It's Halloween, I suppose

and this skull is my friend

but we never go dancing

and he always takes naps

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Haiku by Dustin Whitehead.

Missing the Fall that I never took for granted

oh man, what i would give 

for a nice long walk down a 

quite Chicago street

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Haiku by Dustin Whitehead.

Don't let it break your heart

We got cut in the dark, caught up in the shouts,

found ourselves and raged for the rights to each other.

If your heart isn't in it, march your feet.

Your blood will eventually match the pace and passion.

One beat will guide you to me. Two beats will set you free.

Three is my hand in yours. Four gets you through the night.

Don't let it break your heart.

If we shout, spend all the air in our bare lungs

and still don't get what we want, if we don't get each other.

Don't let it break your heart.

I protest: we are still looking for love.

we are still looking for love.

we are still looking for love. 

And we will do anything to find it here on 

Photo by Amanda Grupp.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

a warm blue blanket

it never gets mad at us, the sky.  no matter what, it holds and comforts us.  i am thankful for that. 

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Circle Circle Dot Dot

Which light is yours, setting sun?  And which is that of our people?  Which light is tomorrow morning?  And which is for the end of today?  Circle circle dot dot.  Spin spin turn turn.  The earth.  It's rotation.  Gravity.  People.  We are small.  Even you are small.  You who give your light to the world.  But what would we have done without you?  You don't have to answer that.

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Take a picture. It lasts longer.

 

Take a picture. It lasts longer.

Yea

I remember her

She was there that night

But now

Now it's just a foggy memory

Like a polaroid you touch

Before it's done developing

Sepia 

Sprawls

But barely to the edges

Reaching out to save

The fate

Already speeding forward

Her mind

Seeping 

Alcohol spilling

The reason for confusion

The reason the train didn't stop.

Stop!

Why didn't it stop for me?

Sirens

red lights

But now it's all blood

Red seep; green grass

Christmas on the lawn

In a flash

Blinding light

Now she only lives

In a 4 by 6

With her face on right

When everything

Was bright

And alright

What ever happened to alright?

 

Photo by Adam Peterson.  Words by Kristin Rotar.

Two Missiles pointed at a Nazi Submarine

Hello doll,

You are crazy to brush your teeth at night.  There are aliens in the mirror.  Dogs are robots.  Airplanes are simulators.   Space is a movie set.  Water is a suppressant.  Frogs and fish speak the same language.  Strawberry Ice Cream is 72% cocaine.  Nothing should be consumed by the consumer.  I like working.  I am naked 20% of my life.   And the color red contains a secret algorithm for the change in temperature that happens when the sun goes down... The sun does go down by the way.  The earth couldn't turn even if it wanted to. 

I am proud to call myself a Conspiracy Theorist. fuckem!

Love,

Your Great Aunt

Photo by Nadia Hassler.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

The Earth was soft

My backyard was desert.

And after a storm or monsoon, I would walk beyond our cement brick wall.

The ground moved when I moved, not gritty at all, and gave generously where I stepped.

The Earth was soft.

I remember coming across a fire.

It was about a half mile from my house.

The flames blended with the setting sun,

and smoke remodeled into thick storm clouds.

It skewed the beauty behind it.

How could there be a fire when it just rained, I thought.

I couldn't move. I also wasn't trying.

I felt earth creep higher on my toes. I stared.

My chest held me there.

My eyebrows dropped down and I thought.

But nothing was really happening.

I was still. Staring. Nothing.

I kept the gaze. The flame.

The smoke. The sky. The soft rain just a few minutes ago.

The wet dirt. The crack of shrubs being eaten by flame.

The sky. My stare. My hands hanging loose at my sides. My cold legs.

My chest empty. My throat closed. My tears.

I stared.

For nine whole minutes.

I gazed. The rain that was, the fire now.

I stared.

Photo by Jenna Weaver.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

Do you want to tell it or should I tell it?

one time, we got engaged 

and now when anyone asks

we tell them the story

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Haiku by Dustin Whitehead.

reception

its better there then here, the reception.  but we operate okay without it.  we walk when the signs tell us, hide under umbrellas in the afternoon, and dance to music we smuggled in.  i don't speak homesick.  not yet.  maybe there will be a day when i want a chicago style hot dog or a bar with dirt on the floor.  but right now i am making moving pictures and the only thing that scares me is not doing that anymore.  perhaps i can make something artistically awesome out of all the complications.  like naming a baby "caesarean section". i see in numbers sometimes, but mostly images.  i'm hanging from a wire, just like everybody else.  i believe in the world.  we who are in it, have a right and a responsibility to be ourselves.  

this is the digital age.  but we are poets nonetheless.  let's never forget that.

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Dustin Whitehead

Done

Comer here,
the dishes are done and it's time for us to sit with each other.
Like an old couple 30 years less in marriage.
Sit under my right arm and rest your head in my neck.
We won't talk and we won't sleep.
We'll sit on the couch we bought together.
The one that is a little too rough, but worn in by our bodies.
The breeze will dance the drapes through the open window
and the light spills purple and green into the room.
Sit in me, like you grew out of me.
Like we were once one, now two, but still together.
Dear, you made a wonderful meal.
You always do.
And I clean up after you for what you've done for me.
So, now, let's sit. Without talking.
Without conflict. Without thought.
Just the warmth of ourselves and the blood passing through us to each other,
surrounded by the cool of the room.
If your toes or hands or nose get cold,
push them into me.
Tuck your nose in my neck, put your feet under my legs
and run your hands under my shirt, onto my stomach.
Let's sit. Dinner is done, the dishes are clean and drying.
Come sit with me. I've been waiting along time for this.
All day. All week. Its been a rough week.
Come site with me.
I love you. You know that?
I love you. And I love sitting with you.
They're done, dear. Every dish clean, from the meal you made
and the food we ate and the love we make. All done.
Come sit. Quiet. With me.
Sit with me.
Love me.
I love you.

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

Secrets in the Storm

If there were no paper

I would write upon the clouds

the sky would know me well

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Haiku by Dustin Whitehead.

Media Machine

Lies are apart of culture.
We cannot change that.

…......

Come here, let me lick your ear with my truth.
You can trust the Media Machine, for Im the only way to know the world.
I give you information in exchange for your belief.
Scoot closer, let the glow of my screen keep you warm in your thoughts.

…....

If you can, stray from cynicism. It is the death of hope.
But keep doubt readied at your hip.
Learn to have a discerning eye.
Don't be afraid of research.
Get your hands filthy with empathy. Learn both sides.

…..

Come closer, I can fill you in on all things needed.
I'll help you impress your friends. I'll help you argue in smart debate.
I'll keep you up to date.
I'll be there for you whenever you need.
You turn me on, I'll fill you up.
Trust me.

….

Fear inactivity. Don't settle for what you're told.
Instead, mix knowledge with experience.
Make a bowl of your heart and mind
and stir.
Trust yourself. Trust your body. Trust you know what is best. What is good.

…...

Move in, let me teach you.
I objectively filter information for your benefit.
I know what is best for you. What is good for you.
I know.

….

Most of the time we will not know the lies being told to us.
We look lovers in the eye while they tell us fiction.

Our parents impart partial truths to keep us safe.
Lies are apart of culture.
We cannot change this.
It is a sad truth.

Im sorry.
I've lied too.
I have.
A lot.
Not here, in this short bit, but in life.
A lot.

…..

So who can you trust, if not me?
The world has built deceit.
You see, listen, come closer, I'll help you.
I'll tell you. I'll be there for you.

Art by Christina Steele.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

sew-per

fabric sandwich tonight

we're out of what tastes like food

who's on grocery duty?

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Haiku by Dustin Whitehead.

hungry teeth, we call him

you got something to say

don't let the cat get your tongue

wall gator will eat you

 

Photo by Fred Watford.  Haiku by Dustin Whitehead.

retrospect

always loved skateboarding

it had a wonderful flip 

to it, wish i still did

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Haiku by Dustin Whitehead.

I wish to be here with my friends

My eyelids slip closed and the sun burns through the thin layer of skin.
The world is glowing tan.

I like it up here.
Just at the tip of the top of my thoughts.
My mind is usually branches and tangled trails through mist.
It can be hard to navigate.
But up here, just above the line of doubt I really don't have much going on.
Its easy.
And honestly, Im just trying to keep the peace.
Up here the smog cant reach
and grips the ground. I get to be above it.

For these few moments I feel okay.
I know it wont last and I don't need it to.
But it feels nice to be here, to treasure the sun and
the tops of trees we don't normally see.
The air is clearer and breathing (which is important) is easier.

I whisper, let me stay. Just for a bit.

Photo by Dustin Whitehead.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

celebration; it's all so familiarly brand new

i saw your dancing smile fifteen times 

one mile away

watchout!

gotcha-again

bird man comin

i know you're special

that's why i brought you a red balloon fantasy

my gift to you

wanna go for a walk?

i'll bring Julio

he likes walks too 

isn't it great having friends

matter fact, lets fly

Art by Debbie Poon.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Ned

 

 

Scene 1: Ned the Lonely Pear

Hi! I’m Ned
Want to sit next to me on the bus?
Want to play a game?

More formally I am  known as:
Nincompoop
Eating
Decipherables
You probably know me as:
The Cat That Got Your Tongue.
Clearly, I am not a cat. I am a pear
and you can call me Ned.

Let’s play my favorite game:
word bank.
You know how to play?
Where I take your thought bubble (like this)
eat all the nouns
scramble the verbs
serve them to you and you
spit out something.
You know that one friend?

“want...go...can...said...hungry...”

Scene 2: Nei the Hard Core

Hey. I am Nei.

More formally known as:
Nincompoop
Eaten by
Indecipherables.
You probably know me as Ned the lonely pear.
But, clearly, I am not a pear. I am a hard core. 

I only eat pronouns.I do not play games.

 

 

Art by Christina Steele. Words by Ciara Brewer.

Leading Lines

That's what teach calls them

Leading eye to our window

Where we tend to sleep

  Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Haiku by Dustin Whitehead.

Bird of Prey

It's funny that this is an owl.

Art by Debbie Poon. Words by Rashaad Hall.

Bubble

If I could get my hand in there 

I'd make a glove that held tradition solid smooth 

nighttime romantic found by the fire sounds the key note speaker fly by balloon masterpiece 

technique before product and necessity is me after I which are the lame duck swallowed a flea 

spare tire afternoon came next what a lunch, remember?

same smile 

same spit

same solid

same soul

If I could get my heart in there

I'd make a dove that held transition in a move

fighttime organic bound by the wire mound that denotes perfect why high monsoon actorthief

physique be for reduct in arbitrary big bee which is why witch saw the tame duck swallow a tree

Pair mire with the muck and hexed by a brunch we forgot

wee!

...and that was my favorite calculation

Photo by Amanda Grupp.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Thoughts on Beaches

I…
want to attain
the unattainable.

I want to touch
the untouchable.

I want to think
the unthinkable

sink the unsinkable
shake the unshakeable
and break the unbreakable.

I want to write a letter to Whitman himself
and tell him that I too contain multitudes.

I am young. Just 21.
I’ve got the wind at my back
and the world at my fingers.

I want to educate the children.
I want to feed the hungry.
I want to stop the wars
and start a garden.

I WANT TO HOLD IN ALL THE WATERS OF THE WORLD

but
it just keeps slipping
through my hands like a sieve.

Photo by Amanda Grupp.  Words by Shannon Wilson.

fades to gray

It's not there.
God! Why is it always there?!
The absence of & the light
Mocking- in between
The consciousness.
Where the prism ends.
Fades to gray.
Which one extreme-
Will.
I face away today.
I scratch
You scratch back
The opposite
Curly queued
Beneath fingernails
Gnarled, orderless
Among every lost direction
And unmoving itch
The complications of
A knot in the birch

Art by Nadia Hassler.  Words by Kristin Rotar.

I feel like that bird

I feel like that bird,
the one you see there (on the right) (traced in light).
You can't hear it because you're reading this,
but there is a silence up here that inspires and require for more of you to show up.
I can't...I can't...
My blood pushes against gravity and my muscles have cramped many hours ago.
Still,
I flap and spill into the wind. I'm trying to soar.

You see that plane/helicopter thing up there
on the left (except) its clad in dark.
harder to see, to make out. Strain to find it.
Some people are machines, better than me and flying ahead.
It's just...they can't feel what I feel.

Let me tell you of the moments before I was up here.
---
I took my sulks and mixed them with ashes of old flames
coated my wings in mud, letting it h(e)ar(t)den.
I told myself to stay earthed.
I barely ate. I lost weight. I stopped cooking for flavor.
I fell in love with anything that had curly hair
and batted lashes at my longing.
I kept myself in thickets.
I stopped writing.
I stopped waiting for something special.
I stopped thinking I was something special.
I stopped the pride in my work.
I stopped dancing to the music in my house.
I stopped looking to the sky for a home, for belonging, for being of.
I stopped praying like I had no more options.
I stopped. I stopped. I succumbed. I stopped. I stopped.

The silence

---
Don't(Flap)Stop
Don't(Flap)Stop
Don't(Flap)Stop
---

I stopped being boring.
I stopped the dirt, the shit, the sit.
I stopped disrupting myself and feeling bad for myself, myself, myself, myself, myself.
I stopped tangling veins around my neck, choking back the blood I needed to breath, to see.
I stopped clogging my chest with dirt.

I stopped stopping my love mid beat.
I stopped me from stopping me.

I feel like that bird.

I tore myself free and felt all the cold tingle
of mist on my wings.
I wrote some.
I pushed forward, closed my eyes.
The wind lapped my feathers clean,
flap flap—pieces of clay cracked, crumbling off my arms.
I told myself that fear would happen.
I kept editing what I wrote.
I cleaned my house.
I breathed deeper.
I wrote out a list of things I am good at.
I made more edits.
I went on a date.
I made a banner that said “Seek Art, Not Affirmation”.
I said “no” to a second date.
I stood up, outstretched my smile and let the clumps of ash(ame) fall to the earth they belonged to.
I woke up at 8:30 everyday.
I found the golden dressed sun, sparkling just outside.
I pulled myself off the ground.
I felt sweat well up and pour out.
I flew.

The silence

I feel like that bird there, on the right, still in sight,
Fighting towards the light
half in flight.
I've created a rhythm I can keep.
My blood is better than that plane's gasoline.
I'll watch, with admiration, till it fades in the distance,
and I'll only have its trail of machine smell to wing through.

I'm almost
Flap
keepflapgoing
almost.
keepflapgoing
flapflap

flap

Photo by Fred Watford.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

my name is ALEXANDER HYDE

left cold on the shore
                      she is alone

            i only knew her silence
                                             i took away her innocence

i couldn't see that was my plan all along

                     my name is ALEXANDER HYDE

                                                               and i have fallen in love with a child

Photo by Sam Hensen.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Writer in Bed.

How should I end it.  A stomach ache.  Pregnancy.  Death.  How should I end it.  She is living and breathing.  What is he.  Where is he coming from.  What will he do.  Who is flawed.  Is it him.  Mark it complete.  Send it out.  Finish it on set.  What would Stephen King do.  I don't want to write in a dog.  Do I.  Or a rat.  Sleep is for the weak.  Sleep is not for these characters.  I am not these characters.  I will sleep.  Sleep.  Sleep...

Piece by Nadia Hassler.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

A Villanelle from Down Under

Remember to look up when down under
and forget where to place your feet
to fall into inversion.

When the air smells grouchy and cries with thunder
or toes drag through blades of grass in defeat,
remember to look up when down under.

When sponged-skin soaks sun on a carefree meander;
those cunning trained eyes retreat
to fall into inversion.

After bright eyed nights, mind exploding in wander
of potential accomplishments to be beat:
remember to look up when down under.

Trains, Planes and Automobiles-- stop,  ponder:
sometimes its only clear when two strangers meet--
remember to look up when down under
to fall into inversion.

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Ciara Brewer.

Relief in Summer

Heat of summer met

The smell of rain – lavender 

Feeling relief now 

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Jason Myers.

Thanks for sharing

 

then came the sun when it was always overcast at last we could breath we thanked the trees

"thank you"

that's how we worded it

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Dustin Whitehead

slice the apple

 

Let's build an alligator afternoon coconut smile derby

Doesn't that smell like fun

Locked inside my shoebox I ordered refreshments

Twenty four dollars worth of personal pan pizza later, I saved a slice for you

Snacks for breakfast snacks for lunch then for dinner snake the punch

The drink has never fruit, but I love the new Tupperware

Solitary divide amongst the queerest of us 

We eat bread when fish eyes are the common language

So to speak I sort of spoke

Whispering yelling spitting a joke, yours mom

It makes me miss the snow, this town

Slice the apple, chew it down

 

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.