Construction Site

Author: Joshua Love

A full pearl moon,
Just hovering in the deep navy blue sky
The red crusted earth casts ominous shadows under bluish light.
My toes dig within the mounds
While I climb through the warm humid air.
I look upon the yellow bulldozer and its old worn tracks In wonderment.
Deep Breath
Then a sigh
I need him
But I haven't even meet him
Just yet
But I will... One day
The red clump of clay rolls out of my hands
And hits the ground
Rolling into the street on the right
In a flash
A car crushes it
And drives off.

Persona Mine

Author: Chelsea Yates

Starburst, something inside me shatters

As I don the mask, flecks of blood and skin

Suck me dry, roulette spinning, heart changed

Who am I? This plastic face with no self.

Mirror, take this bloody pulp throbbing in a dead chest

Every color I take on fades to static glass.

Wrench the hues where black and white are the only things in my eyes

Flash, again gone, who will I ever be? Prolonged memories.

And then faces sink, part of me with them, indefinitely.

Passing

Author: Reed

An older man sits beside me and

says he likes my shirt

I know what he likes

even though his are bigger than mine

The "conversation"

Read: him talking

and me not-listening

half-turns inevitably to him

and his disappoint-man-t

"It's hard to find other straight people here."

My coy smirk means

what he wants it to mean

and my silence on the matter

allows him to speak for me.

I'm the spring in the trap

for this thirsty rat.

He thinks he's slick.

"We should text. For class." For dick.

"Sure." Text. For class.

I know he wants this ass.

Not yet, though

Don't tell him yet.

I can't reel it in until

I get the inevitable line.

"I've taken this already."

"So I can help you." So pro-tip:

Take gen ed twice to be an expert*

*Some assembly and penis required

I am quiet up til now

Quietly tapping in his digits

Digital bag for DNA

"I'm a guy," I finally say

"Guess that makes you kinda gay."

And by the way, I make an A.

So suck on that if you're thirsty,

rat.

Swimming With Sharks

Author: Will Bradford

Last night, I summer bled through the ceiling

I felt like a spider crawling out of a shoe

As a wave of candy and arsenic

I channel surfed my dread and regret

Static, nothing changes

Forever falling, forever failing

Ideas, someday, may break us down

Douse and bask in bible-bleached late night 800 numbers

Booze-drenched sweater-stained quote-machine

The hills run over the heroes buried

New aged mumbling elders waxing gothic

Home sweet catacombs

Precision velvet lawn-care:

Razor Teeth at your service

Double edged sixpence preferred

Clairvoyant currency can’t play by the rules

Humid depression, ascending, marks another season

I never want to be a cemetery again

Last call, come clean, missed opportunities

I’ve got you searching in the dark,

A life less lived

Drowning in gloomy benzo-breeding fog pillows

I spill over the streets like general anesthesia

Missing ingredient, cure for life

Chaos messenger of the planet, lost, never returned

The Generation Analysts initiate their examination:

Pick it apart,

Leave no prisoners

No time to ponder

Someone call the arsonist!

Garbage talk, back-alley waste

A small animal curls into an arc

An empty bottle adrift in an ancient sea

Deep amongst the truest blue

Laugh, it’s over

Long live a new fiction

Of which nothing is or was before

Tip of the Hat

Author: Annika Bastain

When my family first moved to the South

When we were dirt poor

Even poorer than we are now

My momma

Would drive to Leeds

To the discount grocery

And buy rotten fruit and dented cans.

She and my aunts–

They were as poor as we were

Would bring an extra dollar

For the groceries to be brought to the car.

Old black men,

In old overalls and worn khaki trousers,

Faces fleshy and lined,

Would rock back and forth

In weathered gray rocking chairs

As sleepy as the Alabama heat,

Baking slowly in the sun,

Liveliness leaking out through the humidity.

They'd haul themselves out of the rockers,

Joints squeaking almost as much as the wicker bottoms of their chairs,

One of them looks at the other and says

"I don't want a lot of money. Just enough."

The other says "ain't that the truth"

And my mother nods sympathetically,

Knowing the truth of it all.

No teeth

No job

Maybe no wife

But probably kids–

These old black men would walk women's groceries to their cars

In exchange for a dollar or two.

They'd tip their hats and say thank ya ma'am

Like we were at a posh hotel instead of in

A baked asphalt parking lot,

Gray, with spiderweb cracks,

And as rundown as our cars.

The discount grocery went out of business eventually,

And my mother and aunts make more money now,

But I wonder

Still wonder

What happened to all those old men

Who tipped their hats and said

Thank you ma'am.

Machinations

Author: Chelsea Yates

Smile. Good morning. Elapse time. Gears smooth from same.

Same grin. Same hello. Motions same, time keeps on.

Auto-mation of old routines and apathetic cogs

Intangible relations from metal heart not linked

By corded wires of electrical feelings, frayed beginnings

And ends. Auto-mation, no one to see

Real sparks of life within, not same or cookie-cutter in

Likeness and circumstance. But warmth and alive.

Alive to break through hard encasements, years of

Programming. If only molds could be easily broken.

Comfort versus unknown. Human or automatic responses.

Non-conformations, yoke forsaken. Freedom granted.

Lesser Tears

Author: Chelsea Yates

I am but a doll screaming in dusk’s due

Compliant, wrists rubbed raw, weeping internally.

Porcelain skin, glassy eyes, arms sore from holding

Bare except for soul, smiling teeth break. 

I am but a doll, set high upon shelf

Stared and beheld, then discarded as time permits.

Silent in harsh light of day, muted, voice stilled

Doll, but a prize, a toy, erased from history.

Nothing.

Here I Stand

Author: Salla' Oliver

I stand before you like a mountain in a thunderstorm.

Strong against the chaos and darkness. Refusing to fall.

But only a storm I endure, only I see.

I stay in my mind a lot, go through so much but I can't show it.

Because I would be seen as complaining, whining, angry.

This isn't a piece talking about the many woes of a black woman.

It's a piece about me. This is a "Why do I have to be strong all the time and never show vulnerability" piece.

You hear it about men all the time.

I'm here to tell you, women can endure this too.

I want to cry, yell, scream to the top of my lungs and fuck shit up, if necessary, without being judged.

Staying in this dark room with this storm can cause invisible issues.

Issues that only come knocking at my door in the wee hours of the morning and the most inopportune times of the day.

I try to walk with my head high and hide my frustrations with life but sometimes it gets a bit much.

And sometimes a good cry and a hug would heal it all. Even if temporarily.

I hurt, I can be broken, I can be angry, sad, depressed or just not feeling the shit that day.

I fall on hard times.

It's just this smile mastered the art of disguise.

The next time someone is complaining or looks to be down, instead of judging them, help them.

Help them with the locks of that dark room that they just can't escape.

Help them free themselves.

In helping you've helped someone face another day.

U Esso A

Author: Carla Smith

a set of haikus from a hangry American

I sing the sandy

tune of democracy, I

choke it down with milk

sour and chunky

shove that hotdog down your throat

puke up the result

Star-spangled eyelids

—Stark white, bleaching the standard —

are trimmed, so neatly

two legs laid three eggs

cu-cu-ka-choo red, white and

blue bled from the coop

you hold the door for

the money man, rough-green-s/cents

short-stuff, molded hands

let's go redskins!! let’s

go braves!! knock nails in its head!

Tomahawks, enslaved

ol' uncle Sam shoves

his fist down our pants, jacking

us off just in time

cataclysmic sound

shoving banners in the ground

hit a lick then split

don't tread so close to

me, Police state, carried o’er

sea’s silt shook debris

when will the oil stop

spurting? Gorge yourself on it

black-tongued Lazrus

keep begging for it

and we’ll shove it in deeper

nice, easy, jesus wept

take it harder than

we gave in 'nam, Agent O’

mutant child and spam

with unbelievable risk

Author: Wanda Wesolowski

How strange it is: a few curious moments

we just so happen to be reading

like a story. we are pushing limits.

we empathize. and the weight of ones hands

seems to be all we can can relate to.

but what does a face do

when contorted with grief?

is the rest just gone? are we painted

on plaster, weightless,

beaten gold, coming to the fore?

we’re mere things in space.

with unbelievable risk, we get a little bit of it back

but the rest? just thrown into shadow.

Us

Author: Savannah Cleckler

When my friends ask me if I still think of you

I don’t know what they want me to say

I could tell them how

I pour thoughts of you into my morning coffee

Watching the negatives swirl with the positives

Creating a cloudy mess of confusion

I sip down the bittersweet concoction 

Still trying to decide whether you were good for me after all

Remembering the same arms that held me so tight

Pushed me away at the very same time

It was one fluid motion

Our push and pull similar to the ocean

That was less like a wave

And more like a tsunami 

The force of the crash wasn’t half as destructive

As the magnetic force that pulled me back

So no, I don’t think of you

I think of us, how we were such a mess

Of good things and bad things

A contradiction of my convictions

There was nothing about us I could trust

Now I’m split into three different parts

The before, the during, and the afterwards

We were a natural disaster

Our lives are better off spent apart

Knowing that still doesn’t seal

the hole we left behind in my heart

But still I’m trying to fill it

With bitter morning thoughts

And drops of sugar sprinkled throughout

Mixing together like our hands

I never thought we’d have to pull apart

Brite Song

Author: Chelsea Yates

Sun. Be my grace. Light reign down your pure joyous momentum. 

Love. Beat faster still. Heart throb, ignite, and burn. 

Darkness. Congealing shadows. Shelter me, wrapped in sheets of night. 

Bond. Tighten and grow. Forever in embraces long. 

Innocence. Purity of the found and new. Blessings bestowed. 

Shell. As hard as any metal. Encase protection of finite powers. 

Judgement. Omnipotence, gavel raised up against time. Firm hand, blessed by the divine. 

Dove. With wings of snow. Fly away into freedoms of blue. Not rust or bars. 

Eight hearts beating as one in this infinite sky. Reaching out, blinded with dreams of the light.

Days on earth, they wane, as shadows stretch to eclipse the sun. Grasping up, eyes dim, eight hearts twisting within. Breathe and maybe we’ll find that light again.

I’m the bright, bright sun. Day waiting for arrival.

I’m what is in your heart. Too much, breaks and expands.

I’m grief and despair, darkness at my stable.

I’m what you hold on to. Chains to lengthen and whittle.

I’m a white blank space. Just expecting to be filled.

I’m what makes you, you. Strength, enemy’s end.

I’m presiding counsel. My rule, always wins.

I’m what makes you soar. Dressed in dreams, not oppressed by doubts.

Eight hearts mingle. Side-by-side, goals the same. Sky. Eyes. Hands upstretched. And then there’s only one. 

Seven hearts taken over. Shadows within them squirm. Clutched hands loosen and they falter. Where does this story end? One left, will it ever end?

All we ever wanted was to see the light. Just to see the light. 

Not to see. 

Reach.

I’m the bright, bright sun. Day waiting for arrival.

I’m what is in your heart. Too much, breaks and expands.

I’m grief and despair, darkness at my stable.

I’m what you hold on to. Chains to lengthen and whittle.

I’m a white blank space. Just expecting to be filled.

I’m what makes you, you. Strength, enemy’s end.

I’m presiding counsel. My rule, always wins.

I’m what makes you soar. Dressed in dreams, not oppressed by doubts.

Eight hearts ripped at the seams. Everything not what it seems. Same. Goal. Same. Dreams, but still they push each other down trying. Trying to succeed.

Weep all you want, but never break.

Weep all you want, but rise strong.

Weep all you want, but regret nothing.

If this is the path you take, pick the one where you never weep.

Single heart, where are you now? Lone heart, after seven were stolen were you satisfied with where you are?

I’m sun.

I’m heart.

I’m despair.

I’m chains.

I’m blank.

I’m strength.

I’m counsel.

I’m free.

I’m you.

Untitled

Author: Georgia Toner

A halo of heat lightning drizzlingaround her hair

Moments of faded orange and black eye blue flare

Flying over glossy black depth, highlighted by the setting star

Closer, and the water melts like a glossy butter bar

And once again that looming dark future

Is illuminated by those brilliant flashes of curiosity

And sure it ought to be 

That celestial fight

That causes her to realize 

There is beauty in the moments flashing before her eyes

Fear of the unknown 

She's breaking out, away from dark expectations

Creating a burning sky, heat lightning drizzling for generations

Oh a Vixen

Author: Chelsea Yates

Oh… so… tantalizing, one caress

Then syringe whispers into neck.

Just so and woe head tilts as 

Gloved hand lingers over bare flesh.

A trail of crimson crushed dress,

Oh no, hands meet mouths mesh.

And next… so still blade 

Pressed wound fresh. As though

To heal from sin eyes dim

Breathless. Oh my, vixen’s tears,

Lashes smear; lust at rest. One

More kiss, a little twist then just death.

She

Author: Jayla Williams

She moves like bee-bops and b-flats on air waves

And wraps herself so tight in night that they can’t help but to see the heavens in her

She be a storm that nature crowned in hurricanes and tornadoes

Arms strong enough to hold sons and daughters that she may never keep

She carries the earth that was toiled by great grandmothers in eyes that wonder 

Eyes that hold more starry nights than the universe that made her

Sun-kissed skinned proving that when God made her, generations before, he was making art 

Something more than Master could piece together

So great a masterpiece that he couldn’t tear it apart

Her

Author: Briana McDade

When I grow up I want to be just like her.

I want to walk around my home barefoot, telling people how cold it is, while I wear a sweater.

I want to sing out loud to my heart’s content, not worried about what others think.

I want to step into her shoes, those legendary shoes.

Crafted out of whatever she could find, those shoes that haven’t worn out over time.

Made with beads from old shirts, and fabric from tattered cloth, and rhinestones from the lost abyss of nooks and crannies.

I want to quote people who wrote stories, who had imaginations that could be understood through sentences that gripped one’s soul.

One soul.

Her soul.

An old soul.

Museum Hands

Author: Abigail Betts

The children who are shrunk by shouts

In museums of oils and foreign lands;

Because of the oils on their hands,

Become the great impressionists.

The children whose voices shake,

In classrooms of plaid oppression;

Because of the age-old suppression, 

Become the darlings of The Academy.

The children with undeserved demerit slips,

In testing rooms of finished work and boredom;

Because of urgent, unbidden words that must come,

Become the antagonized authors.

All     Because they didn’t want to be published.

    Because they didn’t want to speak up.

    Because they didn’t want to get in trouble.

mirrors, stains

Author: Wanda Wesolowski

you’re the words i need when i can’t speak.

you’re the apple that falls far from the tree.

you’re the light in the sky that helps me see.

you’re the blood that pumps through these veins in me.

but the problem with love is it can’t be

cause you don’t think it’s worthy of the time it needs.

i left the milk on the counter and i woke to find

that it curdled like the blood flowing through my mind.

we are mirrors, we are stains… you and i.

still your posture isn’t perfect when you stand up straight.

and i thought this was worth it but made a mistake

when i loaned all my pennies to the girl on the street,

she took them in her weak hands and smiled at me.

oh, she smiled at me.

but all is well within the house of hell and lies

all that’s left to do is rest that head at night.

i’m a drifter thats my role in all your lives

but you promised me a home i could live inside…

a permanent resident of your heart and mind.

still the numbers come in doubles and i can’t forget

how you told me all your troubles on the night we met

the car that cut me off and nearly caused a wreck

was your same make and model only painted red

as the blood flowing through me, as the blood i bled.

Dad

Author: Jalen Thompson

I did not like you, but I did not hate you. 

I wanted the real thing, but he was not there. 

I never called you “Dad”, but you were.

You were mean, you were tough. 

I was bad, always bringing notes home.

I remember the many discipline exercises you made me do:

Bear crawls, wall sits, push-ups. 

Really, it was borderline abuse.

I wanted him and not you. 

He would not discipline me like this or at all. 

Surely he would talk to me about it instead of 

bear crawls, wall sits, push-ups. 

Yes, it was abuse:

That time you made me watch IT and

on the playground at school

my light blue jeans would slowly

turn into dark blue jeans. 

I was afraid of you. 

You found joy in disciplining me. 

Yes, I did hate you.

She loved you. You loved her

and you both loved your son

and loved me too, out of obligation. 

I was there, simply there. 

That’s why I was always bringing notes, 

to feel like I was not just there, but that I was living there too—

I guess.

It was just me and her before you

got here and she was doing fine without you. 

No, they would not have gotten back together, 

but I would have seen him because there was no you and

she wanted a He there for me. But I was fine with me and her.

I thought you were just a replacement. 

No not even that: a place holder. But you stayed.

You were there for me, for us, me and her. 

You wifed her.

She gave you a son, a real son. 

I was the one you pretended to care for,

I still am, but now I don’t mind.

I understand, I do.

To be “Dad” is to be there,

and you were,

he wasn’t. 

I see that now. 

I see that you weren’t pretending.

I see the crawls, the wall sits, the push-ups,

The fear of you, made me, me.

Now, there is no fear, 

Only respect.

Is this like Stockholm? 

No, you weren’t that bad,

You were a drill sergeant.

You were “Dad”.

You are “Dad”.

And I love you, I guess.

Murder, Murder

Author: Ryann Taylor

Bare toes claw your wild leg hair

Skin suffocates skin— over and over again

You open the fridge, yellow bottles rattle—

Not your own.

My chapped lips encompass a water bottle.

One hair that peeps over the others

And a nose that sniffles day in, day out.

I keep searching for words—

And words I am lacking.

In words— there’s a thought that I could keep you

Apart from my “work.”

But you’re a part of my words.

Precious indeed.

Broken porcelain piled on your desk, 

 The scattered pattern on your chest; 

 Safety to me.

I dream of the suffocating smoke that once spun 

To your ceiling—is it home yet?

Your clothes are strewn on the floor.

Wrinkled, folded, and kicked in their residence.

Sheets scrambled. What dreams do you have?

A gentle hand to comb—

And the other

Protecting 

My tender scalp.

I said I would keep you separate.