Softness

In which way did I lose you?

The softness of my thoughts led to the lack of my presence.

Empty dinner conversation with only filled plates,

quiet chews and a sadness slipped into the corner of your eye.

I created the distance we feel.

The space between our bodies on this bed is full.

My mind so knotted, knowing not what to do.

Your body,

Your body tied,  

How can we face each other and have nothing to say?

My anger paces inside my heart walls,

the frustration of having to sit still in your silence,

knowing I brood and holding this quiet tightly.

It's not you, but the way I was built to need your look.

I cannot be rejected.

I cannot not need you.

I would recede any feeling,

dash my ego on the rocks,

and unclinch all words to float lightly on your approval again.

Come back to me, please.

I won't say a word

and I will

try try try

to understand more.

To speak slower.

To cure myself of all heat

and not bother your delicacy

with such abrupt wrestling.

The softness of your back is worth all being wrong.

A thousand times more I will be wrong

to find your neck and the front of you.

 Painting by Nadia.  Words by Jordan.

Expand

Picture, in your mind's eye, a buffalo.

Now picture that same buffalo
mating with a lizard.

As you are picturing this,
try to imagine what it would be like
to emerge from the womb
of a shivering wolf.

And then you will know
what it means to be in love.

And you will feel a little better
about how far away
the edge of the universe is

as it expands like a
frog's throat,
leaving behind the past,

Because the past can hurt.

Photo by Nadia.  Words by Randy.  

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.

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.

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

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.

Two Missiles pointed at a Nazi Submarine

Hello doll,

You are crazy to brush your teeth at night.  There are aliens in the mirror.  Dogs are robots.  Airplanes are simulators.   Space is a movie set.  Water is a suppressant.  Frogs and fish speak the same language.  Strawberry Ice Cream is 72% cocaine.  Nothing should be consumed by the consumer.  I like working.  I am naked 20% of my life.   And the color red contains a secret algorithm for the change in temperature that happens when the sun goes down... The sun does go down by the way.  The earth couldn't turn even if it wanted to. 

I am proud to call myself a Conspiracy Theorist. fuckem!

Love,

Your Great Aunt

Photo by Nadia Hassler.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

fades to gray

It's not there.
God! Why is it always there?!
The absence of & the light
Mocking- in between
The consciousness.
Where the prism ends.
Fades to gray.
Which one extreme-
Will.
I face away today.
I scratch
You scratch back
The opposite
Curly queued
Beneath fingernails
Gnarled, orderless
Among every lost direction
And unmoving itch
The complications of
A knot in the birch

Art by Nadia Hassler.  Words by Kristin Rotar.

Writer in Bed.

How should I end it.  A stomach ache.  Pregnancy.  Death.  How should I end it.  She is living and breathing.  What is he.  Where is he coming from.  What will he do.  Who is flawed.  Is it him.  Mark it complete.  Send it out.  Finish it on set.  What would Stephen King do.  I don't want to write in a dog.  Do I.  Or a rat.  Sleep is for the weak.  Sleep is not for these characters.  I am not these characters.  I will sleep.  Sleep.  Sleep...

Piece by Nadia Hassler.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Steps

Climb them up to your door, warm and red to welcome you home

the place where you find comfort in the fondness of memories shared there.

Or is it a new door? Not quite a home yet, but no matter. The vivid red speaks of new beginnings, an assurance that memories will soon be made.

At the base of the staircase, clinging and trailing, 

a woody-stemmed vine climbs the steps and entangles the rails

In the summertime it will be lush and green, yellow roses opening up and sprinkling the steps with their petals and fragrance

We will pick them and bring a piece of the outside in

The sunlight will filter in through the open door and spread out over the porch

glittering the landscape through its blending and blurring, lending a new perspective.

Where is the ground? the sky? Follow the steps to find them

or the vines that will grow to meet the sky. All they need are a few more steps. 

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Nadia Hassler.

Telephone

I remember talking for hours, the day passing us by
I remember you being there.
I see life coming and going; time never stops to wait for the end
I see a good friend sitting next to me on the floor.
In my dreams we are flying, above the city, free
In my dreams I see the love in my life, until you take me.
I remember summer journeys, riding buses through the city
I remember the simple world.
In my dreams I am falling, and suddenly I wake
I see infinity; slap me.
I see hard work, creativity, sadness, and laughter
In my dreams...everything is ok.

Words by Nadia Hassler. Photo response by Sadie Myers.

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.

from BLACK to WHITE

First, the boy melted the black

As it dripped he saw sadness, danger, fear, terror, pain.

He saw the demons of his childhood that had taken his innocence.

He smiled, feeling both revenge and closure.

Second, he melted the yellow

He saw happiness, joy, and laughter.

He saw his village gathered around a campfire beating drums and dancing primally.

He smiled.

Third, he melted the red

He found it odd that this one melted slower and the drips were thinner, more watered down.

As it fell he saw anger. Rage. Bloodshed. Death.

He smiled once more, relieved that he was still alive.

But the mood soon changed as he held the white one over the melted carnage.

His smile disappeared and the world around him slowed.

"I'm only following orders,"

the white one pleaded.

The words echoed in his head as he remembered those words being spoken by the American soldier,

gun hanging down by his hip,

justifying himself to the mother who held her elder son in her arms,

his blood soaking through his hair onto his mother's prayer gown.

She wailed while her son died in her arms.

The boy sat there,

locked in that moment,

for what seemed like an entire lifetime,

imagining a life with his brother still alive.

He stood up and laughed, then cried, then laughed again,

The two emotions blending into a cacophony of music.

He turned his back and disappeared into the shadow filled alleyway that lead him home

Leaving behind the black, the yellow, the red...

and the white

Color Etching by Nadia Hassler. Words by Steve Brian.

Silenced

Pray, mantas, about worldly things
Abduction. Of the overwhelmed mind.
Listen to the music
Silenced. Overcome by calm.
Raise your head
to shapes and color.
Ponder colors
Simple
That is,
Zen.

Painting by Randy Conner.  Words by Nadia Hassler and Amanda Grupp.

A Conversation About the World Inside a Bubble

What if you condensed the world to bubble size.

How small would humans be? Smaller than ants, probably.

If you could see through the world, what would you see?

Problems would be smaller. Could you see them? 

Would they be there? What about happiness? I like to think that happiness would grow and grow until it surrounded the bubble.

There are no continents or countries - only reflections of them, on the bubble’s edge. But when the bubble spins, the reflections change and blend together. So do the people blend together? And what about all the other bubbles? 

Is there a world in every bubble? What makes a world? A bubble? A bubble.

Photo by Sadie Myers.  Words by Nadia Hassler and Amanda Grupp.