"Christmas Western, 1917"
Written by: stellar_legs

Texted you a picture of a miseltoe that I made with my fingers.
It read: "Happenin' party happenin' at my house right now!"
I donned my best Vittorio Ray jacket, shaved dollar signs into my
sideburns, put on a Frou Frou album and chilled the red wine.
"Jesus may have been sea-sectioned into existence tonight, but he
doesn't exist, so the gettin's all mine!"
A thick skinned Post-Post-Post Hardcore/Post Rock nerd chic band played from the
living room.
They were an optomotrist's dream.
The Pot Brigade even made an appearance.
Arts and crafts with Ted.
Pictionary with Dan K. Bud.
Shedded my skin, let my gaurd down, instilled disapointment in my best
female friends and penis envy in my best guy friends:
With my Vincent Price Egg Magic kit I coated the shaft of
my **** with yuletide colors.
Rob Sheffield himself would've came to this event if it weren't just me
forcing a millenia of religous influence into a Mason jar in the cabinet while
Dayton's future sat on my furniture,
Drank my alcohol,
Used the bedrooms,
Cried over seasonal suicides from seasonal depression,
and said not one word as Arnold and Sinbad fought over the last Turbo Man
doll (coming from MY television)
while I pranced about bull****ting myself, their intelligence
and three wisemen who shot their ****ing camel in the leg
to get out of coming.
How many green and red socks was I pulling before this was all mine?
How many jobs did I work before I settled for over the Rhine?
How long does it take for eight eggnogs to transcend space and time,
expose everything I know to be false, and slap me in my bed,
Warm,
Drunk,
Merry and fine?

The Inevitability
Written by: Daemonika

Warriors of words with their books as their weapons
wait with patience for the end. Others, with goals unfulfilled,
run around in panic, cutting circles into the mud and bones
of those they emulate. The patient ones will feel no pain.

The verisimilitude of the inevitability is what gets them the most,
with the world as yet unprepared for a man who can never pass,
forced to watch humanity waste away to nothing, until
he truly is the last man standing (cf. purgatory).

Yet, what no one can really see, we are in this together,
that the inevitability affects us all, will take us away
to somewhere full of darkness. Nyctophobes should be afraid,
but as it comes at any time, the Dorian Grays should rejoice.

There are many words for this process, yet they all inspire fear,
apart from the one mentioned twice, as it is much too vague
to be declared as solely a synonym for the word, the end.
But maybe we are yet to live, with the inevitability the beginning.

Barcelona, Summer '07
Written by: We Have Sound

We rolled into the heart of the city,
road-mad and dirty down the wrong side of la Rambla.
And we found a bar on the beach,
sat in the sun and survived the heat,
only just.
We were free, and we drank till we cried,
with all the responsibilities of birds -
we knew we could fly if we wanted to.
But for then it was evening cocktails
still sat out by the rocks
that lead down to the water.
It was crystal clear and I
poured a little liquid in,
almost as an offering.
It swirled slowly downwards,
and radiated.

I have a sister named Sestina and a brother named Vers Libre.
Written by: Samoo

Lick a little; immerse your VIP in the sand.
We’ll sit on rooftops and slip into something uncomfortable.
“Uh, I really, really like you.”
absolve
“What about the sand? Let’s just, you know, shake our hands
with our understanding of the human race. What do you say?”
“I, uh, really like you.

There’s a lady with an umbrella and she doesn’t resemble you.
She’s taking off her clothes; does she mean to place them in the sand?
“Uh, I don’t mind. Let’s just do it me and you. That’s what I say.”
divulge
The alarm clock rings just like your head, we’re uncomfortable.
“Metaphor, metaphor, metaphor. Do we really need this?” Our hands
touch, for one moment they are the sun and the universe. I’m the sun. You,

“Well, you’re a good kisser. But I don’t love you.
You’re a **** thinker. And that’s why I think I’ll leave you.”
A suitcase. Into abyss. And everything we had; everything in our hands
streams and pleasures us into pain. It’s all sinking in the sinking sand.
And, before we know it, their understanding leaves us. And, so, we’re uncomfortable.
assassinate
Because everything in life is hard to handle. Everything we do; everything we say,

“We’re left regretting the very next day. Let’s not do this. What do you say?”
You never do say much. Dumb, deaf, blind.
You’re parallel. You’re why I’m uncomfortable.
You revel in life. Life doesn’t revel in you.
acquiesce
If you conceded. I’d comprehend our beginnings, our ends, I’d lift us from the sand.
Our understanding. Our comfort. Our time. We’d have the whole world in our hands.

You’re dumb, you’re deaf, you’re blind.
You’re done, you’re dead, goodbye.
You’re so much more than me.

“Fin? Yeah, I’m fin.”

Frog, Mrs. Rabbit, And Pelican All Look For Bunnies In Their Imaginary Forest
Written by: Something_Vague

I've had her taken
from my hands, and
the only thing I've got
left are strands. Pieces
of hair dangling limp
through fingers that
trace the creases in her
folded shirt.


The forest behind my house was illuminated with a drenched purple glow from the flowers that had grown in a sunlit patch. The trees were a bright, wet green and everything was soaked with a morning dampness. Everything was so high in contrast I thought, this doesn't look like real life. There was no one around and I sat quietly on a rock reading the only thing she'd ever given me. A copy of an unfinished short story she wrote in her senior year. It was about talking animals in an imaginary forest. I decided to finish it for her.

"There's nothing left, Mrs. Rabbit." Frog said as he was rummaging through the floor of the charred forest.
Mrs. Rabbit hopped over to Frog and asked politely. "Have you found anything yet?" Mrs. Rabbit asked.
"No, nothing yet."
"Please, if you find my nest underneath the foliage, let me know, my babies must be starving by now."
"Oh, certainly. Mrs. Rabbit."


Her eyes always left behind,
caught in wicker baskets
filled with smudged
bottles of liqueur. I've never
stood under the crushing
weight of her fake calm,
rushing blood from her
cuticle onto her fingernail
rusts into my palm.

As Mrs. Rabbit slowly woke from a dreary dream, she remembered when the forest caught fire. She quickly rushed to the side of her children and held them close, keeping them safe from the intense hunger of the heat. She recalled the story to Frog while he listened intently.
"I never knew you went through such hardships." Frog said to her.
"It's not a hardship if you decide to do it."
"That's true." Frog looked into the air and saw Pelican swoop down.
"I've found something! I've found something!" Pelican chortled out of his wide, wet mouth.


Maybe it's the stir of
words that have kept my
bitterness so far away, she
slept underneath a Raleigh
bridge, just west of an Atlantic
Bay. Ripped panties from boys
she saw so gold, yet from the
cast on the line to the bait
in her bonnet her kiss had gotten old.


Pelican picked up both Frog and Mrs. Rabbit in his mouth and flew quickly to a small clearing in the forest and let them down onto the soft, moist ground. Mrs. Rabbit scuttled quickly to an overturned rock and saw her three children huddled together for warm. She went to hug them but noticed they weren't breathing. She began to cry, and so did Mr. Pelican and Frog. Frog bounced over to her, "Please, please don't cry, Mrs. Rabbit." He gently wiped away the tears from under her eyes. "They are in a better place now." She began to smile slightly and put her head down. She looked up towards the sky, and then looked back at Frog.

"I'm sad Frog, but look closer, look in the middle." Frog walked over to Mrs. Rabbit's children and saw a small violet flower blooming in the middle of them. "I wouldn't have had this happen any other way." Mrs. Rabbit said softly.


We left such beautiful words
behind in a kind Autumn, I sat
on wooden steps shoved under
a bright moon, a pond beside me
listened politely as we said goodbye
far too soon. I told her about the
girl I'd fallen in love with, and she
told me about the boy she was moving
in with.

A pause.

She said she wouldn't have had
this happen any other way.

Parallax
Written by: Snowblind 911

We rode bicycles over a mountainside made of cheap street crack and wine.
‘Michelangelo,’ she said. ‘these walls ain’t even half as tall as what we thought they
were. Look, you can see all of the sky tonight. Oh, you can see all of the sky!’
She asked for a statue, and I etched her out a marble portrait of the moon.
‘Baby,’ she spoke. ‘the moon?’
‘Without the sun to light it up, it’s just another rock.’
‘Let’s go.’ She sung.
We found shovels in our empty garden bed, and dug until we hit water.
‘We’re stuck,’ I cried. ‘we’re really ****ing stuck.’
‘Close your eyes, we’re in a ship. Okay? And we’re sailing through a stream of
cement and bricks, and we’re not stuck, okay? Just close your eyes and paddle, like this.’
I cupped a hand against the sunlight. Her eyes were mirrors in a morning so bright.
There were birds dancing like kites strung up for a day parade,
And there were old trees and soft hills and low rolling meadows,
And for a moment the sun swung behind a cloud.
‘The moon never looked so alight.’
As she laughed I placed a frame around her neck and made her a masterpiece.

october, 1951
Written by: Fugazirancid

sixth grade: ms. warwick’s study hall.
huddled underneath desks once a month
in case the cold war decided to warm up.

october's drill came early.
i glanced at you from across the room.
your face was set, determined,
beautiful.

i looked away.

principal on the intercom:
“thank you for your cooperation.”
everyone thanking god it was a drill.
i almost wished it wasn’t.

the next morning, waiting for the bus,
an eighth-grader punched me in the arm,
hard.
said i had looked like a pussy yesterday in study hall.
“who ya scared of? the pinkos?”

walking home from school that day,
shivering with the autumn leaves,
i cursed you for being strong enough to stand up to bombs.
and myself for being too fragile to look you in the eye.

when mom asked where i got the bruise,
i told her i got it saving sarah from the russians.
i excused myself early from dinner,
and tried my best not to cry in the shower.

I need a drink
Written by: cubs

She's trapped between clouds and lakes,
sitting on an upside down set of stairs,
watching misguided cars drift by
all those pathetic, lonely stars.
Oh, how I wish she was here
so she could see how clean she looks.

She's sitting on a plane
waiting for a goodnight kiss
from this boy who lives
a few houses down the street.
And while she waits,
she slowly drinks her beer,
holding a sign that reads
"Poems for sale"

And just as she takes another sip
her dreams all reappear
with a blind face that screams
"Oh dear, what are you doing here?
Do you know what time it is?"
Then the sun falls,
then it rises again,
then I realize its friday
and I still dont know her name.

J.W Fosdick and Emily Young
Written by: freshtunes

"I'd give you a rock, but flowers are much more pretty, even though they won't last as long"

"Rocks can wether as well" Emily quickly replied, blushing like a peach.

Whipping water through desert canyons.
Carved away at minerals and sediment.
Balls will chip away at the insides of cannons.

"I suppose" J.W Fosdick says.

"I'd give you a gift, but I have nothing to bare. An empty womb resides in the bottom of my body. I'm not sure it is something I could share."

Alcoholism 101
Written by: clichealias

This dialogue never ends
Where I use words that aren’t mine
A poet who speaks
With much less eloquence
Than he reads
So I chock it up to arrogance
Some vague depiction of intelligence
I hope you can’t see my soul
Roll off my tongue and spit it in my face
Wishing I was blind to the mirror
The truth will set you free, they say
It’s a difficult task when the chains
Are attached to the root of a man
Entwined with each drop to my mangled brain
That rotten obsession with fairy tale future
The spotlight I shone on my shoulders
Standing alone with the scenery
Singing and screaming over everybody.
The worlds not a play if you’re the only actor
It’s a speech full of words that don’t line up
Filled with an audience that doesn’t care
Nearly as much as my ego insists

Plastic Silverware
Written by: rushmore
emergency phone booth number 587,
i stopped to masturbate after i remembered
how my wife looked when she was much younger.
she was the prettiest of the cold war survivors,
always fu.cking unprotected,
all sorts of extensions and openings
that i was interested in.
knees touching knees,
elbows touching elbows.
we made love in the grass tunnel
and ate insects with plastic silverware.
she would laugh off the ants in
the cracks of my teeth and kiss me
sarcastically.
but we aren't children anymore,
i don't think.
we watch dramatic films,
order chinese and
over tip.
we drink wine out of coffee mugs
toasting health insurance and
high credit scores.
we no longer waste words on sentiment,
i think she still loves me,
but in a contemptuous sense.

Lottery
Written by: less than that

1.
I forget your birth date
but I took a guess
and I've been playing those numbers
for three weeks.

2.
I'm glad you return my letters, only
I wish they weren't just mine, unopened,
inside bigger envelopes that aren't
sprayed with perfume.

3.
Wherever you are, roll up your sleeves.
Wear each bruise like a bracelet.

4.
Last night
some guy pissed
in the corner of the store
by the ATM.
All I could think of was
your lower row of teeth
crooked and dazzling.

5.
Someone won the lottery,
76,000 dollars! Only nobody's claiming it.
They keep playing it on the news, on the radio.
I know because they won't let us change the station.

6.
I can't stop thinking about it.
Someone out there is a winner.