when she spluhs

 what does she think
i wonder
    when she rolls

when she smiles
when she spluhs

she glows
in the light of those who love her 

she moves
out of curiosity

she laughs
because she just sat next to God on her flight into this world and they had a great talk about airline peanuts.  "They are soooo salty," she remembers Him saying.  "But delicious," they agreed as they munched away. 

but
what does she think
 i wonder
    when she rolls


when she smiles
when she spluhs

what does she think

i like to believe that she finds life more beautiful then she expected
that's what she deserves

she
being more beautiful than could have ever been expected

Photo by Sadie.  Words by Dustin.

we made more than a book

 

I'm not sure how we met.  In a tree maybe.  We used to climb them like crazy.  Before we called it 'down south'.  Before we drank our first beer together.  Before our dads gave us talks about sex and girls and being responsible.  We used to climb the trees.  Ryan was all I ever needed in a friend because whenever I asked him to hang out, he said yes.  And whenever I didn't ask him, he asked me.  My first time sleeping away from home he stayed up with me because I was scared.  He used to help me cover it up if I peed the bed.  He always saw my faults.  And he made fun of me in a way that made us both feel good.  I can't explain it.  I think I can credit Ryan with giving me the strength to withstand any level of sarcasm.  He was hilarious.  He picked on himself better than anyone I've ever known.  He taught me over the years that loyalty is gold and money is for traveling.  He needed only the ocean, his family, and his friends.  And if you met and knew Ryan as a friend, you were forever a friend.  He never lost sight of those he loved.  I will forever hold him in my heart.  And I know that his giant soul spirit heart has room for a little of me...

p-nut,

we made more than a book, you and i

we told stories unscripted 

time after time 

and in every moment there was a truth in your smile and your hope and your spirit

we...
played soccer
climbed trees
went surfing
drank beer

we cooked food
chased girls
were roommates
skipped class

every time i tell stories from college i brag about our epic room
the wrap-around couch
the wall of movie posters
klaus
kritter
all our boys

we stayed up talking for hours
ate at ihop
watched the sunrise over the atlantic
remember the birthday card that bought us t-bell and heineken

did you know we worked together at five different jobs
publix
bennigans
florida elks youth camp
carrabas
and that pizza joint down south


in 2001 we made a sort of year book to celebrate our friends
we'll always have that
but we made a hell of a lot more than a book, you and i


we fucking changed the world together
i love you

Photo by John.  Words by Dustin.

you seduced me on the staircase

You seduced me on the staircase
as I sucked sweet citrus in the early evening light of midwinter
the juicy tang no match to your tongue on mine

I tasted sugary cookie crumbs in the cracks of your lips, chapped
your breath hot and laced with cocoa
you offered me some, but my belly steamed already

Wool socks scratched against bare skin
rug burns on my back, bruises, little gnawings, clawings
be-carefullings of the uneaten orange beside us, soon forgotten

We slept soundly that night, awoke to fresh snow
sunlight creeping up the stairs, where the ripe orange still glowed
the whole house smelled of it, and of love
and of smoldered ash upon the hearth

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Teneisha A. Kessler-Emanuel

one of each

One of each.
And a pinch of me. That's all it takes
to scoop and seethe.
The tile is cold and creeps up the goose bumps
from my toes.
And I shake.
One hand over my opposite arm.
Warming with a breath and a shiver and shake of my head.
I'm toe stepping on my dance partner
or slow dancing with my father in the living room to old records.
I'm clumsy
trying to avoid the ice floor.
Goddamn, socks would be nice.
It's a simple craving and a goofy dance.
I stand, without shirt, in the white tile.
It feels like home in here.
A very cold home.

I wish sunshine were in each of these jars.
This morning could be the soft white light,
that kind that settles like ash over my head,
setting my eyes to lazy, I casually lean on a newspaper,
and slowly walk to calm.
Other ones can contain summer hot sun searing through curtains
and swelling sweat down each temple. And if another person is there,
when this jar is opened, you'll sweat on each other and mat hair to the forehead
when your lips talk on top of one another.
And sure, to the right, or in the back of the group,
is that cloud driven swirl of downtrodden.
But the kind of light that fits the mood.
A gray that validates your sad, not creates it.

One of each.
I don't feel like choosing because I could fit my heart into all 3 moods.
So, I let God pick and just hope there is a choice in the group that makes this
floor a little warmer because I don't feel like putting the weight of a shirt on.
I'd rather suffer the chill and wait for the sky to change.

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

A little less than everything is a lot more than nothing.

You can scratch an egg until it cracks or leave it to hatch golden like morning waves.
You can baby skin smooth an argument with flowers and wine.
You can watch television commercials.

All are okay.

Words by Dustin Whitehead.  Photo by Stephanie Hawks Peters.

Seeing In

I know you're pretending.
You can not see me.

You roam the sundial.
A midnight monster
beneath the bed,
creeping from the closet,
looking to devour the innocent.

Your stagnant stares
of voided vision
could torture my
fragile rainbow world.

Your empty heart
may shatter  mine,
if you stare too long.

But I can see you.

The split of focus
in your veiled eyes
spins a story of
blinded bondage
to all you ever found beautiful.

The buds of your starving tongue
taste for nourishment and flavor in nothingness.
An attempt to devour your tortured soul's food.

I can see through you.

You followed a path of direct roads
that led you
to nowhere -

Yet you are still on the map of time.
There is a chance.

I wandered aimlessly
with unknowing navigation
that led me
to now-

Yet I followed the charts of direction.
There is purpose.

And I can see between you.
Bent.

Your broken vision
is the fix I crave.
My crystal ball of balance and band aids-
a medicine of  my need-
an elixir of humanity.

I will bring you back to the beautiful.

You will see me.
I can see underneath you.

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Sarah Spatz.

the monster & the dark & the light

I never wanted any of the dark I clench in both hands--
I grip dust in my palm
drip rust from my eyes

The inside of a fist is night
and seeps of sun.
I can't squeeze the hate anymore.
I'm ringing blood from my hands,
I'm committing murder suicide--
being the only victim.

So comes out the monster,
the dark
the light
the night
the evil.

Let anger lead the way.
Armfuls of all I excavated from these dirty ribs.
Let the prize of sorrows be a cup that overrun-ith over and away,
And every night I drunkenly slip on down to Dirt Town.

Come, the lost me.
The blind and refusing to see the light, me.

I'm a stumbling fool, holding onto to you,
(grips of dust)
the one who hurts me without presence.
Unable to fuck it all and kick punt my heart to the heavens.
(drips of dry rust)

There are two kinds of dark.
I'm exploring both and winding asleep into the one that's most harmful.
Soon, hopefully, very soon,
I'll be in the one that forces more of me,
the most of me,
to wonder upright,
and the light of black to seep from my palms,
like the sun, groping forth,
to bore a future of bright.

Photo by Nadia Hassler.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

Eulogy

I remember your rock star dreams,
underpaid, underappreciated musician
playing local bars ‘til 2 AM,
collapsing into bed ‘til 2 PM,
caffeine zombie by day
and cannabis by night—
rewind,
repeat.

It didn’t pay the bills.
You couldn’t sing,
but you played a mean flamenco.

The little blue Stratocaster rests
under my bed now. I strummed it
when I was 5
and wanted to be just like Daddy.
You sang me to sleep with
Beatles’ lullabies.
The White Album makes me weep, still.

Did Jesus meet you when you died?
Or did John Lennon?

I listen to your LP’s, now mine,
burn patchouli, and pretend
it’s 1971,
when you were young
and long-haired
and I wasn’t even born yet,
but belonged better to a time long before.

I’d never dare pull
a Back-to-the-Future stunt,
for fear of falling of love with the man
who’d be my father.

I love you still.

Art by Christian Barron.  Words by Teniesha A. Kessler-Emanuel

okayama

now we know to peer, embrace
and love for time our
memory's grace.

took spot, small and clear
said "look, our view is here."

for what we see is not for them
its for us and you and me and than

we thank words thick in canopy's design
a leafy toll, an elemental fine.

through trees and brush
paint corners strong

capture buildings new and time foregone.

in gold rush desire,
our images for hire,

sell this see those take yours
this prose

for as a window arches higher
so foreign skies
lick flame's rich fire

history here in present tense
keeps tidy that watery fence. 

a mote to pool ideas peering
stopping staring, kneeling, sharing

captured curve's crescent half
buildings word this
but focus; word that

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Jamie Kennedy.