each step,
except my heart stayed in place.
Refused to change pace,
my ribs a case against rhythm.
Against what I was walking for.
So I walked.
So I wanted to change myself.
But my heart wouldn't let me.
It kept me
the same.

I need a new perspective on myself.
One with more color. More detail.
One where I don't have to walk so much.


Drawing by Jason Kofke.  Words by Jordan Shappell.

Friday, April 15, 2011

Locked In


I.
Psst. 
Over here.

II.

Little help, please.

III.

I'm locked in.
My stupid fat fucking tears have locked me in.
The molasses molecules of my heavy thoughts have slowed their stream
Highly viscous and agonizingly vicious,
They've petrified into amber bars.
I seem to have locked myself in.

IV.

Psst.

V.

There's a lock on this cage. 
Old-fashioned, for your picking pleasure.
Put down your 
Blow torch, your
Dynamite, your
Drills, your
Other fancy equipment whose names I do not know
Just pick up that bobby pin on the dresser next to the fading receipt for soy milk and trash bags

VI.

Stick the bobby pin in the lock and twist till you feel it click
Be the hero and save me from this crystalized prison.
But before you swing the gate open, befriend the animal inside.
Reach your hand in and let me smell it. 
Let your fingers travel the length of my arm and make me purr.
Stick your head through and nuzzle into my collar bone.
Deeper.
Taste test the length of it.
Run your tongue up my neck like the first ice cream cone of summer and
Disarm the red dragons guarding this sleeping beauty.
As I quiver and wake,
As I stir
As the bars melt into waxen drips, and puddle on the lap of my dress,
Leave the door open a crack and 
Please, dear, disappear.

VII.

Because when I come back I will come back with a scream.
And I shall scream and scream and scream and scream and scream.

I've been locked in for entirely too long.


Photo by Caroline Näslund.  Words by Stephanie Chavara.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

endoftheline


Cold steel, have you ever touched it? 
Locomotives ------ take us west.
Or else take our souls.

(Hey ______, when you get this letter, I'll already be gone.)

Imagine, if you will, a small bird. 
He hops alongs the fence,
Meditating on the 
Way the sun darkens skin and
Lightens hair.

Guess what.
That bird is fertilizing the grass.
Suicidal sparrows are common.
I actually died once, thorax halved by train.
I remember it like I remember my first 
Knife throwing accident (it was no accident).
Everyone's always whispering
As I walk by,
THAT GUY IS GOING NOWHERE.
Now I can see why.


Photo by Fred Watford.  Words by Randy Conner

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Domesticated Dog





satin-red lead constrains him
he watches
squirrel taunting

canine eyes
reflect image, process
id festers

wooden deck
sun descends, cold
shades of gray char

grade-e protein bowl
in-satiating, manufactured

he hunts
 

Photo by John Henry. Words by Ciara Brewer.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Morn

I wrote some shit for the
Birds today. They smiled
Flappy- and ran away




Haiku by Dustin Whitehead.  Ink response by Caroline Näslund.

Monday, April 11, 2011

The Punches


I don't like you and I don't like you.
People say I look different, well I say you look the same.
Sometimes I rock and sometimes I roll 
Most times I roll with the punches.

I certainly say that I'm not like you.
I certainly say, I certainly say

You don't have to listen to emotions.

Photo by Amanda Grupp.  Words by Lear Bunda

Sunday, April 10, 2011

I see you, Hill


You are cold
Gluten free 
Cuz it's summer time 
Stolen bottle of wine 
A fist dance 
And a short film 
Who will make the plan

I'm waiting for a decision 
They take too long 

Bastards 

Maybe if I walk up to the top of you I can take off my boots and socks and shows and scabs and feel the sand beneath the snow between my toes

Just a thought

I'll stay climbing 
I know the summer will Fall
That's what I dig about philosophy 
Everyone breaks suit
Nobody could be unoriginal 
Even twins have different names 

I'll eat eggs 

Not today 
Not next week 
Not next year

But I'll try em again 

I guess I should say here that I've never been perfect- but by golly- I'm trying to melt the layers

Alright Sun, it's your turn 


Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Friday, April 8, 2011

KASASA...


 



*Chicago, IL. 
Assaria, KS
Love
Life
Lavender
Lavendar 
Calendar
April 7, 2011
I love you
I miss you
I’ll kiss you
When I see you
Next week
This week
Is
Wedding dress
Invitations
Phone calls
Long drives
Through green pastures
On this side
It’s always greener
Especially in springtime
Fun time
Birds sing
Long days
Long walks
Down dirt roads
With mom and pops
It’s a good time
To talk
And walk
And learn
From each other
Before the moment is gone
I’ll remember
I’ll watch the sun set
And snap a photo
On my mind
Georgia
Wedding in June
Got a plane ticket
And a man
He's in Chicago 


About this piece:


I wrote a poem.  I asked Brandon to draw a picture to go with it.  He and his classic scented washable markers went to work.   He showed me his drawing.  I took a picture. 

Is that Kansas?

It's KASASA
 
Kasasa?

KASASA has yellow roads and blue gardens and red grass.



Words by Sadie Myers. Drawing by Brandon Baker.

my little brother's shoes


A twisted style in a fury felt
Like being inside a blurry avalanche fall
Melt Cautiously to the reflect
And inspect only what we expect

There were always rules but we never followed
I used to match my shoes with my shirts 
He'd give me the okay
His always matched better
He was always cleaner 
That's okay
I'm a confident fellow
None of my brothers know how to compete 
Neither do I
Maybe they are why

But he was the cool one 
With the shoes and the style and the happy and the smile
We used to stay up late 
His laugh is a heaven sound
Who built that? 

Watch as we grow 


Photo by Sadie Myers.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Future Well



When it ended we had it nothing. 
We had each other by ourselves
When it ended, 
it all ended
by each other 
by ourselves


Photo by Angela Shields.  Words by Lear Bunda.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

I might be rough


Forgive me, where I come from is gritty.
My tongue is rough and I bite all too often.
Im used to trial by fire
and being shaped by the hands of an angry God.
so if any expression of how I care about you comes out a little harsh,
or a little sideways,
I need you to know where I come from...

Here.
This is my brother and I.
At a certain point we divorced from our family
(because we knew love sounded differently).
We held hands, got on bikes and chose to ride parallel lives.
This is us. And our home.
We built that.
My brother provided a roof because he always protected me.
His cracked hands constructed each shingle
and wiped away every single sad tear.
I provided the warmth inside our home.
My heart pumped blood for the both of us,
so our cheeks could still stretch out and smile at each other.
We made it for the two of us
to share and trust,
to rebuild what all was lost.
This is my brother.
This is my home.
You can see its faults in full
because we wanted to hide nothing.
We fall apart daily, help each other up
and crumble for fun.
This is my home.
It will never leave.

Here.
I give you this.
My brother and I.
Because I need you to know where I come from.
That I am nicked and bruised,
never smooth
and always wanting of sun
and your laughter
and the gaze/blaze of your eyes.

Here.
This is my brother and I.
This is my home.
I want you to have it.
I want you to know what its like to be home.  


Photo by Michael Seminer.  Words by Jordan Shappell.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Upside Down in a Limousine; No Gravity






Sarcastically faint in my descriptions and everyone is confused

The soul one because I know when to travel in style so I think

Momentarily tainted by boos, dress shoes, and power windows

The pool on the roof is a hot tub I turn my back on terminology

I'm floating on taking pictures of the naked streets they are mine

I dreaming making mixtures of the liquid beats I will everything

After is the never always happy our futurever go lucky hot spot 

     (reflecting on the night)

Have ever I been so necessarily wrought thought I with my high



Photo by Chris Sullivan.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Sakura



A small piece of my heart built from scratch 
God made the earth too 
Isn't that crazy wild 
And honest
The colors are beautiful
And the wheel never stops turning

Maybe if I give a part 
It will come back
In the form of mountain rivers and ocean canyons
I believe in love
It will live longer than me
That is one thing that I can know

The other things are not as tangible
But the fly by answer is simple
Take her hand
Hold tight
Run
Do not let go




Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Dustin Whitehead.