Thumper

In my bedroom,

that day, decades ago,

I sacrificed a warm puddle

of tears to a

pet rabbit that

we gave away

to a neighbor

because I couldn't

take care of it.

I would've rather had it

die of starvation,

twitching in my arms.

Photo by Caroline Näslund. Words by Randy Conner.

Toe Calligraphy

i like to keep my Head down
          i don't Meet passerby Gaze
                        i don't Get a Fake hello
                                    a Bro-ish head Nod
                                                 a Shy recoil
                            Judgement aplenty with Sadness under every look
                 fabricated Impressions are easier to swallow
                     rubber Soles don't remind me of what i will Never
                                                                 Understand

            ...

muffled toe cacophonies Deposit the ever changing calligraphy of what is
                        Strides can't lie

                     my Phone can't lie

 while in step i need a Reason to Leave the plane of contact
                      i Take my phone Apart constantly
                                      Stretching the phone case on and off

to let the Truth or Simplicity of the machine out
   then to Quickly  Encase it again so that maybe it can relate to me


have u ever seen someone take their shoes on and off Again
                                                     Again
                                                     Again in a tick
                   
                             its the same thing
                                                     Shedding
                                                     Putting on
                                                     Clothing

                                something Ultimately Transient

       a Sea of unseen feet making unseen Footprints on unseen soil

it's the Eyes that Lack cushion

                 i Invest in the Journey
                                  Appreciate the ground covered

Heads Meet Fake Bro-ish shy sadness
Judgement Impressioning Soles to Never Understand the Deposit of Strides
Phones give Reasons to Take Apart the Stretching Truth
Quickly looking for Simplicity Encased AgainAgainAgain
while Shedding then Putting on Clothing
Ultimately only Transient Footprints in a Sea Eyes
Investing in what the Group Lacks

Journey to Appreciate

Photo by Amanda Grupp. Words by Will Gillespie.

Taste of Life

She said..

What's a crown without a king
What's a man without a dream
Realize the important things
And happiness is not what money brings

What's a pen without a writer
What's demand without a supplier
What's a deal if there are no takers
Explain money if there is no paper

What's Hell if there is no Heaven
What's love if there are no exceptions
Who's right if you're both wrong
Where do you go when the lines are drawn

What's the sky if there is no ground
What's your limit if you know no bounds
Where are the sun's rays when your in the rain
Where are the brighter days when your in a cave

What keeps you alive 
Is it the finest wines 
The life you strive 
Which car to drive
Or is it Finding time
And a piece of mind

Well here's a piece of mine; most of you are blind
And you can't train the eye to see what is right

And if you have the chance, then make it right,  put your glass in the air...
cheers...
to the taste of life...

And it's an open road, barefoot, open toed, up creek with no commode

What's a city without the people
What's a movement without believers

I replied...

Everything is nothing without something
Everyone is no one without someone

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Justin Burcum

He couldn't see it yet.

Every day, 

the boy drew his breath deeper into his lungs than he ever had before

and he wished for one thing 

and one thing only...

"I want to change the world," 

he would whisper softly as he held tightly onto his dandelion with both hands.

But because he couldn't be more specific than that, 

he never saw that every day, 

with every dandelion, 

with every wish...

his breath would move the clouds

and the sky would dance with the sea

and people who had once been sad would smile.

The power of his breath already had begun to change the world,

and one day he would lead millions.

But he couldn't see it...yet.

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Steve Brian.

I have come to the edge.

I have come to the edge from so far.
I have come to the edge to crash my waves gently down.  To lay them here to be licked and lapped and ebbed away, like a dog that knows you are sad.
I have come to the edge to make a miracle.
Tired of waiting for them to come to me. 
“It’s time to get pro-active, sucka”  the bully from the 80’s who lives in my head yells at me.
The wind hums out a deep-stand-up-bass-kind-of-chord on the bridge, and lets me know that God is watching.  That this will not be an offensive act, a Promethean fuck you to grace. No, sir. This here is a reckoning.  This here is a gift no one else knows that they are getting.
“Cars, and the lost dads inside. Cars, and the kids sitting backwards daydreaming. Cars, and the twizzlers and lollipops stuck underneath your seats. Cars, and the hot oil dripping out of you. Cars, I will meet you on the other side. And you might think I’m crazy. You might not believe me. But I will be there dry and shining”
My toes touch the bath warm water, water chapped from being kissed all day by the sun.  And my toes twinkle hello in the splishy splash surface that greets them. The water nuzzles a greeting…. and I’m walking.
One foot. One step.
The wind accompanies me with a slow hum, pulls me back like a bow to be released.
I will make my miracle.
I will meet you on the other side.

Photo by Tyler Ross.  Words by Stephanie Chavara.

Child, sit.

my beloved child, please come sit.
I hope to find you well, as time and circumstance have long separated us.

How are you? How has the world been to you?
How is your soul?--for this is my chief concern.

Please, please come sit, my brilliant boy.
Sit.
I've longed for many cold nights out here to talk with you.
I want to hear your stories.
I've seen your drudging, your enduring of life lately.
You seem awfully busy.
Why don't you sit? Tell me about it.

Its quite peaceful out here, isn't it?
This is my home. I made it. Out here, that is.
The wind whispers around like a friend,
and the grass will tickle your feet just enough to restore life,
but not agitate nerves.

And Me, I've been out here, awaiting the moment I could invite you over.
And now.
Oh now, glorious child, now I want to find all of you here with me.
Tell me.
Tell me of your changing, weathered life.
Tell me of all your Falls, the changings of time.
The slow evolve from life to death to bare bone trees.
Tell me of your cold, cold Winters.
Tell me of the times you froze your heart so no one could dare warm it again.
Tell me of how you melted to Spring,
and the slow drip of snow down your cheeks.
Tell me the first pluck of grass that sprouted from your skin like hair.
Tell me of the restorative sun in your life.
Who is it? what is it? What is your Sun, my son?
Tell me of your Summers and the sweat.
Tell me of all your salty exchanges.
Tell me of your stories.
Tell me of your anger and your struggle.
Tell me of pain.
Tell me of every ecstasy and tingle.
Tell me of grinning, beaming smiles.
Tell me of the alcoholic nights and sweet boozed kisses.
Tell me of laughter and intwined legs and arms and bodies.
Dont be modest or shy or prude. I want to hear it.
And tell me of your loneliness too.
Tell me of your boredom, your lull.

Tell me of your freedom and all that raptures you.

My son, I miss the intricacies of you.
Please come sit.

-God

Photo by Michael Seminer. Words by Jordan Shappell.

Bloody Knuckles

She smiled, shyly, astonished a bit. She wasn’t condescending as she spoke; it was instead nearly devoid of inflection other than her natural cadence:

“No, you’re different.

You’re broken in the best possible way.

You’re the prizefighter, who doesn’t know what they’re fighting for,

Just undying affection,

Perfection.

Nonchalance inside chaos.

The bolt to which there is no screw,

So instead you start looking for something that’s broken.

But what are you fighting for?

You fasten yourself to the ropes,

The steady balance offered by their uneasy stretches,

Your knuckles brittle and hungry,

Equal parts delight and pain,

Where is your prize?

Why is your fist so filled with desire?

When it lands, will you know what you want?

The hardest part, acknowledging you’ll never get it right,

Is what keeps you standing,

While your head is spinning.

Don’t fall down, I’m counting on you now.

I’m counting on you to stay where no one can,

To be a man – but not in the literal sense,

Because all your balls have ever got you is pain and stupidity.

You see; that’s why you’re such a good prizefigher.

Because you have no idea what you’re trying to win.

It doesn’t matter.

It can’t,

Or what’s the use in the fight?”

As she trailed off, words spun around her in disarray, she wondered for a moment what it was she had just said, why she had said it, but quickly the sentences came back together in her mind and she understood them. She looked at me with joy and then sadness. She pressed herself up against me, I could feel her body and was filled with a sense of understanding, knowledge of her, of us – it dissolved immediately as she got up.

“I have to pee”

She stepped clumsily off the bench. I watched her, fixated, as she wandered to the bathroom. Some condensation fell from her drink, which she was holding in her left hand. Tequila and Orange juice.

A realization dawned on me as I watched her.
I looked down at my drink, left seven folded bills on the bar, got up and walked out.

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Joseph Ettinger.

Outside Ourselves

Walk away dear vintage, hand on hip; eyes on the coarse road ahead.  Bed after bed we fall, waiting simply for the Fall.  And the Spring is nowhere near.  Dancing in fear.  Romancing with beer.  We know no tact.  But one day we sat down and wrote, promising the future.  Nature holds.  Winter grips and stagnancy doesn't.  So the blood will spill from the glass crushed in our souls.  We will wax poetic with mosaic insides while victory hides around the next corner.  Who's driving.  I ask you to hold the wheel as I reach back for my reasonability which may be out the window.   Strong winds.  Automobile metaphor.  In the end we all crash; some fly off cliffs, some hit walls, some burn, some drown, some run out of gas and coast into a ditch moving so slow we never really see the wheels stop moving.  But I can't believe in death because I see so much life in you.  So much on your horizon.  So much love. So much peace. So much so much.  So we wander past the blood spills and the car crashes from bed to bed and season to season finding the art inside our souls... held together by the pain outside, though it may be.  

Photo by Sadie Myers.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.  In this photo: Angela Shields.

Bim Bom

Delisa and I picked grapes from the granada vineyards.

i imagined them the same fields Lorca wrote his 1,000 poems to the moon.

i imagined that moon was the same he sang to in the arms of his lovers,

before the civil war took his tongue.. 

We had one more glass of wine, and another, our teeth baby beets.

Delisa reads me his words first in spanish and then in my own tongue for a diluted version of Frederic's hallucinations.   

an entire summer we chased eachother through the grape vines,

an entire summer we wore no shoes.

we drank red wine and named the stars as though they were our children.

we knew they were offspring of the moon and the ocean,

yet as the words of Lorca became ghosts tangible in the june wind

so did my bond with Delisa.  On the summer solstice my love for Delisa and my infatuation with the idea of Delisa came together at the hip and sambaed their way into a destined conception.  Her father called it a bastard... out of a love he'd never known a baby was born.

 Words by Chris Hess.  Photo by Sadie Myers.

Umoja!

Umoja!

Yes!

We dance a language you can not speak!

We twist and turn to the clicks and snaps around the "Mmmm's" and "Hallelujahs"

around the fire.

We LOUD AS HELL and don't give a fuck!

We told you stories as you went to sleep,

while the days looked longer and longer.

We made a way outta no way!

Sho NUFF!

We wove our own culture!

We made that shit cool!

Baby, we invented that thing called jazz, bebop, rock

We roll deep!

We still managed to break the rules,

cuz we done realized there aint never been any!

We got a spirit that is rooted to another continent

But we just as American as yo white ass!

We bad as we wanna be, but don't say nothing bout our momma!

We nice! So nice! That you tried to make us forget that we built the Sphinx with a wide Black nose!

We King Tut! We Malcom X! We Tupac Shakur!

We that uprising you've been scared of!

Letters written in hieroglyphs, passed around high school lunch tables!

Why you think we always sit together! We planning on dancing our way to the White House!

OBAMA! Habari gani! OBAMA! Habari gani! OBAMA!

If you can't cipher then you aint sposed to!

That's right we dance like we done lost our minds!

That's what we want you to think!

Umoja!

Photo by Amanda Grupp. Words by Rashaad Hall.

Monochromatic Love

  

 

Monochromatic.

Black and white isn’t only black and white.

Home isn’t just where your heart is.

And love is deeper than a paper cut.

Memories.

A white crayon on black construction paper.

Remember those dreams, those whispers?

Color.

Black is and white isn’t.

Home is where the sun shines vivid.

Fire.

Home is where smells give stories.

Burnt in your memory are dreams you used to have.

Prismatic.

Rock the red slippers.

It’s the yellow brick road that leads to the emerald city.

Love.

Black and white isn’t only black and white.

Home isn’t just where your heart is.

And love is deeper than a paper cut.

Photo by Steve Brian. Words by Sadie Myers.

The Tunnel

They say when you move on to the next world 

you see a light at the end of the tunnel...

It's always the same.

Not balloons, or t.v. shows, or trips to the zoo.

One light.

Piercing.

I've heard of your life going by your eyes

like ads posted on the long, dark walls

like a running flip book.

Photo by Sadie Myers.  Words by Rashaad Hall.

This Field

My ribcage is about to overflow.

Sunlight, glinting on white tooth,

this field is about to overflow.

Sunlight is the color of

my eyes. 

I am so happy.

The sunlight is liquid. 

Yellow.

Ringing like a bell.

Sometimes it's okay to scream

into the horizon

like a collapsing star.

It's always okay to overflow.

Let the clouds carry you.

Let the sun eat you.

Let your ribcage overflow,

no matter what. 

Photo by Amanda Grupp.  Words by Randy Conner.

droplets

life hurdles droplets of reflection at you perpetually
causing a brittle ripple in the pool of our focuses
making desperate the distinction of one’s inspiration or ignorance
party or pinpoint
staggering notions of the amazing     coincidental     intangible

it's that feeling when all the world      universe      you are in a gleam, a brick
when it seems billions of conspiring gnomes made your realization possible…
their grand decoy…no come-on

your staring at water on a window pane and the ramen won't cook itself…
but still it mumbles

then when doubt’s ripple settles and the surface returns to glass
the shower of rain becomes a meteor one…
and the haze of oranges, reds, and yellows widens into solar systems light years apart
the pattern of awe turns to a questioning one…and back…

oh shit neon’s of blue hue were within this palette?

you will always remember this spot, this light, and most of all this feeling
you thought of unfathomable things
you truly loved for a moment something that happens but once…
you appreciated loosing focus on your habits in habitat
layering your reflections on reflection’s face
a gifted moment never to have back, and yeah I like that…

Photo by Sadie Myers.  Words by Will Gillespie.

what the World said:

the World a ton too many times told you:
“dont you dare think well of yourself”

so you split in half:
warring against the best you know you could be
and the worst you know you certainly are.

the World said:
“look down on yourself
and up at others.
look at all you ever won't be
and watch all the places you'll fall to”

so you donned sadness,
coated yourself in ugly
and denied all that could be radiant.
you turned yourself colorless,
shut off the hope
and said yes to the shackling.

the World said:
“good. you're doing the right thing.
pity and turn aside”

so you pulled at all your imperfections,
stretching them out.
you placed yourself in a ball and rolled over.

the World said:
“i'm sorry. i'm sorry for what i have done to you.
but despite the richness of your pain,
the delicacy of the dark that has circumstanced itself around you,
despite it all,
i now want you to keep going”

You said:
“keep going?
you're an asshole”

the World said:
“i know. i am. and i always will be, most likely.
but while you have split yourself,
i need you to sink deeper down, weep and hope for worth.
brokenness is not the end.
i promise.” 

Art by Caroline Näslund. Words by Jordan Shappell

Options

Something came to me just now

In a falling tree branch type second

Like when rain is across the field

Pouring down quickly moving closer

Dancer brain punctuality to move

Before taking a step never touch

For the communication machine

Builds out of soundboard destiny

Here is where it all makes sense

On the other end of the linear

After all is said into a cord-full

Mouth dry everything forgotten

Wonder often who came before

Never reading sign post answers

There is a secret for the children

Because it's all so very common 

Visual by Jason Kofke.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Inside An Oven

You’ve been here before. It’s not

Like you’ve never seen the inside

Of an oven.

And suddenly, it looks like rain.

Don’t worry, the trees are waterproof.

Sometimes you tell people that the

Marks on your back, you know, 

the ones you got from passing out

on the rocks that day, are just

Trails, blazed by crazed es ee ex.

But then you feel weird,

Like the way you feel when

You almost run into a stranger,

And then you both try to go the same

Direction, making for two mistakes

In one second,

Like the time you drank so much

That you thought you were

Only dreaming, or maybe inside some

Kind of an aquarium filled with cotton

Or clouds or bugs or betrayal,

Either way, you’re pretty sure

That you aren’t the only one who

Has seen the inside of an oven.

I know you aren’t.

Photo Caroline Näslund.  Words by Randy Conner.

The Boys...

Sweet things roll into sour spaces

I suppose you have to look for them

but I never do

Against the Jackson Pollack of my day

my day, all sticky and swirling and yet somehow dull

dull as a white sky in mid-winter, the sun hidden for who knows how long

against all this I forgot to look down

And maybe if I did, if I did look down

I would register a prickly annoyance scraping at my body

How dare someone make light of all that I carry

hot and irritated I might squash this delightful confection

beneath my practical dull black boot

But maybe—there’s that maybe again—maybe

later after tea and a hint of sunshine through the window

I might catch a speck of pink or an unnaturally bright blue

left behind on the cuff of my trousers

And maybe I might laugh

Photo series by Sadie Myers. Words by Lindsay Porter.

Brother, when you--

do you remember when we used to role cigarettes for each other?
remember our backs up against the wall of the world,
looking out over bikes tinkering and the chatter of every fair dame?
man, the days we spent jawing for more of what dreamed.
we smashed sunflower seeds and spit to get more talking done.
and I always knew you were my brother.

do you remember that spot?
where we met daily to swap laughter.
remember when we leaned, weight one footed,
towards the wall?
we stood for so long, the grass grew around our boots
and we left our prints where we stood.

God, the things we saw, brother.
i watched you struggle to let your heart out,
you watched me shred mine.
you watched me shake my pride out
and ring the joy from my eyes.
i saw you try,
try, try try try try try try try try try try
try try try try try try
try so hard to save everyone around you.
i saw, from sideways glances, the effort you made,
the amount of strength it took for you to stay.
...
brother, do you remember that one day?
the day you------? do you?
...
remember that spot where everything seemed to grow between us?
brother,
do you remember?
because as far as these eyes see,
all that bustled and shuffled on that corner,
by that wall, where we used to lean on each other,
all that shifted between us,
all that we watched outside of us....

it all left when you left.
brother, it left when you left.

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Jordan Shappell.

Walk With Me

To my Sadie,

  Walk with me now dear.  I take it we follow the others.  Somehow I feel I'll know just where to go.  I wanted to write you because you need to know.. I won't let you go at this alone.    So bare with me, I have never been the talker between us.  I knew my place and I played it well.  And you loved me for it as sweet reward.  Say Sadie, remember that blue dress you wore the first night we made it?  Brightest thing in the room next to those eyes of yours.  Ha, could have had any schmuck in the room but fate deemed me the lucky one.  

 

        So walk with me now dear.  I'll tell you the story of us one more time.  The booze didn't cloud my memories.  I never took too much to drinking.  Often wondered how your little body could take it all.  But I loved watching you.  The life of the party.  And well you had your one indiscretion, but I thought it the price to pay for trying to tame such a wild one.  I forgave you years ago and haven't mentioned it since.  And till recently you remained the life of the party.  Oh Sadie you may be weak now but just wait.  I know a place.   

  So walk with me now dear.  Age is a son of a bitch I know but he gave us all we can still remember.  And hell sometimes I think maybe he is just God's misunderstood brother... forever pegged the scapegoat. And the devil, romanticized through cheap thrills, is portrayed by handsome young actors in Hollywood.  Ah Age, the unlucky bastard.  He wore you well but I think all your nights chasing the devil had to catch up Sadie.  And I think its time to go...

  So walk with me now dear.  I take it we follow the others.  Somehow I feel we'll know just where to go.  How bout you put on that blue dress.  The one you wore to the Chateau Vellion in 64'.  Oh you look like a star in that dress.  I'll wear that suit you picked out for me.  Ha, that damn top hat a size too small for this melon but I wore it anyway,, anytime you asked me to.  Put on that blue dress Sadie.  You look like a star ya know?  All eyes in the room on you.  And yours on me.  We don't move like we used to do we?  All is well my little wild one.  Follow my lead.  I take it we just watch the others.  I feel we'll know just where to go...

Always yours,

D.

Photo by Sadie Myers.  Words by Chris Hess.

A Rediculous Afternoon Spent With A Woman Metaphysical

And there you were.  There you were.  Pensive and distracted.  You were a wall.  You stopped me.  Dead.  I couldn't move.  The most... beautiful...

I remember thinking, "I will never need another breath.  This is it.  I can die right now."  And do you remember how I looked at you and what I... I... 

The fucked up thing is that you don't exist.  You're like a star.  Like a smudge on a star.  A blemish.  Like a...  ah ah, an angel.  -- No, you aren't an angel because you eat fish.  And angels don't eat fish.

I can't stand your... niceness.  It's exhausting.  What's the point of it all.  You just walk through the world being... what?  Nice to people?

And that thing you said about table manners.  About how I should sit spine up and be all... Fuck that!

Look.  I lose.  I'm the loser.  I lose.  You win.  Go live your life.  Go... save people or whatever.

I lose.

Photo by Chris Sullivan.  Monologue by Dustin Whitehead.

Silenced

Pray, mantas, about worldly things
Abduction. Of the overwhelmed mind.
Listen to the music
Silenced. Overcome by calm.
Raise your head
to shapes and color.
Ponder colors
Simple
That is,
Zen.

Painting by Randy Conner.  Words by Nadia Hassler and Amanda Grupp.

the man and his myth

Have you heard the legend of the man and his myth,

A mammoth life all lined up,

His godly glass half full,

Reeling through this feeling abyss,

Drinking his way through, while over the river Styx, I mean Ricks…?

And maybe just maybe…well

See, this tall tail of a man,

Carrying the width of monstrous truths long since forgot,

Making his living on maybes, broadcasting maybes,

His shirt longs for a maybe, His hat, his smile, his swollen hands, and his beard…even when hot

See, Myth or not, what we all wait for he already has,

His place will be forever held in line,

His face will forever allude his time,

And his path will always be the envy of mine, maybe.

If you see this man, stop him and extract the titans of wisdom he feared and maybe just maybe he wont feel so old… Or weird

Though…

Make no mistake,

His image is eons in the making,

His longing maybes are his divinity, and his demeanor his lightning bolt…

Photo by Tyler Ross. Words by Will Gillespie.

There will always be a Park

I used to believe in flying dragons and dancing bears
Before responsibility and jobs and bills and affairs
I remember sliding across the tile in my little bare feet
Back when I didn't know things
Like that "homeless" means
You actually Sleep on the street

There were cookouts and family reunions and trips out of town
When all a map did was slow me down
Cause when the car was in motion
I'd hide under the back seat
In a world surreal
Feeling everything and judging nothing

But that all happened before the news came on
Before I opened a history book
Before a girl broke my heart
Before I knew what it really was to be a part
Of this world

Things are broken here
and momma can't always fix them
It gets lonely here
And we don't always have someone
People die here
And I don't mean to be dark

So

When we go to the park
Next time we go to the park
If we go to the park

Later

If we go to the park...

Let's go to the park!
And when we go 

To the park
Let's Go

Let's remember to dance 

And sing and spin
And run and jump and play
Cuz at the end of the day
We are all just kids
Looking for somewhere to...

We are better people as children
Worse children as people


But there's always a park
There will always be a park

Words by Dustin Whitehead. Interpreted through a collage by Amanda Grupp and Sadie Myers.