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.

Here comes the

May grace find me here,
in hopefully waters,
buzzing with the excitement of next-ness.

We often look to brilliancy as a sustainable life,
but I'll tell you that light is rare
so when it comes----squeeze it to death,
till the light seeps over in your hands
like shiny yellow blood, wetting your knuckles and the insides of your fingers.
put this light to your lips and sate the dark depths.

For hope is coming. Teaming out in the distance.
Hope is coming.
Lets the tears roll down your face,
track them to your jowls, to the side of your neck
where lovers kiss,
to the collar bone, that most kids have broken
to your breast plate and sternum, that guards whats most precious.
And let them stay there as a damp reminder that hope is coming

and it looks like light.

Hope looks like water and tears and light and color
and when you find it for yourself,
(because it will be different for all)
sink your nails into it
sink your face into it
sink your heart into it

hope is coming.
And it looks like this---

Drawing by Adam Peterson. Words by Jordan Shappell.

walking away, i won't

 

wandering antelope headed greasy avenger, i call her

she doesn't pick up 

where we left off, we didn't 

the problem was always her negativity

remember 

the dancing in the fields i ask, she doesn't

'fuckit' is my reaction

on two counts

so after the sex and the walking away, i don't

that's always my mistake

passivity 

or whatever judgement decides to call my general mood

following harsh reality there is always an

awkward still stare

not my fault of course, it is

letting it all go and moving on 

freedom

within the dark that will never become our world, it's getting there

 'fuckit' screams our insubstantial relationship

on two counts

and after the sex and the never giving up, it does

Photo by Adam Peterson.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.