Sta.sh
Theme
Total prizes reach 1000 
!!!! 
But of course there are always the rules......
Please please please fave the journal!
Make another journal about this giveaway and provide a link of that journal in the comments (this will help spread the word about this giveaway)
Rules
Should be about School Times!
oints:
, comment and watch!
this journal and read the other works. now, onto the main event—
Prayer One: The Demiurge (from Square Holes)You are the light and I am the eye.
You are the wind that wakes the twigs in spring.
The buds. The growth of buds. The blossom.
You are the crack of ice and hoarfrost.
The release of icicles and sheaves.
Small birds. Green birch leaves.
The bush of red foxtail in the brush.
I see you in the full mooned sky white with clouds.
The degree of rain upon an ocher lake at sunrise.
You are mist, quickening and hunger –
aurora, lightning and spring rain.
You are the blue rivulet to my ice–pond –
(the scutter to my narcolept – the caffeine to my anodyne).
You warm the earth and send me
shooting forth to fight the sky
“and I hate you and fear you and look for you everywhere
with dread.”
"You are the crack of ice and hoarfrost.
The release of icicles and sheaves.
Small birds. Green birch leaves.
The bush of red foxtail in the brush."
Just Another Tree In The ForestWhen all the words
I've gathered in my pupils
color my irises grey,
you can find me scribbling
nonsense
in between my eyelashes.
Brainwaves like lines and lines
and lines and lines
of novels and history books.
My memior is made of torn
pages and found poetry. Brown
around the edges -
old and used.
With ashen fingertips, and
fingers like twigs snapping
underfoot, I will carve out
my trunk and count my rings -
always far enough from death and yet
there is no green left in my branches.
I haven't taken root enough
to feel at home
since I was a sapling, but when
children sit in my hollow,
I howl stories about reaching
f
"With ashen fingertips, and
fingers like twigs snapping
underfoot, I will carve out
my trunk and count my rings -"
texas I.i crossed the last of all borders without feeling,
wheeling observations by the cartload
to a post truck for study at
the perspective lab i call home.
a cot totters in my darkroom:
the red cast on the blond
tucked behind my practical ears
smolders shiftless as i sleep,
as i continue to develop.
i can show you the things i've seen:
in dallas, streets broaden, highways pile atop themselves
thrusting concrete undersides tattoo'd with texas lonestars,
billboards blasting "the national beer of texas" straight into our
already chicken-warm bellies.
women stroll past curt, small conversations.
even gossip is terse and tan, because f
"i count restaurants on my fingers.
the chains unroll themselves
in concrete evidence to deja vu
and the unoriginality of the american gods."
mental [profound i you]i would love to fill in the blank spots
with more metaphors
and back teeth grins
but i just can't figure out how
how you do it
you built a world with wild eyes and
whispered a foreign conversation
yelled at the back of your neck
padded a dance around the fire without ever
straightening your knees
it's evident
it's all there and just look at us:
a spectrum of delicacies and intentions
resting on at our fingertips
handwriting's a dialect
because your hands are different
from my hands
and the rise and fall of
one's tongue
one's hands
changes as the c is sharped
"it's evident
it's all there and just look at us:
a spectrum of delicacies and intentions
resting on at our fingertips
handwriting's a dialect"
All In.He marvels
that a woman
can love a man
older than she, herself.
As if we all stack chips to a height
we expect all others to reach
but not to exceed.
But I have seen
one such miracle too many;
I have been the victim
of an unlikely affair
like theirs; where power
and money
and age
and forgetfulness
rocked decency to a shamed sleep
at the expense of those too innocent to watch.
And yet,
in the longest silence,
the grand old image resurfaces:
a man with shaking hands,
a woman like a stained glass window...
He is twenty eight
and I am only nineteen,
but when that powerful mouth curves
around the syllables of my name
"I have been the victim
of an unlikely affair
like theirs; where power
and money
and age
and forgetfulness
rocked decency to a shamed sleep"
peculiar proceduresthe anatomy of your lips, the force of the
kiss constitutes indifference. tongue slips
against skin holding rough & jagged edges
of promises to be broken.
it is evening.
we sit, 22 seconds robbed of suspense & propers,
bask in each other's mouths like sweet acid burning
in the well of our throats. ebbs & flows into collages
of paint smear, spanish frescoes of weakened virtues
and ethical dissection.
pick apart my childhood with the flat side of your
coated teeth & see the lack of company in me. hands
like glue to the bottom of your running shoes; witnessed
the lynching of each other's smiles like slavery.
concrete sharpens skull-scar
"we sit, 22 seconds robbed of suspense & propers,
bask in each other's mouths like sweet acid burning
in the well of our throats. ebbs & flows into collages
of paint smear, spanish frescoes of weakened virtues
and ethical dissection."
"The world was ours. The molten rock
cherry and the hardened stones; the screech
of evolving spines, a long free victory cry
when life took flight. We were
spinning madly into one, the original
prank, gypsies stripped of identities
by simple gravity."
To LondonGypsy hopefuls once told me,
there are flights leaving for
any destination
at any given instant
Upon sizing up our town with
a fingernail
did you realise how little
our frustrations were?
I spoke about this ineffable feeling
of stepping out of one tub
and into new water.
The hotel was done up nicely,
chandeliers and polished English accents.
Labels aside they still mixed
milk into their coffee
and had toast with jam and butter.
I was living under the impression
that most of the Internet
came from my same slice of city pie,
conveniently forgetting about
the undersea cables.
I loathed the lack of vernacular
sentence s
"I was living under the impression
that most of the Internet
came from my same slice of city pie,
conveniently forgetting about
the undersea cables."
LexophiliaLexophilia
We are the yellowed pages of a
Thrift-store magazine,
Edges curled with timely precision.
Sometimes the words have faded but
It's easy to make out what they mean;
In places the font is distorted,
Broken, even old-fashioned,
Yet the plotlines are perfect.
Snapshots of anything and everything,
Wrapped in descriptive blankets
Like old objects in an attic;
We are better than Latin because
We are not a dead language,
And unlike Esparanto,
I am determined we will work.
I am a lover of every word,
The sullen ones are saved for rainy days;
The better for lonely nights.
I will be lexophillic until
The last syllable.
"We are better than Latin because
We are not a dead language,
And unlike Esparanto,
I am determined we will work."
"This is where my tomato red strands
Escape my scalp in herds of knots and
Tangles, clogging the shower drains for
I once vowed I would never cut my hair"
love 1
1
joy 0
0
wow 0
0
mad 0
0
sad 0
0
fear 0
0
neutral 0
0
