over 10 pins

clown shoes and warm booze 

song’s on repeat and fried food

♫ just a small town girl ♫

Photo by Carl.  Words by Fred.

blishonesty

"I...I knew where I was going."

"Huh?"

"I just..I needed a reason to talk to you."

"I know."

"Huh?"

"We get off at the same stop."

Photo by Carl.  Words by Fred.  

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.

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.

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.

Sky Encouragement

Hoooooollllllllllllllllllllyyyyyyyyyy

Ssssshhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

iiiiii

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit

Dare be me, for a moment,

and I promise your world will look different.

You have no such thing as I do.

The courage of my blood you dream of in your wild wiliest wildest dreams and fantasies and imaginings.

I go forth without thought and venture the sky

you hold on deep to your dirt and earth.

'for rocks are safer,' you mutter foolishly and plant your toes into the mud.

sticking to the ground is your raison d'etre,

but the French are pussies and love shallow, sturdy ground.

Find me with the blue and the light and the sky

and the dream you always have and the dare you never practice.

I wake up many times a day and see your slumber fantasies in sunlight.

It does not take reckless to destroy more

because wrecks happen on ground as well.

But for once set your arms to soar

and try the purpose in your heart.

Im not saying we were meant to fly

(because we all know that we all fall)

but our stomachs are meant to drop

and throats are supposed to be choked

and hearts must stop

try it up here instead. 

Photo by Fred Watford.  Words by Jordan Shappell.

"A Kiss From Thee"

A kiss from thee is heaven in the flesh

That Angels look on thee in jealousy

As life requires beating in the chest

So doth thy lips exist to breathe for me

No measure of this world will understand

No scientific reason can explain

The shunt that stabs the heart of every man

While longing for that gentle kiss again

There's peril in the eyes stained orange with envy

There's chaos in the hours spent apart

For since the spark from lip to lip shot through me

I cannot rid the hole within this heart

Like Gulls need wings to glide across the air

So I find need to miss this love affair

Sonnet by Ryan Roets.  Photo response by Fred Watford.

Forgotten

I remembered the cake,
but I forgot the knife.

I remembered the tickets,
but I forgot my mit and hat.

I remembered the date,
but I forgot the time.

I remembered the poem,
but I forgot the lines.

Photo by Fred Watford.  Words by Shannon Wilson.

"Don't drink the Kool Aid" or "A judgemental tune"

La la la.

Judgment from Jesus, judgement from God,

judgement from Mohammed to Allah,

extremists keep ruining God for us all.

judgement from us to a woman teaching what she's been taught,

but hey we judge because we are right and she is not.

whatever the case none of God's "judgement" will change me.

but thank GOD my parents aren't that fucking crazy. 

la la la.

Photo by Fred Watford. Words by Chris Hess.

The Crying Lion

when a lion cries

the wind changes direction

so the tear can fly

Photo by Fred Watford.  Haiku by Dustin Whitehead.

car horns are mostly the devil

living in the past
can't keep up with the digital clocks
pastel like eggshell
on the beach
lost under foot
out of reach and fused
a con
green screen
never to be seen or heard by a live audience
we will be dead

'that's what she said'

bro jokes hold no weight in an honest debate
that's why they are fun
done
are the agricultural faux pas
lufas in the shower
and hot dog lunch hour
up with the sun
the loaded part of the gun
and the afternoon cinnabon mall excursion

'we bought the big tv'

we can't all live in the burbs
nothing unfair about that
brutal torture
trapping raccoons in the fan belts of our lexuses
babies crying
grandpas dying
and the barbecue is out of sporks
who will invent a solution
the sky is grey
and the oceans are crashing
it sounds like heaven inside the circle
and it smells like a smile

'get off the road you freaking Bike'

car horns are mostly the devil
we can never know who or what is right
who we can dislike
what is okay
but we write about honesty
and the everyday
and we ask the questions
we answer what we can
leaving the rest for the world to solve
evolving as we breathe
sans leave-

'the show is just getting started'

Photo by Fred Watford.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

toys

….

it's halloween again i suppose

he said happy day

i birthed it

she thought

and who's fault was that

….

sacrificial lam-post next to nuclear divide we found a promise from a man

political

follow my banter

or don't

i'll listen to jessi j radio on pandora

….

next to smelly afternoon emo haircut (woman?)

girl

lady

sillyafterthoughttoolong

moving on

….

friday night is twenty four hours away

i can promise you that

me:

busy smelling flowers

this is a chicago summer

Photo by Fred Watford.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

This plane is going down.

I should've worried less about ______.

I should've _______ more.

I should've had ________.

I should've made more _______.

I should've been less afraid of __________.

I should've enjoyed every __________.

I should've thought of this

before it was

too late.

This plane is going down. 

Photo by Fred Watford. Words by Randy Conner.

i will be

 

 

....

I think maybe this explains things. A gift or an honor or just my heartbeat. Heartfelt. Here it is. I wrote it on the plane...

Walking on the sand he felt honor. Adrift from all the pressure. There is a morning train somewhere that smells like feces and people pack in anyway. But he is alone. The sand answers only with small moans as if it were receiving a massage. He walks towards coconut trees and sunsets and wild animals and honesty but not towards rain. Not anymore. He no longer will hold the weight of creditors on his back. He won't answer phone calls while speed-walking in uncomfortable clacking dress shoes. There is no one waiting for him at Starbucks. He doesn't give a shit about what kind of deal will be offered next week or how many emails are marked unread in his inbox. He instead is dancing. He is graceful. He can fly if he wants to. His heart is his. And his voice is unheard by everyone but God. Across the ocean is reality and right here, right now, is purity. There is a difference, of course. Meditation is a doorway long since passed through. This is something more. This is no dream. This is a man humbly aggressively and ambitiously seeking an answer. Who will head his call. Who will swoop near and hold his hand, lend an ear, open a door. There are no more ladder metaphors. No more applications. Fuck my experience and talking in the third person. I will be. I will be free. I will escape these chains. I will build my future. And if it involves sand. A LOT OF SAND. Then so be it. I will drink Mexican beer with a lime and salt if I so please. I'll fly a kite with the woman I love. I will make children. I will make love. I will make me. I will be. If tomorrow comes after today so to will I come after me. And again and again and again. And one day I will not fear death because I will know that I have built me how God wanted me to. I will sew my seams and shape my heart and fly my kite and raise my hope. I will be me. For her. And for him. And for you. And for God. And for all that is everything and nothing at all. I will be me. Indefinitely. Invincibly. Honestly. With all of my heart. I will fly. 

Photo by Fred Watford.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Reality

I’ve been staying up late

Park-Bench-Men

They scare me




But I won’t judge them, for

They belong

As I do




So many things are hard,

while many

More are fine




Rarely listen to wind,

When I know

That I should




Thank you reality

For always

Speaking true



Reminding me it’s I

Who owes my

Time to you

Words by Dustin Whitehead.  Photo response by Fred Watford.

Infinitely Possible

If we could all be'a spaceman

  Earth'd be empty, and
  Crops wouldn't grow, and
  Busses wouldn't go, man.
Who's makin babies
  When there's the cosmos to explore?
Who's writing Hamlet
  When feet don't touch dirt anymore?

This is for the teachers and preachers 

The trash collectors and loan rejectors
The geriatric walmart greeters and postgrad yuppy  wallstreeters.
This is for you and you is beautiful

If we could all be spacemen

  Kids wouldn't flirt, then
  Love wouldn't hurt, then
  Life wouldn't work, End?



Painting by Randy Conner.  Words by Fred Watford.

Calm.

I am falling standing up,

never truly doing either for years within seconds,

staggered by the gap you have found yourself in

right between the layers of a poly amorous mackerel sky enclosed, dark and fleeting

holy shifting wonder, a light,

suddenly I want to know what cardinal direction I face

cause the smolder of ritual elation to come turns me to shadow

and I relate to a dark stage knowing it is a blemish on a sphere of possible

because I know that celebrations are kin to a storm

Surging following this current in silence

blankly inquisitive about devastation with a smile

Wondering 

                  IF

                     IF a      

                       IF a void narrative such as this becomes so strong that I cant distinguish it from my calling to pace with life

How do I know that I am here at all, much less catch up 

does anyone visit this moment

Devoid of me 

all that is known is that this presence i am filling feels a vacuum full

Every moment subsequent calls in unison with the one before

doors open and close

Photo by Fred Watford.  Words by Will Gillespie.

the flower

Most things are concealed 

inside of

fluorescent light or

inside a bubble of

social anxiety.

But some things,

silent, delicate things

(imagine a hyena's

last breath),

while not moving, can

be exploding,

and ache with a 

muted tragedy or perhaps

a perfect happiness

(Imagine a plane crash)

(Imagine the same plane 

crash in slow motion).

I JUST DON'T KNOW.

And somewhere, thousands of miles away,

the hooves of a deer trample softly

the midnight snow.

Photo by Fred Watford.  Words by Randy Conner.

endoftheline

Cold steel, have you ever touched it? 

Locomotives ------ take us west.

Or else take our souls.

(Hey ______, when you get this letter, I'll already be gone.)

Imagine, if you will, a small bird. 

He hops alongs the fence,

Meditating on the 

Way the sun darkens skin and

Lightens hair.

Guess what.

That bird is fertilizing the grass.

Suicidal sparrows are common.

I actually died once, thorax halved by train.

I remember it like I remember my first 

Knife throwing accident (it was no accident).

Everyone's always whispering

As I walk by,

THAT GUY IS GOING NOWHERE.

Now I can see why.

Photo by Fred Watford.  Words by Randy Conner

Calm

It's scary out there, isnt it?

---But, you must...

----

How can you ever come to hate beauty so much you refuse to step into it?

I stray away from all color and light

that might make me better,

might bring me closer the truest form of myself.

I know it. I feel the push of my human fear stretch and pull me from

the hot, sweaty, fucking difficult let-go of the shit that confines me.

The shadows I shroud like blankets.

And by “shit” and “shadows” I mean, all that I hold onto that makes me feel comfortable

and by “comfortable” I mean, in that way that soothes me against taking risks

and by “risks” I mean, doing the things that will actually make me a better person

and by “things that will make me better” I mean, things I will not share with you

because they are too personal.

----

I stand two feet from all the color and light

because I might like my grey self better.

I own this dark.

I own this pain.

I lick these wounds, tear open the scabs

and let the blood flow daily.

This is my dark corner to brood and hold on, so fuck off.

Your color and light can go fuck themselves with all their potential to illuminate and bring truth.

Ya know what color and light are?

They are meant to distort and clothe in a shade that is not my own.

Light is blinding and color bends.

If I step out there I will no longer be myself.

----

I hate the color and light because if I dare step two feet into truth

I will find I hate myself.

I will face the color I am.

I will see what I have become.

---

I think (at some point) we have all hated the beauty we must walk into.

----

It's scary out there.

But you must go into it. 

Photo by Fred Watford. Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.