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[color=darkred]What Sarah was up to about a month ago..[/color]
2 20%
[color=navy]Averting a Blind Eye[/color]
3 30%
[color=darkGreen]Cereal, Itttt'sss GRRRRREAT[/color]
4 40%
[color=Purple]Angel’s Advocate[/color]
5 50%
Voters: 10.
What Sarah was up to about a month ago in the desert, if you ever wondered.

I am eighteen years old, my name is Charlie,
I was born on Coyote Butte, I sit on Coyote Butte,
and I watch the people shoot through here
like American Coot in Illinois,
sitting in my soil, in my rivers, bathing,
taking in an ineffable compass
of which way the wind is blowing,
and then spreading their wings to catch it.
Through my left eye I watch Sarah.
My right watches what she watches off in the distance.

She has a young earth-worn face spinning around wildly
on a dirty cotton body, with an average sized heart
that pumps like a long dark marsh.
In a cool wind-worn cave on the Malheur reservation
she stutters and talks and stumbles through stories.
Alone with her sunburnt legs she watches out
towards the Black Bear mountain range,
where a thunderstorm is tearing the silence apart
and she pieces wisps of memory together
to take her back to that calm hot farm,
the calm hot touch of his bruised and calloused hand.
Counting between each thunderclap, on her fingers,
to see if the seconds matched up with the amount of mistakes
she may have made, after she waded into his strong oak paws,
made love on his field, and kissed him afterward,
sort of softly.
The air has gotten heavier by the time she is done
and part of her hair is damper.
The sage brush is smelling stronger, and the cracks in the parched ground
are filling.

I stand, keeping my eyes where they were,
I raise my arms up like I was going to give a sermon or
deliver a new Simba to the world. I blow a kiss across the plains.
The tall grass three feet in front of me bows slightly.
She stands out in the rain and her clothes glue, and
she watches the Turkey Vultures out in the distance,
drying on the telephone lines.
And, like every Coot whose ever lost their way in Illinois,
she blows a kiss back, lifts her arms too, holds them in understanding
for a fraction of a second, and runs back to her campsite.

I am a young boy, my name is Charlie,
I sit on Coyote Butte and I watch the people shoot through here
like American Coot in Illinois:
sitting in my soil, in my rivers, bathing,
taking in an ineffable compass
of which way the wind is blowing,
and then spreading their wings to catch it.

Averting a Blind Eye

I once saw a couple kiss,
one like no other;
their sentiments exchanged without the need
to spoil the moment,
or by breaking a centimeters breadth.
Not a word was whispered to stoke
their flame,
nor should a word be written to capture
their fire -
but as one does when stirred
by impulse, an antilogy
was born -

They held the durable hands of clocks
steady for just a second,
so much so that no one would ever know.
They ignored their need to breathe
for twice as long,
leaving no gape to let the passion
they shared to pass
between their lips and back.
Their intentions sheltered behind fastened lids,
damp with expression,
not needing to peek to witness
one another picturing each other.
With expectations met,
he rose, and together
defined the extent of their separation,
by remaining hand in hand
for a moment more.

They - not wishing upon them death,
just as one might when scarred
by vivacity -
ceased to exist in my eyes;
captured by my imagination.
Because we are all blind, you
just see what you want to see.

Cereal, Itttt'sss GRRRRREAT

I write suicide notes with Cheerios,
gluing them to a purple piece of
construction paper.

When they find me dangling,
they'll be shocked,

and then they'll coo,
"Well isn't that note just the cutest
thang you ever did see?"
and magnet it to the fridge next to
my brother's report card.

Angel’s Advocate

I painted a line to the sun.

It was the Mono Lisa of weightless red
obscurity to lead the assimilated to the purity
of blindness. Because that’s the closest
we can get to God;
a tunnel vision of black on black
with no light at the end,
testing the true fabric of

And until the gravity of the stars
collapse on themselves, I will continue
to spit bristles onto galactic canvas
in an attempt to perfect, inflict,
project and contradict
a perpetual void
of resistance that flows
through the very veins
of a sleepwalking nation.

When the time is right
you’ll witness my might
in a magnificent display
of acrylic rain pouring
down upon our vacant flesh,
like beauty simplified
to a single hue.

Angels will be born into salvation.
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.
If you would like to change your piece for hte next round then PM me the new one!
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.