Idiot, Step Rightly

Listen to me. You're an idiot. And a fuck up.
Yes, you are a million rolling seas inside your skin.
Turning over ideas and changing feelings.
Raging an inconstant lust and self-destroyed heart.
You swallow all feelings and wash around confusion.

But do not mistake inconstancy for fear.
You see yourself tarnished, incapable of shine,
so you ensure everyone else will too.
You actualize this shitty idea of yourself
by projecting out deprecation in your relationships.
You mirror yourself through others eyes.

You're not getting better. You're pushing further away from safety.
You're a liar. And a cheat.
You convince yourself you cannot love.
You convince yourself the heart is not capable of more than itself.
It's only a machine, pulsing and pushing the blood through you.
Muscle that cannot be stretched or grown.
It beats until it withers. Shrivels into the palms of your hands,
then put it in your pockets or throw it away
because no one could surely have liked it. Its just a thing.
Not flowers that could bloom, not Spring or the seasons that change.
Just a thing.

Listen to me. From this point on, I am simply stone,
gravel under your feet to kick and pass. I don't mean anything worth sitting next to.
I cannot give any more sage advice. It's not my responsibility, nor my right.

But moving forward stop hiding behind the excuse that no one will ever- no one could ever- I can
never- no one exists- I'm just this way- I'm only confused- I'm not this thing-

You're not getting what you want.
So when you came to sit next to me for a time, I enjoyed it.
I really did.
I'm still sitting. You're not.
So going forth and step rightly.
Don't come back.
And please, damnit, step rightly.

Photo by Michael Seminer.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

this train

full of people, this train

and bound for glory, this train

arms crossed phone out - wee

Photo by Sadie.  Haiku by Dustin.

they call it "the bridge"

this bridge that they speak of
"where is it?"   . . .    "i hear it's wild!"

film brains can dance break

Photo by Jamie "Coco" Villa.  Haiku by Dustin Whitehead.

Holding On

Your father's here
He isn't perfect
But he wants to know you
I know he does

He won't let you leave without a fight
and that's something

Photo by Malay Prakash.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

forrest for the tree

 

Pay attention for a moment

Can you hear me breathe

I want you to feel my heartbeat

and learn to stay alive 

Please stay alive

I won't live without you

I want so badly for you to know happiness

For you to know who you are

I don't know either

I am lost

 

Art by Christian Barron.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

2 Months

 

Hey there,

I've been thinking about you a lot lately
How could I not
I love you so much already

How could I not

These streets don't know you.  

And I don't know these streets.  

I'm not sure I want you to know these streets.

Or for them to know you.

Memories are all we have a right to in this world.

And you have none.

I envy you.  

 

Photo by Stella Hartmann.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

My Skyline

The city

deluminate

at half past sixteen

Cubicle dwellers

put on their

fluorescent-goggles

Industry folk

scavenge

for breakfast

Rush hour trains

lullaby

the exhausted

Loved ones

meet

to dine

And we

ask  did the city speed up

or did we slow down?

Photo by Malay Prakash. Words by Ciara Brewer.

i see all that you see, okay?!

 

i see the freakin coppers
i smell the show stoppers
i lost the midnight flop tarts
and borrowed a new direction
wanna eat some flour with me
i've outgrown baking
and my shoes are wet too
on top of that; awkward moments are ugly
like soap box derby cars with no father
don't judge my case
i'll only make you wet your bed
see the irony
i get it
i fruegin get it
tangerine
sweater fart
we should have ordered the cheese
and only the lucky get to live on New York City island
the drunk guy wandering the table is
footing the tab
i've lost track of gravity
but that's the only good thing
about
smart engineering
when are the awards
i'll ask for a signature
a card in the crack
a pig runs through the bank screaming

"It was mine first you flipping hogs!!"

Photo by Fred Watford.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

what little grows here

What little grows here now needs a lot of care.

There used to live a thick tree, with chipped and stoney bark,
roots the size of a man's leg, entrenched down and coursing through the warm grip of earth.
The world and the tree would hold each other.
They used to breath and sway with the wind.
The tree was strong, the earth was loyal.
But the tree's biggest flaw was that it clung to too much,
tried to grasp too deep.
So when the storm came, when the sky opened, the weathered world couldn't handle it.
The beautiful earth found the grip of the tree too much.
It had to let go.
And that tree fell, splintered and the trunk broke like a heart.

So what's left are the tiny seeds of that tree
and an earth not quite ready.
Despite the soil's stern feel, the tree still lives through tiny sprouts.
And still finds the earth.
And still reaches out it's roots like hands,
hoping to find the grasp back.
Hoping the dirt will interlace it's fingers
and the two will find their home again.
It'll just be different.

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

oh, does it winter bean today
does my heart beam and sway
may my soul delay
in loo of what

is always asking questions
taking no prisoners
dancing on hotel balconies
waiting for the awesome

that was once

i believe in saturday mornings
as i believe in the film i'm writing now
as i believe in the love i have for her
as i believe in the love i have for

family always says hello
to the world bound
lost in thought
steady on the life

inspiring

i walked once in memphis
and that was my first time
i held no drum
but the music was electric

blues in Chicago
blues in Florida
blues in Singapore
Everything will be okay

and at least i'm speaking truth

Photo by Nadia Hassler. Words by Dustin Whitehead.

...For You

So, I'll be forthright, this poem is for you.

You are the sun. And I think I'm the horizon.
Hoping to nightly, absorb you, lay with the stars
and hold you till morning.
Then to let you go and watch you grow distant during the day.
And when our lips hit at dusk and dawn we whisper secrets
we've never told and melt, for a moment, into comfort.
I swear I've never kissed anyone like that.
Like that one time.
Like the sun.

And I'm the blood.
Pushing around, being cleaned.
Keeping alive.
I want to be the thing that moves you.

And we are the hearts,
unable to escape from our skin,
can't let each other in
because we don't share the same rhythm right now.
But I wish we did.

This is a poem for you.
It's not the best. And it may not be your style.
But know, these words live in me like blood,
and I'll write them down like the constant setting sun,
hoping not to be undone
'cause I have this thing in my chest.

Photo by Malay Prakash.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

Chiaroscuro Romance

i am glad we broke the windows to save the walls.  

why are you looking at me funny orange smile temperature?

i am thankful that the birds are outside with the furniture and all the needy people's things.
here we can breath.
and make love.
and stretch out on the surface space.

     are you sure we're in the right place?

Photo by Rachel N Broaddus. Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Used to Be

How did I end up here?
Head half in the ground,
tattooed from all my lost loving failures,
looking crazy as hell.

There is a shadow of a man I wish to be
hiding deep in my skin.
So with blood as my zest I peel back my tough skin rind
and try to find
all that I long to be.
My finger nails first, scratch the surface
and the raw, dry skin releases easily.
My body hates what I've become.
If the skin could,
it would
slink
down itself,
like a dress fallen to beautiful exposure.
But the work is tough and true release has to come from yourself.

I want to dig me up
and clean away, not who I am,
but the mess I am not.

I am more.
I am better.
I am more.
I am better.
Someone tell me I am more.
I am better than to hide in the ground.
I am more than the air and breath me into your lungs
so I know I am worth more.
I am better than this.
I am more than what I used to be.

Photo by Nadia Hassler.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell

let me fly

i don't want to wait until the morning comes or the crickets croak or the fat lady flirts
i don't want to sip on regret or taste the failure or fly the flag of surrender

i do (however) want to fly
to go
to dance on the wind and the clouds and hope

there are no streams (to go against) in the sky
put me up there
give me flight
give me hope
hold my heart

let me fly, lord

let me fly

Photo by Amanda Grupp.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

written (or to write)

We stand on the burial ground of all our dead ideas.
Those feelings discarded by bit and bleeding tongues.
The things we've always wanted for ourselves, but said no.
Everything fallen.
“She'll never like you, she's too good for you”
“You don't know the answer. Don't talk”
“Don't tell them. They won't love you. Not again”
“Don't commit. You'll only be hurt”
Shot down soldiers from the smoldering bullets of our own doubt.
Yes, we massacre as much of ourselves as much as possible.
We'd rather assume we are bad than good.

But self destruction is the destruction of yourself,
and someone else loves yourself.
Someone is knocking to hear the true beat of your feeling machine.
No longer dismantle yourself.
Do not take away that someone's favorite thing to look at.

Instead, let loose the broken straps of your heart and spill guts on the floor.
Sit down to write, pencil shaking to your pulse
and dance back the dead.
Give your desires mouth to mouth.
Give your heart recognition.
Give the dark your hand.
Flood the graveyard till the bodies rise.
Let it flow from the tips of tips of your fingers tips.
Don't contain your laugh
Don''t contain your love
Don't contain the childish things inside you.
Stand on heaping piles of failure and let loose on the world.
Whip out your crazy and wipe the shit from your shoes.
It most likely came from your brain
and out your own mouth when you said you weren't good enough.
do not hide your love,
do not hide your weirdness,
do not hide your you.
Sit down to write and do not destroy yourself a second longer.

Remember no one hates anyone more than you hate yourself.
And then forget how to hate.
Angels often come from recovered monsters who got sick of scary things.

today they grow for Edie Pearl

the purples and pinks

all the colors daddy mixes 

vegetables in the garden

coffee that's too hot

shower water never truly warm enough

the birds and the saturday mornings and the music we sing

the dog that eats, the cat, the baby boy

today they grow for her

there was a flash of light and out she came 

and all the photographs and conversations and dance moves and grass stains to come 

will hold her in our hearts

her story is her own, but for a while we hold the frame

we decorate her space and paint her body with gentle touch 

and 

love her with our everything 

raise your glasses

our angel is here 

Photo by Sadie.  Words by Dustin.

This was the place

This was was the place, before the weeds had grown, before the wood was warped. Where you climbed on the top plank and said this was the best moment of your life. 

And I wondered if it was, and I wonder if it is, still. And I ask myself, if there are remanents of that feeling that permeate the bench which held you at the peak of your life.

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Stella Hartmann.

It rains every day here.

It rains every day here.  Today: the first drop fell and no others came.  I wanted to understand.  I could not allow for celebration.  I was alone without the falling swamp.  I was alone without the wolflike wind.  I was alone as I often am.  I see friends.  I see love.  I see children and dancing and Thursday night picture shows.  But I am mostly alone.  How does that make me?  Find me?  How does that breathe?  

I see a tree standing alone because you held my hand in yours and pointed.

Maybe that's what we can do for each other.  

Photo by Sadie.  Words by Dustin.

(Good) Morning

Maybe the night of loud dreams and all the loud feelings would be gone.
I'd wake up lighter.

But the cave of my chest still echoed your hollow steps,
two beats with every thought of you.

I lay in bed, noticing the sky is darker
and thought the world was trying to match my mood.
It was just cloudy and the sun had begun its fight toward us.

I sat very still,
knowing that once my body moved I would have to pretend to let go of you.
I'd have to have a day.
With people.
With work.
With more than I wanted
and less you.
I didn't want to move.

I talked to the sky briefly.
“I can't do this.
You're going to have to open up a little bit if you want me to.
You're gonna have to tell me what to do
You're gonna have to promise me”

The sky shook its head
and clouds rolled closer together
like knit melting to coffee swirls of gray.
They wouldn't give up...
So I did.

The wood floor was cold on my feet.

Photo by Rachel N Broaddus.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

Terrapin Dreams

They say they closed
it down, that old campground
we all knew so well.
The smoke-filled sun
rising bit-by-bit
over the cliff with
each thump of the drums
beating together.
Snapping embers
flitting past the belly dancers
flying over the crowd
landing, pure soot
in the trampled grass.
The grass that cradled us
while others wandered Shakedown street
or searched for tents.
We melted with the air
fell with the morning dew
awoke wrapped in a blanket
of Terrapin Station--Grateful
opening our eyes.
The morning whistle blew
and reality set in,
it was the beginning
of the end. 

Art by Debbie Poon. Words by Ciara Brewer.

Ahead

I'm not often ready for what lies ahead,
but I rely on a certain endurance factor that has gotten me through most of life.
Its a small feeling creeping between my lungs,

a deep breath

that takes in all the darkness of my current situation
then breathe out,
not strength,
but acceptance.
The pain becomes regular,
another part of my skin.
I'll feel it hourly and choke back the start of the start of tears.
I breath out understanding.
I focus for a few moments when things are bad
and don't let my head take over.
Rarely, do I find myself ready for the shortcomings, the disappointments.
but I'm responsible for all the life lessons that I've been taught.
Im the cause and the teacher and the endurer.

Hardship lies ahead for all of us.
At all times.
Im sorry, but it's a part of this world.
Find peace and be overwhelmed.
And look ahead.

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

chute

i've seen it once before 

in a dream i think 

were you there 

i said.  were you there

they ask me to find words and make visual

to hold tension 

they ask me to say yes 

i keep no calender and i certainly hold no ground 

and where i end will be a page filled with names of places and people and laughs and love

chute

Photo by Sadie.  Words by Dustin.

Melodic Strands

Electric guitar
chords
pulsate ears
on southbound bus--
rifts based
on Mississippi
Delta and Piedmont
styles
spitting lessons
into jugs.
Howling--
Fingers
bending string
recorded
by needle
injecting bits,
circuits filed away
in Library
of Congress,
promoted
by race record
companies.
Inspiring Chicago
Westside sound
of Blue--
grass vibrant
as Sierra foothill
hiking trail
in April;
marked directions
to road
to dam-dried cascades
to polygamous village
plagued by Gold Rush
drowned in
lake.

 

Poem by Ciara Brewer.  Response by Nadia Hassler.

I'm not a leprechaun

I'm too sticky for a double take, you only get one.

This one stare balances on the edge of disgust's first cousin "intrigue" and amity's bastard child "envy"

Im not a leprechaun ahh, that is a stereotype, well I guess since we are so hard to spot, you would only know that shalalie toting attention whore, not that I don't enjoy this attention

I'm beauty's messenger (and ex lover)

I just thought I'd tell you since I've got for the briefest moment of surprising disbelief: your gonna die and before you do you CAN live, give yourself license to...the treasure is trying

That's it, I know everyone always expects more!

Stop looking at me so I can do the poof thing

Hahahahaaaaaaa

Photo by Steve Brian.  Words by William Gillespie.