High Art

High Art
It makes everything seem like you’re in a movie, man.
No no no bro..
High ART
It’s how you get to be in the movie without actually opening your eyes
No no no bro
HIGH Art
Holmes, I don’t think you follow what I’m saying
It’s flying right over you
And swimmin’ right under you
Nobody put the effort in forcing it upon you
But you accepted it as if it was.
Like you had to.
You gave it meaning
Cause you needed to.
What, dude?
I don’t see that all.
HIGH ART
Silence
Pause
Cough
Silence
Ohhhhhhh – there it is.
I was suppose to hear it!
I was looking for something.
It was talking the whole time
But my headphones were in. 
And to be honest,
I actually fell asleep for a minute.
But I’m glad I woke up,
Cause I woulda missed it. 
And had to act like I understood what
Everybody meant when they talked about it afterward.
I’d make a general point that everybody would nod toward
But they definitely knew I missed it.
Glad I figured this whole thing out.
Dude, you have no idea what you’re saying.
You’re right.

Photo by Amanda Grupp. Words by Adam Wolf.

Refections on a Barbecue Glass

There is hope in letting it all hang out.  
                                                     Says the bartender to me
There is strength in bottling everything up.  
                                                      Say I to the bartender.
There is comfort in remembering those things we leave behind.  
                                                     Says the bartender to me.
There is relief in leaving those things.   
                                                     Say I to the bartender.
There is  
                                                    Another customer
Those teenage refusals (those adamant declarations of right) of the only things our parents knew to give us-those voids- are the only things we keep with us.  
                                                    Say I to my glass
Those life lessons that you can't pick out of your mind, like barbeque ribs cooked for ten hours now stuck in your teeth
Those family traditions you are dripping in like sticky sweet lemonade on the juicy ridge of your upper lip
We are the pictures of what we have tried so hard not to be
All we have left are the paths we've cut escaping the mud and the music and the mess
Of leaving afternoons so bright they have no choice but to shatter into a million lightning bugs by dusk
                              Say I to my glass
There was a joy before there was questioning
                              Say I to myself
(  )
                              Say I to myself, so I
Pray to a season that has abandoned me. Take me home. Roll me up in your hills and stuff me with dry itchy grass and remember me to myself.
                              Say I to Summer.
(Even if this memory isn't mine. It's someone's. Probably the memory of this girl sitting next to me.  She slides her finger up and down the sweat of her cider while I rock my Jameson into an eddy of time passing wonder whirls. The circular swirl tugs my heart into its gleam and my eye reflects back to my eye, struck golden from the overhead light and I want to fall in, like an orange balloon mistaking the sun for its mother.)
I want to go home.
                              Say I

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Stephanie Chavara.

it's not for me

vision, hidden behind hesitant fingers
            distorted by motion
            lost in the jumble of years

perhaps misremembered or just a lie.
one I tell the world or one I tell myself.
either/or I can't see.

there is truth out there
for those that know how to look
what's out there
its not for me
it's for those that know better
               and those that don't.
those that reach for the stars
                behind prison bars.
Me, somewhere in between.

vision, blurred through tears
            hope's light lost
            blinded by past transgression

perhaps its different or maybe not
the past is an echo, just a bit shorter
either/or I can't see.

there is trust out there
for those that know how to look
what's out there
it's not for me
it's for those that know better
               and those that don't.
those that reach for the stars
                behind prison bars.
Me, somewhere in between.

Photo by Amanda Grupp. Words by Fred Watford.

I

What am I

Why am I

Why I am

What am I?

What am I

Why am I

Why I am

What am I?

You tell me.

Photo by Sadie Myers.  Words by Lear Bunda. 

coffee sugar beer whiskey

coffee sugar beer whiskey 

celebrate a holiday with me at least for a tic tac I love you on the wall like a photo like a promise like a familiar snow like a river like a son loves a mother was always wanting to paint flowers for the wedding or for them and their loved and the love that will go on when words can not when the sentences fail and the languages become one less than none and more than fun and more than beautiful and that for there was a word and it was posterity and we will find our children the same way as they thank us for having them stand up next to the lyrics on our spirits that are meant to be amazing subtly representing what can only be outstanding understanding what they believe was 

always 

coffee sugar beer whiskey 

Photo by Stephanie Peters.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Burrito

She asked if I wanted to share
She always asks
I said yes

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and ro…….

Maybe that is what love is, vastness.C
An expansiveness that swallows the individual,
Not allowing one to look back on the fact their past was loneliness.
Many of us long to be swallowed, don’t we?
To be taken away, swept up with the wind,
And carried to the tender touch of another.
I think we do, anyway.
I do.
I want many.
I want vast, want expanse.
want to know what it means to stand amongst many.
want more than just me.
I want we and commotion.
And the smatter and all the clatter of forceful winds
tearing at my cheeks for more of you.
I want my skin to be goose-bumped and rocked
With the threat of being picked up and socked, clocked
By how I feel for you.

I want the feeling of wind.
I can watch love move the fields, but I see nothing specific.
I want the feeling of the wind, but I want no one specific.  
I want this wind to whip me into the shape of you
You’ll breathe the wind into me, past my ear
And tell me of hand-holdings and never-letting-go’s

I want vast. I want expanse. I want grandeur.
I want big. I want loud. I want the heavens.

So, now, I want to teach fear to leave me alone?
(the only thing I would like to be left alone of)
and stand in the middle of this all.
All of this you see there.
Stand in the bigness and feel it all.
I want the wind to swallow me.
And I want love.

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

"Mores Are For Whores"

We've been given our plot to till,

But we've thrown a ghost in the air

So that locusts may converge,

As we run and hide in the arms of convention.

And now, the dichotomy of the self.

The sound of that iron string is fading,

Because emulation is the shortest distance to nowhere.

And nowhere seems to be a favored destination.

I can't hear a thing over the sound of this defeat.

Somebody call a doctor, my flesh is falling off the bone.

Don't listen when the sirens are sounded.

Hold fast to the ropes that wrap your guts,

Or be hanged by them.

Words by Randy Conner. Photo response by Sadie Myers. (Edited by Lear Bunda.)

Telephone

I remember talking for hours, the day passing us by
I remember you being there.
I see life coming and going; time never stops to wait for the end
I see a good friend sitting next to me on the floor.
In my dreams we are flying, above the city, free
In my dreams I see the love in my life, until you take me.
I remember summer journeys, riding buses through the city
I remember the simple world.
In my dreams I am falling, and suddenly I wake
I see infinity; slap me.
I see hard work, creativity, sadness, and laughter
In my dreams...everything is ok.

Words by Nadia Hassler. Photo response by Sadie Myers.

City Prancer

City Prancer—

swing  umbrella

cross eighty-three

skip fresh coffee-talk

egg-white-omelet-silent   

observations

Cyborg—

left hand plugged

communal pulses

electrify human mind

flip switch

touch weather app

wear black, bring umbrella, exude gloom

complain through media

stay connected, work, pay bill.

Human—

unplug your arm

paint walls

splash sidewalk with green sediment

dance precipitated translucent sprinkles

turn on fluorescent stoop lights

crush rose petals on doorsteps

inhale lilacs before storm

Metropolis—

exhale technological impulse

keep walking

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Ciara Brewer.

shoes...

*Skuh-chock. Skuh-chock.*
Tiny feet shuffle tiny paces in shoes too big.
"Keeping those warm for daddy?"

'Daddy.' I know few words, this being the first and foremost of them. I know these brightly colored things on my feet make me feel like he's with me. I know wha...
"whaaaaaaaaaaa!"
"Oh come here, did somebody trip on his shoe lac...

"...es are there so you can grip the ball better. Let's see you throw a spiral."
I look across the makeshift football field, glorified by my 10 year old imagination.
"blue 80," I call to the left, "blue 80." I repeat to the right. "hutt!"
As I drop back, using the feet cadence my father taught me, I look down the field at the man. He is wide open, having outrun mother by a good 5 yards. I heave the ball. Father seems to dive. Mother stops running. The ball lands far short, hitting the ground without once resembling a spiral.
"Father? Are you O...

"...K? You haven't said a word since you found those things?"
Sitting among the scattered memories of my past I look up at my future.
"Yeah, sorry darlin, I just never expected.. Well any of this."
"It's ok. I understand. I'm going to go downstairs. Call me if you need me."
Mother had saved these things. Father's things. These things. These shoes... They are worse for wear. Their vibrant color faded. Their humorously long laces long since gone. I wipe at the dirt and the grime but it has become as much a part of the shoe as the sole. This dirt is the soul of the shoe and so I leave it. Taking off my own shoe I slide my foot into father's. It fits. I put on the other and walk downstairs.
"Daddy, why are your shoes all dirty?" I look down at the bright blue eyes of my son and smile. I walk in my father's shoes...

Photo by John Henry.  Words by Fred Watford.

There is a lot.

There is a lot in this world intended to harm us.

and at moments

(whether uncontrolled (like weather))

we must allow (against better judgement) the waves to crash into us.

Salt water will fill your lungs (sponges for sorrow)

And you won't breathe.

You won't.

You'll only sputter and gargle.

The rag doll pull of your body at the whims of a greater sea.

(You see) we are designed to endure.

Fall to our knees in grace and push for more.

Look at the roots (like smoke wisps)

This is the collapsing and crushing

the squeezing and crunching of your bones.

They overtake the good in your eyes and block out the sun.

but be not undone (for you were meant to endure).

Look at the blood spilt (in the background).

a messy spread of dried plum purples.

the deep, unclean blues of your veins.

and the painted orange of sunsets.

All of this is blood.

There is a lot in this world that we must face.

(When the waters come up to your throat,

struggle to stay a float

When the roots threaten to become your bones

and the moans of your blood cry out (please stop)

There is a lot in this world and I wish you the best.

I do not want you to be harmed by the chaos of it all.

I promise we were meant to endure.

I promise.

I promise.

I promise.

Photo by Vinnie Bailey.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell

Capture The Moment

Photo by Dustin Whitehead.  Titled by Sadie Myers.

traincarboxride

0n an old winter night of who thousand eleven the farmer's daughter's bodyguard's dog's nephew was thirsty for a fight.  He rode to the end of the traincarboxride and lonely he was stunned by the perplexity of that which he sought.  The bone stared him in the eye outside of a country saloon style.  Their boots held the dirt like a monkey holds the cage they rattled.  It was angry the moment and all was sensual for nothing hurt.  Shortly after the fight would be their futurefate but neither creature was interested in that.  They fought on morals and standards that spanned centuries and every inauguration and birthday and wedding party was celebrated and represented by falling star ships.   When the morning asked for recognition the crowd stopped to wonder and souls skipped beats.  The suspense was unimportant for nothing happened to the trapeze builder who played a fiddle with his toes and the grapefruit with his belly.  And only women swam in the mushroom lake.  Everyone knows that.  Follow your heart and other phrases were chanted by the flowers and the wheat grass and the wind.  Yesterday tasted better the duelers thought.  They were no longer hungry but they had learned something in the pacing before igniting their trigger stems.  Hallellujuh praise all lords and all that claim to be.  We like to think we have names as we are only creatures of the earthy ground we walk on as we go back in goodnightdaytimelifeend.

Photo by Lear Bunda.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Far from Torn

Far from Torn

                                                      my mess comforts me 

                                    i know i have filled the room with intent...attempt

                                                             at least I embrace my mistakes

                                                                                       course mostly trash waiting till I purge my space

                                                                                but every articulation runs its course, no waste

                       

                    eventually needing sensoring...and as i edit i warm

 saying no to something presently means

 i am living presently and working presentfully

this mess looks of one who has something to say

                                                                                             and even if i don't

                                                                                             i love the action more than the idea

                                                                          drowning the room against an ideal to be trashed 

to be insulation made of getting it wrong from getting it right

my mistakes validate me

Failer means i tried,

crumpling means i started, 

so,

                                                  i can allow the wrongs to be heaped...while...

                                                                     writing tools know their place and so too the fresh paper

                                                  if my world could edit, i'd get tired of it

wait what was I gonna Right??

Acrylics in frantic strokes layering questions round

Photo by Caroline  Näslund.  Words by Will Gilliespie.

The lord has always been sweet to me

Trapezoid flipside
Ringside courtside
Follow the signs she said
The lord has always been sweet to me

I waited for a phone
And set my clock
Watch the nighttime
Found my honesty

Think about future
Talk about passed
Regret only one mistake
Forget the rest

Drive sober
Dance drunk
Fly aware
Swim naked

I always loved New York

Follow suit
Break stride
Build humor
Knock down walls

Hotels are the secret
Food is good
A bed is a dear friend
Laundry is fun

Smile when greeted
Keep only real company
Use chopsticks
Be at least as smart as a compass

These are my tid bits 

And the lord has always been sweet to me

Photo by Chris Sullivan.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Laboratories

Scientific method

experimentation

calculation, compartmentalization

explain, label, classify

rectify, engineer, rebuild

They say it’s in our nature.

That need to figure it out.

To Analyze it.

Hypothesize it.

Revolutionize it.

Divide it.

And conquer it.

And thank God

for breathing us that nature

because without it we would have

no flat screens

no oil rigs

no warheads, web porn, or wall street.

If I poor A into B

what will explode?

Curiosity

is our nature.

And it just wouldn’t be our nature

to stand and simply marvel

at the hills

cutting notches out of the horizon

without trying to determine

whowhatwhenwherewhy

they were cut?

And how can we cut them down?

Photo by Amanda Grupp.  Words by Shannon Wilson.

drop it in

 

Drop in

Drop on by

Drip drops

 Drops of rain

Drops of love

Drop down curtains

College drop outs can

Drop those prepositions

 Photo by Amanda Grupp. Words by Sadie Myers.

Laugh Later

Panting...Ding

Immediacy

vivid immediacy

i lost my wallet, my job, and i'm sure my kid is still in wally world (If i still have one)

i've won a million dollars, but can't find the ticket

all the room has color and infinite investment 

my life becomes the donation...in good faith...

every direction to go and no decision in sight

not a maze but just me lost with me

beams of lucky charm flavor Lucidity

every direction seeming more promising than the last

what will become of me...something MUST be done...and fast

i know that every second has lifetimes worth of consequences and possibility ,so,

every moment I reflect in stead of ACT begets a wholey unique living lense of the world

crystalizing this feeling for my unfelt generations to come

I've got too many jewels for holding still

Dotingly Negating Avarice 

acrylics of questioning all round me

no wonder we love watching eachother

a TASTE of this moment 

a light bulb irradiating immediacy 

and the meal is sweet so long as we don't know who is donated

because just as beautiful as my struggle becomes, it once alluded nothing and it was ugly sinking

JUST GO

Painting by Randy Conner.  Words by Will Gillespie.

Mostly Undefined

“I'm not sure what I am,” her words tangled and coursed tighter around her than veins.

This phrase was her blood of the time.

She repeated the mantra till it filled her lungs,

recycled through her body

and flowed vividly through the pale of her cheeks.

“I'm a mess I don't know what I'm doing I dont know where I am going who I am turning into I dont know where I start what part of me is real if I lie to people or if I am lying to myself if I can change and be better I dont know how to even begin I know something must be a miss because I am not me but I want to be because me is the only me but I dont know me anymore Im such a mess that I cannot be anything more but I want to be because I am me and me is not a mess and I have no idea what I am doing I dont know who I am”

With each ambiguous phrase the poor girl entrenched herself

further into obscurity.

She was creating her own un-definition.

Poor girl.

She turned to me, poor girl,

hoping to catch pieces of a mirror,

wanting a reflection.

But in me she would only find a pond, rippled and mirky.

And only my love for her lie at the bottom.

“You wont find anything steadfast here. Im so sorry”

“I know”

She wanted to redraw herself, take any bent pieces and straighten them

she wanted to untangle, deconstruct, add color, sharpen 

and chase/embrace the ever-elusive idiom, “let go”

“Isn't that what I should do? Let go?

Let go of any chance of finding myself?

Sorting it out? Stop putting so much pressure on myself to really be me?”

I didn't know what that meant.

So I tried something else:

“What do you see?”

“Huh?”

“What do you see? When you look at that, you, what do you see?”

“I dont even want to look”

(We are all sculptures wanting to be reshaped by our own hands,

But we cannot wet our hands and mold the world that reforms us)

“You want to be the Maker and the clay

and poor girl, that simply won't do.

In some chances it might. You could probably hold destiny at bay

and carve yourself”

“Huh?”

“I see flowers.

When I first looked at that, you, I saw a vase on the left and maybe flowers made of twine or ropes and I saw sunshine. Do you see that too? Maybe you dont, but regardless of what is perceived, it is the ability to carry all the unknown that is most important. If you cant tell what you are, know that I see flowers. Beautiful black and white flowers and no matter how undefined you may want to pull yourself towards, I will always see you, see that,

I see flowers”

Photo by Angela Shields.  Words by Jordan Shappell.

southern star, 'cross southern eyes

on the far side of the world.

hopes and dreams anxiously swirl

to mix emotions, black and white affair

colorlust lost with tides repair

so she floats in magnetic rhythm

gracefully surrendering all thats given

by world’s embrace and slow revolve

the crashing mists magnetic call

cliffs show strength and piercing force

gales and grasses move love’s remorse

across a beach to open landscape

the ebb and flow so often we make

our pitch and yar a violent offense

then love afloat fights storms descent

once a calm and peaceful boast

time’s turned darkened, protective mote

waves churn evil, quickly find

how seasons change and stars align

across the distance a southern cross

held in place, someplace far lost.

Photo by Michael Seminer.  Words by Jamie Kennedy.

Happy Shy Innocent

Cover your eyes.
Is monkey see, monkey do true?
Because if it is, beneath my hands I don’t see you.
Who do you see?
Happy, shy, innocent
See no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil – do you believe?
My brother told me it is true.
Does this mean I can make my own path?
In your walking sandals or bare feet.
Where will you go next?
How will you add color to your world?
My color will shine through.

Photo by Michael Seminer.  Words by Nadia Hassler and Amanda Grupp.

Bedroom

Is there a room maybe

With space for a smile

Will the quilts stay soft

After and over awhile

Could the music still play

Will joy in grace yet continue

If it happened on tomorrow

What would be the venue

Well...

There's white tile past the door

Blinds with God shining through

Like the love deep inside us

Lit by the tiniest sleeping hue

Photo by Stephanie Peters.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.



Cloud Ten

spoke up to words and wanting and flower

holiday happy come soon

want to breath 

used to run

like to fun

and everything reflects

i wish i had a haiku 

what i believe in surely do you flavor 

signing papers nakedly aware

understanding 

please be

are we

after everyone has left 

i wish i had a blanket

it was never cold enough we coughed

so did yesterday obviously

nothing original

triumphantly

reluctantly 

following suit case

i wish i had a teleporter  

we walked humbly across the page

sifting through the flowers

wandering for acorns

no feeding

no bleeding

i found a  shower

i wish i had a ... 

Charcoal piece by Vinnie Bailey.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.