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.