Blessed Wrongly Accused

I am still here; I am not what they say.
Threadbare bars make for easy escape.
And so begins the dash at daybreak.
Less said for structure, more for my own integrity,
as well as Sara's sake.

This plan unknown is unfurling into time.
Run faster man, distance this town's bell,
its gaudy chimes. Run for Sara.

God has no time,
for only one, not the other,
is on my side.

What follows me is not an army of cherubs,
but a posse of full-grown ignorance.
Run for Sara.

It is sinful to be an animal like this;
I am the fastest man living.
The trees look at me without faces. I read them:
"You are arriving."

The forest floor is damp quiet with leaves,
& this forest air is abreast to a stench
that I do not wish to breath.
I want the ocean's.
I run for Sara.

Night falls without pause
as pines whisper behind my back
that I've gone nowhere.
Clothes left long ago say otherwise,
as I fly, naked, stark bare.
I run for Sara.

But I am a man-- bone, blood, & flesh.
I have my limits
pushed into the margins.
A godling; anything?
"I run for Sara."
The call is heard.
There is a washing, a light, power either returned or remained.
I run still for Sara.
I've reached the coast.
I've reached what I love most.
I ran for Sara.

A Convenient Funeral

"Imaginary Landscape" by Emily Yonker

He'd been playing with her waistband for years now, this boy, only fifteen-- but today was different. Today was perfect. He'd hung out with the intelligentsia, so of course they'd all played with the idea. They'd talked about it in the modern day salons of unfinished basements, where ideas soar through smoke and sex. It was fun: Who could pull the trigger?

The mountains looked like a normal size as he turned the radio's knob to the left. Silent except the engine and soggy pavement, he thought of watching Jeopardy with his grandmother before she passed. Landscapes for $400. He was going to slide her right out of those panties like the casanova he was meant to be.

Nural

The train was twenty minutes late. In her bag she had nothing but a razor, a hair dryer and a map. The map, she decided, was useless, and, using the razor, she cut it into strips which she hung from her hips to create a makeshift skirt. Perhaps the train would be twenty minutes late, but she would she wouldn't be naked for a minute longer.

I, Claudipor

     It began with a simple squeeze, but, what he didn’t expect was for it to pop. He watched the sticky yellow juice drip down his finger. He felt excited. The pop did not just break the thin green skin of the grape, but also something else. Something inside him.

     It was as if a concrete wall in his head had suddenly crumbled to dust. Each time he had reached that wall he had turned around, thinking it was a dead end, the border of his brain. It was only when he dared to touch it that he realised it was fake.

     “Want to feel it?” he asked Jeneva.

Obviously Days

They come in herds and armies and
dirty britches and dirty dishes.
They snarl and have the meanest claws
and sharpest teeth and
dumbest minds and they will not stop.

Comedian

I AM WATCHING DUST DANCE in the red and blue lights when the velvet-suited emcee puts his hand on my left shoulder. He must be speaking to me because his mouth is moving. Despite his voice being a whisper, his face is moving violently; chin bobbing up and down above his tie, neck muscles volcanically tightened. He walks with loud steps onto the black vinyl stage, asking the audience whether they are ready. He announces my name in the exact same rising melody every single night, like a word repeated so often it’s just a sound now. I stand in the shadow of the wings just a little while longer. I feel my stomach getting cold. It’s not nerves. It’s just empty, hollow. I step out onto the stage. The firecracker sound of their clapping hurts my ears. I already wish they would stop. As I reach center stage, I feel the muscles on my face tighten to a smile. I chuckle into the microphone, and joke that I’m not close to being that funny. They are already entertained.

Aloha.

“Aloha!” our waitress matched the temperature in a brisk, tropical 6:00 morning breakfast. “Coffee for you two?”

“No I’m fine-- just my dad.” I replied thinking I was a man.

My dad added, “And could you bring some cream and sugar too, please?”

She neared a shout as she was already speeding towards the kitchen. “No problem, it’ll be right out!”

We stared into our respective sides of the table. The well-known long pause, so long it was not a pause, but a spell. My dad eventually broke it; I appreciated it immediately. I was the son of a crafty wizard.

About Norma

Do you remember when it began, Norma?

They told you that you were neurotic, dying, almost to death.

You waited for it, didn't you?

In its black silk shroud, brandishing its white, pale, soft fingers on your body.

Pills are so easy to swallow with a Scotch.

These failed pornos from your youth twenty years ago, hidden to the public and these exhibited curves.

"You're a whore, Norma!" spews out their mouths.

Things are fun at first, then you cry. On your name you would write 'Artist', but in your roles of faded girls, you get lost along the way.

Weddings and adventures that follow, the Bay of Angels and you, it isn't the same.

And sedatives are a miraculous invention.

Child-wife, brunette with laughing eyes. We've quickly learned to smile in front of objectives.

The nonexistent love of a mother, men by the dozen, beautiful bastards, egos that rise, rise then fall, this image of perfect. Who wants me, takes me!

How many snapshots have been taken of this character that you like to play at times?

There could have been someone, anyone, to open his arms, to take your hand.

Come, we go.

Hollywood fucks us, Hollywood kills us, Norma.

Everyone runs after you. Years pass.

Thank Heaven, we have never seen the old age take your cheeks, and we will talk about you again and again as long as there are women, Norma.

World hurts, Norma, world kills us.

And no matter if it was from your hands or a stranger's, in the end, you just wanted to rest.

A little rest.

-by Echo

Simply put, Echo is a girl that lives in Europe, that has been writing for over 10 years, and that is friends with the ultra-famous Japayork, and our very own semi-known Aaron. If you like art/official then you'll like her site, Be The List. It's better than a highway sign.

xoxoxo

Wake Up

John wakes up. He slept well, only dreamt nice dreams. His dreams replayed some early childhood memories mixed with some dream logic. He dreamt about his dad and him sitting next to the plastic pool they used to have in their garden. His dad was laughing; the sunlight reflected off his white teeth. They were playing around with a beach ball when suddenly his dad grabbed him and threw him in the pool, with his clothes still on.
  
The water felt nice and cold under the hot summer sun. He lifted his head from the water and felt drops falling from his hair and sliding over his face. Looking up he saw his dad standing next to the pool, smiling even more than before. Then, suddenly, and in a Mary Poppins kind of way, he was lifted up and flew away – straight up like an elevator.

Descendant Dearest

Alligator pie, alligator pie,

If I don’t get some I think I’m gonna die.

Give away the green grass, give away the sky,

But don’t give away my alligator pie.

-Dennis Lee

Ever since you were little, you've been asking questions of purpose, questions of your existence, to all the wrong people, for all the wrong reasons. Your father and I are extremely disappointed in you, but we talked, and we came to a decision. It's time for you to know the truth about where you came from. So listen up.
Your greatest grandparents are named Bud and Margie, did you know? They were alligators and they've known each other since forever. And boy are they perfect together-- know-it-alls in the truest sense of the word. I mean it-- they know everything! No, they don't live in Florida. No, you haven't met them. Will you let me talk? Thank you. I'm not making this up.
They live in a different world, in fact, it's not even this universe. Do you know about worlds and universes? Good. Well, they live with stars and swamp bears, but not like any stars or swamp bears you know. The bears live off of scrambled eggs with lots and lots of pepper; the stars are assholes. They're all made of mud, and they aren't famous, and they HATE how ordinary they are. This is why nowadays they exact revenge on us, the spawn of our greatest grandparents, by penetrating our minds, making us wonder about our purpose instead of just knowing it.

WILLIE THE GREAT (Part 3)

The jet arrived just as they had said, but Willie had his head in the clouds long before the plane took off.

A limo was waiting at the landing field, and Willie was welcomed by Carla, a lovely young woman handpicked for this job. She was to make Willie feel just like he belonged. As they stopped for a coffee on the way to the studio, Willie had goose pumps as she told of the possibilities of his story. And so then on to a meeting in the plush office of the CEO of MGM-- writers and a director sat in. Willie took center stage as he began his story. He could not help but notice the genuine interest the writers were taking as he talked. His ego was growing steadily.

Similes are Lame!

I'll trap you like a mouse.
I'll burn you like a house.
I'll sink you like a boat.
I'll haunt you like a ghost.
I'll inspire you like art.
I'll push you like a cart.
I'll break you like a vase.
I'll make you cry like mace.
I'll hang you like a noose.
I'll drink you like apple juice.
I'll hunt you like a dog.
I'll bore you like a log.
I'll curse you like a witch.
I'll scratch you like an itch.
I'll borrow you like sugar.
I'll pick you like a booger.
I'll smooth you like a sheet.
I'll amaze you like a feat.
I'll shoot you like a lazer.
I'll erase you like an eraser.
I'll crash you like a plane.
I'll change you like a lane.
I'll culture you like Europe.
I'll stick to you like syrup.

Juan's Story (Part 2)

Melan was from the small village of Ataxia, Mexico. Melan was always on the lookout for "Mr. Right". Melan stopped in at La Taca, the local pub, one innocent Saturday night. And this decision is where my existence eventually and eventfully stemmed from. As she entered, there sat a single man at the bar. Why not? She took a stool two seats away and ordered a marguerita. Billlie Bob turned toward her and smiled-- she smiled back. “My name's Billie Bob Odeen, and I’m from Louisiana.“ 

A conversation had begun and the more Billie Bob talked, the more comfortable she felt. Maybe it was his slow, smooth drawl, or maybe it was the fact he was a handsome southern country gentleman. Either way, Melan was beginning to like this man. After a few drinks they parted, but not before Billie had secured a dinner date for tomorrow evening.

Melan had been on the lookout for a suitable partner, so after a whirlwind courtship, they were married. At last, Billie Bob had found some peace and happiness and a perfect place to settle down. Billie Bob, whose parents died when he was just a child, spoke lovingly of his grandpa who raised him. He told of the little Cajun Restaurant he owned in Oleana, Louisiana, simply called Justin‘s.

But who was Billie Bob Odeen, and what was he doing in this small Mexican village?

you must be joking.

One day I brought my baby a letter after I treated her real bad. It said:


"Mes emotions sont 'toujour ceux d'un enfant. J'ai aveter tout progres pour te mes sentiments. Cela doit arreter et la maturiteé pent commencer. Le progré ne pent étre carburé que par une chose: la veritá. Mes tendences enfantine ne me permaient de te le dire que dans une langue. Langue de romance et d'amour.

Willie Cripps Has Lunch (Part 1)

Noon, Friday, time for lunch. 

Willie opened the cabinet and selected a can of Johnson “SECRET RECIPE” Crab Soup from among the 20 or 30 cans on the shelf- his standard Friday noon meal for the past ten years- and opened it. As he dumped it in his dented little saucepan, he noticed a small plastic packet floating on top. Willie fished it out, cut it open, and pulled out what appeared to be a note. He unfolded the damp scrap. The paper was darkened, making it difficult to read. Willie held it to the light only to find out it was written in Spanish. As near as he could determine it read, “Ayude por favor. Esta preso en una cucina se sopa Johnson." Then on the back, “245 Beal St. Macon Georgia". Lucky break for Willie, his girlfriend, Pearlena, or Pearl for short, grew up in Nogales. She could read it for him. Willie had a date with her when she got off work at six this evening. The translation would have to wait till then. In the meantime, his curiosity was doing handsprings.

little brother

Little brother, covered in fur,

is it any mystery when I am sure,

that I find comfort, in silence with you,

‘cause I get so sick of talking to

our brothers and sisters who ask so much,

when all you want is my tender touch.

Rest assured, I want yours too,

it is here that I find comfort with you.

And with our quiet solitude,

we both know there is nothing to prove.

We share our joy; our mutual thanks

go to our mother, our foremost saint.

- Justen Cheney

we're not over it, oppenheimer

This has been going on for years – at least since I was young enough to still believe that I could run away from my problems. You can’t run away from your problems; and even if you could, they’ll always send a guilty conscience nipping at your heels.  I could count the number of times I made you feel like less than a person. I could throw them all over my shoulder and carry them with me everywhere I go, but it does no good to be sorry if you don't care either way.

            

Joe passes me a fifth of Jim Beam and I take a big, bitter swig; I know it’s how they operate, but I don’t really feel like getting smacked in the face. We sit around in silence, feeling our hair grow.
“There’s something in it that you can create,” says Alex.
“What do you mean?” I ask -

I open my eyes. I hear clumsy footsteps coming down the hall in my apartment building. I wait for a knock on my door, and pray that it will be you – then I remember, only half awake, that you don’t even know where I live anymore. I close my eyes and go back to sleep.

Next thing I know, I’m laying face up toward the sky in a boat: not a motorboat, but a small, wooden fishing boat. The sort that looks like something my paw-paw would have gone fishing in as a kid in the Mississippi Delta. You’re curled up in a ball, lying next to me; my heart melts and seeps through the tiny cracks at the bottom of the boat. You’re wearing that white dress I used to love so much – the one I accidentally broke at the shoulder four long years ago. “This is a lucid dream,” I mutter under my breath, insisting that I enjoy it while it lasts.

The next morning I warm up in front my gas heater mounted on the wall. It’s finally gotten cold, and the weather suits me; at least for now. My mother comes by to drop off some leftover soup and the ukulele you’ve been asking to get back for six fucking months. It makes me feel better to hear her say that you don’t deserve me, but she would never know it by the look on my face.

Some people say that Robert Oppenheimer may as well have murdered all those people himself when he invented the atom bomb; could it be that you broke my heart the very first time you looked into my eyes? It’s hard to say, but I think so…

-Justen Cheney

The Manner of His Scramble

.......................

Here is an aging apartment on the seventh floor of a building. Inside, the countertops, and walls, and laminate, and everything, are tinged with a yellowness that comes with affordable rent for the poor. The outdated kitchen appliances are aching with different gravities, creaking with gossip, and you could hear it in the sounds of their settling if you were there. They are quite fond of their inability to shutup. The person they talk incessantly about has remained the same for thirteen years— a gaunt man named Mr. Boothe, who right now is inside of the bathroom closing the doors. It might be interesting for some to note that this poses difficulty for a man of sixty-six years old; as the door is too big for her threshold, perhaps not unlike a woman who gains weight with age, he had to strain himself to shut it tight. It might also be interesting that Mr. Boothe lives alone, making this bathroom door the closest thing he has to a loving relationship with a woman, making privacy a nonissue, making the situation increasingly strange. So there is an aging man to go with an aging apartment. There is a handful of people who are prone to call this a match made in heaven, but it is most certainly not that.

bitch sonnet

I just need a break, Henry!!!

When they start getting difficult,

Mommy goes off for groceries.

"We'll slit your throat or sit and sulk!"

Warns my 14 kids/employees.

I toss lollis, hoping they'll hush.

But it's still shrieks with emptied skulls.

Cases of good taste out of touch;

Poetasters legal, then null,

Void and bored. Combative bitches,

Sonnets in bonnets won't give chase.

Instead flip the goodnight switch.

So it is existential mace.

Yep. Great are grates for shitty thoughts,

Fertilizing 'should's 'could's and 'ought's.

You Call THAT a Cobbler?!

Most folks might have some quips to toss my way, it bein only a week plus a 72 hour weekender and all, but havin none to talk to beside a southside cellie by the name of Scooter, I'm feelin chattier than a goddam Cathy doll, and I do believe it's writ in the Constitution of Independence that it is an American-born man's Christ-given right to complain freely and without recall.

I think it'd be righteous thing to start with the good things that came out of this messy knot. Unfortunately it aint but one that I can think of. Most likely you'd think I'd mention some beautiful poetry on freedom, and maybe how it tastes, how my heart got fluttery upon gettin out-- but im a man who needs no comparison in order to hold the full appreciation of the matter in mind, so that aint to be mentioned. What I can say was a good thing is commercials hold no weight in the place. Zero calories like your old lady's crystal lite. Like, we were able to watch tv at certain times, such like the Ravens game Sunday evenin, and some wackadoodle ad comes on like the good-for-nothin movie Inception comin out on BluRay next week. You gotta use everything in your human powers not to cause a ruckus rollin on the floor with your laughin tears cryin out BOY NO ONE GIVE A GOOD GODDAM ABOUT BLURAY UP HERE!! Spite of near turnin myself inside out, I kept quiet, but the thought was enough to make me real happy for a few hours. So it's sure nice knowing the so-called "business world" comes to a halt once you in them concrete blocks.