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.

Tremors

The first time Jing Mao watched the child walk he knew his personal legacy was secure. The first time the young boy created a rudimentary painting for him, with crude green paste and stinking silver pastels ground of mashed freshwater tadpoles, he became aware of the unspoken distance between his own consciousness and that of this legacy. And somewhere in between, when the boy spoke to him, when he heard the distinct nature of his voice, Jing knew that although his physical being would move along past himself, the pure psychological essence of his life, and that of his ancestors, may very well not. He could hear the distance.

So although the goat’s legs quivered and seized under his full weight, and although his youngest son squealed and gasped at the inverted showing of the future before him, as the animal all three of them had fed and nurtured was brutally filleted and left to shudder in the humid afternoon air; he felt nothing but pride. Not because the boy had felt, in his hands, in his core, in that gruesome vibration, the taking of life for life, but because it was now immediately understood that the village would always have hands to feed it and the daring to face the tasks that kept it fed.

In a sense: His hands.

Or so he thought. It wasn’t until some weeks later, after he’d seen the boy milling around the rice paddies absently and pushing younger children down with random violence that he began to wonder where his legacy was really going.

The night he washed the twin dots of drying goat’s blood off of the boys cheek, there was nothing but pure static silence between them; a stoic recognition of the things that lay between what was connected and what was not. Jing had responded poorly at the time: he stayed silent alongside his son.

And yet one evening, late in a midsummer’s soup of overbearing heat, over the evening’s hard earned dinner, to which everyone could attest, the eldest son finally made him hurt.

That night, randomly, the boy said: “The difference between our pet goat, and my friend’s throats, should I recognize it? Is it even real?”

“Respect them both, but much differently,” Jing said quickly. Reflexively. Caught off guard.

The eldest boy did not lower his gaze.

“What are the differences?” He said.

It was then that Jing knew that he had not a legacy, but a reason to stay alive and well. A reason to keep teaching.

He had a son. 

Photo by Michael Seminer. Words by Paul Oliveri.

I might be rough

Forgive me, where I come from is gritty.

My tongue is rough and I bite all too often.

Im used to trial by fire

and being shaped by the hands of an angry God.

so if any expression of how I care about you comes out a little harsh,

or a little sideways,

I need you to know where I come from...

Here.

This is my brother and I.

At a certain point we divorced from our family

(because we knew love sounded differently).

We held hands, got on bikes and chose to ride parallel lives.

This is us. And our home.

We built that.

My brother provided a roof because he always protected me.

His cracked hands constructed each shingle

and wiped away every single sad tear.

I provided the warmth inside our home.

My heart pumped blood for the both of us,

so our cheeks could still stretch out and smile at each other.

We made it for the two of us

to share and trust,

to rebuild what all was lost.

This is my brother.

This is my home.

You can see its faults in full

because we wanted to hide nothing.

We fall apart daily, help each other up

and crumble for fun.

This is my home.

It will never leave.

Here.

I give you this.

My brother and I.

Because I need you to know where I come from.

That I am nicked and bruised,

never smooth

and always wanting of sun

and your laughter

and the gaze/blaze of your eyes.

Here.

This is my brother and I.

This is my home.

I want you to have it.

I want you to know what its like to be home.  

Photo by Michael Seminer.  Words by Jordan Shappell.

southern star, 'cross southern eyes

on the far side of the world.

hopes and dreams anxiously swirl

to mix emotions, black and white affair

colorlust lost with tides repair

so she floats in magnetic rhythm

gracefully surrendering all thats given

by world’s embrace and slow revolve

the crashing mists magnetic call

cliffs show strength and piercing force

gales and grasses move love’s remorse

across a beach to open landscape

the ebb and flow so often we make

our pitch and yar a violent offense

then love afloat fights storms descent

once a calm and peaceful boast

time’s turned darkened, protective mote

waves churn evil, quickly find

how seasons change and stars align

across the distance a southern cross

held in place, someplace far lost.

Photo by Michael Seminer.  Words by Jamie Kennedy.

Happy Shy Innocent

Cover your eyes.
Is monkey see, monkey do true?
Because if it is, beneath my hands I don’t see you.
Who do you see?
Happy, shy, innocent
See no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil – do you believe?
My brother told me it is true.
Does this mean I can make my own path?
In your walking sandals or bare feet.
Where will you go next?
How will you add color to your world?
My color will shine through.

Photo by Michael Seminer.  Words by Nadia Hassler and Amanda Grupp.

Child, sit.

my beloved child, please come sit.
I hope to find you well, as time and circumstance have long separated us.

How are you? How has the world been to you?
How is your soul?--for this is my chief concern.

Please, please come sit, my brilliant boy.
Sit.
I've longed for many cold nights out here to talk with you.
I want to hear your stories.
I've seen your drudging, your enduring of life lately.
You seem awfully busy.
Why don't you sit? Tell me about it.

Its quite peaceful out here, isn't it?
This is my home. I made it. Out here, that is.
The wind whispers around like a friend,
and the grass will tickle your feet just enough to restore life,
but not agitate nerves.

And Me, I've been out here, awaiting the moment I could invite you over.
And now.
Oh now, glorious child, now I want to find all of you here with me.
Tell me.
Tell me of your changing, weathered life.
Tell me of all your Falls, the changings of time.
The slow evolve from life to death to bare bone trees.
Tell me of your cold, cold Winters.
Tell me of the times you froze your heart so no one could dare warm it again.
Tell me of how you melted to Spring,
and the slow drip of snow down your cheeks.
Tell me the first pluck of grass that sprouted from your skin like hair.
Tell me of the restorative sun in your life.
Who is it? what is it? What is your Sun, my son?
Tell me of your Summers and the sweat.
Tell me of all your salty exchanges.
Tell me of your stories.
Tell me of your anger and your struggle.
Tell me of pain.
Tell me of every ecstasy and tingle.
Tell me of grinning, beaming smiles.
Tell me of the alcoholic nights and sweet boozed kisses.
Tell me of laughter and intwined legs and arms and bodies.
Dont be modest or shy or prude. I want to hear it.
And tell me of your loneliness too.
Tell me of your boredom, your lull.

Tell me of your freedom and all that raptures you.

My son, I miss the intricacies of you.
Please come sit.

-God

Photo by Michael Seminer. Words by Jordan Shappell.

Always Dreaming

And so the children pose games
While we wage
Dreams
Over their hearts
Are answers unfound
By our findings
We scientists
Uneducated
Like God once was
Before the honesty surfaced

So dance
They said

And I feel for those
Who feel
What isn't real
Should have been
Let's at least believe
In what we are holding
Dear to us
Trust

The little ones
Promise only smiles

And I dance for the Children
Who hold hands and food
Never ungrateful
Always playfully encouraging
Making science
Out of moments
We
Might let slide
Head first
Dreaming

Always dreaming

Photo by Michael Seminer.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

These Boots

Left with the answers that I've found

In a story : profound

And a long life to be

Was it God or me that set the rules

See, the box has been open

And the pieces, passed out

We're still rolling for space

Until we cash out

There aren't enough freebies

But the music is good

And the floor is for dancin

Where anyone should

As I boot-scootin-boogie

As I kick my heel

As I try n cop a feel

Of this earth

Quit your name calling, life!

This is a game called...

Now.

And it starts with these boots.

Photo by Michael Seminar. Words by Dustin Whitehead.