1.
If emotions could be collected and condensed,
packaged and sold, which ocean would you submerge
your veins in to get yourself stoned?

2.
I once heard if you take two sports and hybrid their essence,
you’re left in the end with a better sport; like magic, the product
is stronger than the sum of it’s parts. If this is true, I hope
bobsled jousting gets picked up by ESPN.

3.
I always related to and admired John the Baptist
more then Christ. And maybe that’s my sin. Pushing
myself to keep getting lost in the forgotten wild cities,
to perform subtle miracles, to bring the bodies up for air.

4.
I want to tie-dye the moon, and whitewash wall-street.

5.
If atheist truly believe that this is all that there is, then why
do they not have more hospitals? Why is no woman or man
being revived in “God is Dead” ICU, or being born in the birthing
wing of ” This is all there is” Medical Center?

6.
What if my future son opens the door to my office hoping
to speak the burdens loose from his lungs? With Irises heavy
and wet he would unveil that he wants to be a Banker; that
he had known this his whole life despite dance lessons and
youth poetry slams; that new genetic research shows that
these traits are natural throughout the biosphere. Even with
a father’s love, would this strike a wedge within our relationship?

7.
In a dream last night I was told that a Goddess I loved had taken
her own life? When a star of the divine divorces life it takes everything.
Even it’s existence. Even your memories. Now I’m left feeling lonely,
wondering what she was like, and realizing why my prayers felt so empty.

8.
Maybe this needs more salt.

The dots in your eyes condense until they transmute
themselves into the form of a flapper girl, soothsayer,
trapeze artist, or whatever you need to feed your interest.

She will whisper her mind to you

Listen, your soul is a person shaped
guitar case filled up with birthday balloons.
Each one is a color you may have seen
but never quite heard like this. The case
has three locks, is buried under concrete
and is blessed by sage, holy water, & voodoo.

Listen, all of these balloons are being holiday
stuffed with air passed through pressed lips
casting new-holy hymns within their skins.
There is a million of them in there, babe, so
what do you plan to do with all of this pressure?

And all of this hits while you were cooking your eggs,
or driving your car, or walking alone in the park, You
will find yourself left wondering what you can do to
exercise your soul of this air. What line you could
write or idea you could invite or provider to reach
straight through the surface and fill this world with
a few new fresh breaths of what you keep within.

Six Girls

by Griggori Tyler Taylor

 .

“Statistics from Boston Area Rape Crises Center”

               90% of rape survivors on college campus know their assailant

               National crime surveys show 60% of rapes go unreported

               Most undetected rapist average on six victims

. 

***

 .

Everyone who knew Iris thought of her like a little sister. Her eyes

held an essence of kindness and curiosity that lit up the night. The

kind of light that an honest man would try to keep safe; so what

guardian angel called home sick that day. She’d go to parties but

never drank too much, never more than a couple mixed drinks. She was

a lightweight, so her tiny figure had no way of stopping the Rohypnol

slipped in and stomping in her veins. The dance floor and walls dropped,

folding away like a burning photo album, memories rolling up like scrolls.

Walking down steps, clothes ripping, two small wrist held in one hand.

When her hymen broke the bleeding gave her quick stabs of consciousness,

just enough to capture a face. But waking up on friends couch hung-over like

nothing ever happened didn’t help produce a story to believe. Neither did

seeing her rapist unaffected face every other day in biology. Iris didn’t just lose

her virginity. She lost the greater some of her sanity. Poisonous memories

rotted away her reality, and she doesn’t even know how to get in there

and fix them. And Iris wasn’t even the first victim. Or the second. Before her,

 .

There was Hope. Hope was a believer in God. She went to two churches, the BCM,

and was the vice president of coexist. Hope helped 65 people out of their personnel

hells and into a life of love. Every person she knew she mentioned when she prayed.

Every holiday was spent preparing stacks of food trays to a line of shallow hungry faces

and erases their sorrow and pain. It was a Thursday, and she was walking home from

a friends dorm when he came from the blindside. The abandoned concrete was an unforgiving

mattress. When she screamed he  crafted a cataclysm of ground and skull to make her silence.

A lot comes to mind in fifteen minutes. Hope wondered whatever made her this man target.

She always dressed so modest. Never played childish mind games with her body, but honestly,

she knew the truth. She wasn’t asking for anything. The only thing that causes rape is a rapist.

His seed bloomed inside her like a thorn covered flower. When she told her father she nipped

it before the bloom, he forgot that she was ever his daughter. The kicking of her child’s phantom

limbs is a forever ticking memory of a nightmare that penetrated much deeper then skin, but

 .

before her there was Alexis. Alexis was already a survival story. For fifteen years she

was a hole in the wall library of tucked away scars. Her body and soul’s bruises were hidden

under honor roll report cards and minimum wage pay stubs like gum stuck under a school desk.

I’ll have to clean this up sometime, but not tonight, it’s a school night. I just got off work, I have

a test in the morning, and my sisters still haven’t had their dinner yet. See, Alexis’ mom died from

crack when she was young, and since then she had to take her mother’s place. Cleaning house,

preparing dinner, and facing her father’s lust every night. But she bit the bullet because she wanted

to be the first in her family to do something with her life. She was the first one to go to college.

When he reached her in the parking lot she had almost forgot another childhood night. But this time

she tried to fight, not sure if this might be her last moments of life, but it was useless. His heavy fist

struck her gut, punching out the smallest questions of why, till there was nothing left to say. Alexis’

felt as hopeless as the first day her father told her he would show her her place.  Her grades faded

to E’s, and she began to believe what he said. Now a drop out, she went to the streets figuring she

should sell herself to feed her sisters, considering they were going to take it from her anyways. But

 .

before her there was Martha. The only image of Martha I can paint is of a sixteen year old girl not

yet know how the next year of her life would go, because that was the image they

placed on her casket. There just weren’t any recent photos so they had to choose one

that showed their daughter the way they wish she would have stayed. The suicide note

said she always heard that women never killed themselves swiftly, always a slow fade,

so she went out with a twelve gauge down her throat because she didn’t want to be associated

with her beauty that cursed her. Her closed casket will never hold every piece of her skull, but

 .

before her there was Charlotte. Charlotte had never been with a man. She always related more

to women. Always felt safe and warm in the arms of the girls she loved. So when he broke the stain

glass in the temple of her body, she kept picking the pieces out of her skin for the years to come.

Charlotte has 32 black lipstick kisses tattoos. One for every bruise left on her flesh that night. Her

fingers have permanent groves from trying to pray away the memories. She leaves the house

like it’s swimming in white water, every man is a memory of what she can’t forget. She wakes from

dreams like a Vietnam vet, cold sweat pooling around her body like a chalk outline but she died a long time ago.

Today she just prays there won’t be another reason to open the doors, but before her

 .

there was Cattie. Cattie had a long line of bad relationships with ambitionless men, So when she meet a one

who was willing to fight for what he wanted in life, she got hooked like a junkie. He was willing to make her happy,

but like all things in life, they must be earned, and  Cattie wasn’t willing to pay the price. It started small at first. But it

built up, and up, and there was never any love. Her body was just a tool for him to finish inside of, so she tried to leave,

and tried again, and again, finally black and blue she transferring school. But after therapy, Cattie was the lucky one.

But her assault went unreported. There were never any ears there to listen, so he got off the hook.

 .

Do you see now? Every assault must be reported. Every ear should here the cries of the night,

no soul should feel as if this crime was all on them alone. after this night, will we still stand bright

like candles we will soon hold, or will we all just melt and let the effects trickle down like the wax?

Will we be able to go back and relax knowing what we know or will we help hold up the world resting

on our sister’s shoulders? Will five more women have to cry? Will five more women

be forced to lose part of their life, all because we could do whatever it took to listen to one?

The first time she modeled herself for me
was in the middle of a high dollar clothes
store, somewhere in the dusty pop up book
of televised New York. It was early, 2 pm
or so, I had no coffee, pot, or cigarettes
and honestly, I had no business being in a
place like this. After hours of masquerading
.
in every article that fit her framework, we
left empty handed minus a single piece of 
chocolate. I didn’t ask, but she read wonder
from my eyes, saying she does this so she will never
forget how ridiculous she feels in those clothes,
buying charisma rather than the breath and
purge of actions and goodwill. With half the
.
piece of her overpriced chocolate unraveling 
on my tongue, I began to paint a portrait of
her in my skull. A portrait of a bicycle, riderless,
rolling downhill. She asked if she could keep it,
no one had ever captured her chain properly; the
right coat of dirt and rush. The second time
she modeled herself for me was in the at her
.
friends cherrywood flat, somewhere near Memphis. 
We were playing cards alone by candlelight after
the power went out like a blind boxer. I was half
nervous, twirling the cereal in my bowl like divination.
My iPod was humming its last drops to Cadillac Sky.
Until then, I had never seen anyone tap toes to the
rain, never seen eyes outshine the lightning, never
.
had my ass handed to me egyptian ratscrew that
badly. In her laughter, woven within my own, I tried
my hand at another portrait. Chandeliers on yo-yo 
strings, spinning around the room, brightening every
possible thing and then… Gone. As far as I know, 
this piece still hangs above the mantle of her smile.
The third time she modeled herself for me, 
.
she was laying naked on her stomach upon my sofa
in Paducah, Kentucky. I was putting those college
classes to go use, capturing her form with as much
photographic grace the lenses of my fingers could
handle. The valleys of her shoulders, rain drops on
her hips, windowpanes in the shadows of her ribs.
These things are not metaphors, simply truths. Once
.
she were reflected, I rotated the canvas to show her
herself for the third time. I must have written my 
wonder right back into her, because her eyes were
tossing question darts into my art. “What’s a spine

.

doing in this piece? Why are there legs and hands 
and hair? Teeth and eyes in a skin wrapped skull?
Is this me? Is this what people see?” May she be,
.
always fireworks a moment before the bang. Always
the cracker-barrel horseshoe puzzle, and half a pack
of cigarettes shaped like paper airplanes and flowers. 
Always made of magic. I still have this unwanted piece,

somewhere, in some closet in some folder, tucked in tightly

I keep it there, so I can always remember to forget to look

at her like everyone else.

We are dimmed lanterns looking for light.

We are the flashbanged hardknock drum

beat singing flatbox guitars missing strings.

We are the pocket edition published on the

Creative Process’ ten thousandth anniversary.

We are The Garden of Eden’s lumber from

wigged out trees. We are children we got much

too competitive in full-contact make-believe.

.

We are both sides of the wall, we see all the

green grass. We are both sides of the wall.

.

On one, we are making hammers. We are taking

trash, our repressed past, dubbed fireworks, our

ex’s toothbrush. We are taking and making these

things heavy. Like Adam, not yet knowing how to

dream, we are releasing our unwanted bones for

making handles for hammers. We are making a pride

of hammers. A canvas load of hammers. A whole

congregation of homegrown half-human hammers.

.

On the other side, we are a choir of self-immolation.

We are the sound of forest fires. If fire was a song it

would be this. We are the buzzdrunk beat dropped

from Babel. We are prisms turning all wandering

through into light. We are the deafening silence

heard after the last loud note of the song called night.

We are bright. There are not enough suns to be this bright.

.

We are hammers and suns and this wall is deflating.

These walls we post up around each-other are falling.

There are so many souls overflowing with drowsiness

and it is well past early, best to wake them all up.

There are so many lanterns looking for more light.

.

But thank God, we are so bright.

thepianofarm:

on some days. just not today.

by Paul Octavius via thiscitycalledearth

  *The life Beta Test is over! I mean, you didn’t think this was as good as it would get, right? With the crusades, slavery, the trail of tears, world war I, world war II, the holocaust, the other holocaust, the nuclear bomb, 9-11, the Bush administration, and the global economic crisis  - it’s been decided maybe we need a few tune ups. So after some deliberating with the dead and reviewing countless generations of hopes and prayers, I glad to be here announcing some of the things you can expect in Life 2.0.*

 .

.

.

In life 2.0, there will be a background soundtrack.

Long walks alone or locked-down noons will flash-frame

away in introspective montage. Shared seductive glances

will stretch an extra fifteen seconds for the chorus to drop.

We’ll all get an epic theme-song for moments we notice

our purpose. point is, you won’t worry how to feel anymore.

 .

In life 2.0, skin colors will change shades every two weeks.

Go to sleep Irish and wake up Hispanic, or African, or  even

neon green. We’ll all feel what it feels to be treated by tint.

 .

Dancing and Prayer will be regarded as the same thing.

Sessions of worship will breakout in the streets. Flash Mobs

will be Holy. There will be no bad blood brewed for sleeping 

in  on Sunday mourning for a long night of good ol’ praising.

 .

Anything you order in life on a menu in life 2.0 can be ordered 

over-easy. Except for eggs. Things will be simple and Ironic like that.

 .

Art & Music are the last class to be cut from the coriculum. 

 .

In life 2.0, Electricity will run on poetry. People will bark haiku

to charge phones. Large union plants will be filled with the echo 

of Ginsberg’s Dynamos and Keats’ bright star. In winter, we’ll

huddle around Neruda for warmth, cups of over-easy hot chocolate.

 .

In this life, we love to wish on things that are broken. Falling stars,

dandelions, wishbones. In this life, we’re looking for new things to break.

In life 2.0, hearts will be one of these things. But this time, break them

and they’ll rebloom. This time, at least we’ll get a good clean wish out of it.

 .

In life 2.0, wages are directly connected to a persons character. 

One who is honest and charitable will have more then enough to give.

Nice guy’s will finish early, just to go back and give others a hand.

 .

It will be common knowledge that the ones we love who’ve taken

their own life are in a better place. Some will say, they’ll come back

to us as  fresh picked flowers, this has yet to be confirmed or denied.

 .

In life 2.0, children will only be born to parents who will love them.

A man or woman will prepare a potion of honey and rosewater, 

make love to the one who holds their heart, and bare a child.

No more abortion. No more orphanages or gay rights issues.

 .

Just love. Just love.

 .

Goosebumps will be written in braille. In awe, our bodies tell stories.

 .

In life 2.0, the Torah, the Bible, the Quran, the Bayan, and the Kitab- Aqdas

are all chapters of the same book. Just like they are in this life. But In life 2.0, they’ll

all come in one convenient package. And in life 2.0, they’re a coloring book. We’ll choose

what color the word of God reads, and this time, it might not be the color we bleed

but, their be no problem staying inside the lines when it’s all just a matter of taste.

 .

These are just a few things to look forward to. Expect more information

soon. Till then, we ask you all help to make the transition a little more smooth,

and till then, we are all open to suggestions.

As I sit at my kitchen table,

the first place i have been able

to write this whole month long

and start to read John Ashbery

for the first time, I repeatedly

find myself distracted by a clicking

in blizzard staccato. Above, a

flying bug of the blurry nature

continuously strikes the blades

of a fan. He’s not going to die,

I think to myself as my eyes

trail words in the hallow mock

of reading we so often do.

There’s no trap, no sticking

or shock, just the constant

slow bat-away as it intends

to reach the light, flooding

my ears with a river of wings.

There’s much more poetry here

then you’d think, I think, turning

another page without reading it.