28 Folk Songs
recorded myself telling a story about Satan & half eaten sandwiches
Miniature Bears
On a bed we sit like miniature bears.
You can bury me in your mattress,
I want to sit next to you
until we become dangerous.
Until we become parade balloons of bears,
cut loose and floating too close
to the street level floors of buildings.
“I want you up there,”
you said with closed eyes, pointing
to the chandelier that you called a ‘ceiling necklace’.
Cross your heart and hope to live for a very long time.
_
Gabby Bess
http://www.3ammagazine.com/3am/three-poems-18/
On the Illness
William was a puker. His expulsions—the color consistency, and volume of a baby after every sentence he spoke. This unfortunate fact of life began, innocently enough, during his infant coos and babbles, but by the time he was barfing onto his coloring books, the doctors were stumped. He had to carry a paper cup throughout middle school. By high school he didn’t have to worry about direct ridicule, because he had no friends. And then everyone in his peer group graduated and left town, and he was blessedly, blissfully alone.
After William was done with school he took a job at the local post office, where customers tended to be enfeebled or insane and everyone had larger problems. He would spit up into an empty soda bottle. His coworkers assumed he chewed tobacco and gave him tins of it on his birthday.Each day at work, he stood at the counter and observed a large map of North America, which hung over the desk where folks filled out their change-of-address forms. Time passed, and William began taking a daily visual interest in the Northwest Territories of Canada, at the highest point on the map. He imagined it as a pleasantly desolate place. On smoke breaks, he washed his soda bottle out in thebackroom sink._
Amelia Gray
But what is innocence? I tried to answer that question once and afterward nothing was the same. Wondering about lost innocence is the best barbarity I know. Look at you, you’ve grown, and around you, all I see is roaches. And around you, the insects know. What a ridiculous heart. How embarrassing, those little bugs in your hair. My little bugs, when I think of you. The little bugs in my debit and my poverty. Growing up is poverty. When you find zero cents, zero cotton balls, zero nail polish, zero breaths, zero heartbeats, zero cancers. When you know that money’s the one who dictates our digestion, how can you be happy? Work on fictitious moons. Devour cheap food. I don’t want daddy’s money or mommy’s. I don’t want their money or their house.
Here: my political novel.
Here: licking the ground.
Here: independence. Here.
—
Luna Miguel, Bad Blood
http://www.powderkegmagazine.com/luna-miguel (via lemonnest)
(via neatomosquitoshow)
Source: lemonnest
Source: sorryhouse