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DrewTM |
I found a strange j-like shape in my sketchbook
so I drew this around it.
I don't know what any of it is.
so I drew this around it.
I don't know what any of it is.
Labels: Drew
3 Comments
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Dalia |
The time-honored blockade is ritually de-wired.
The bullets don’t care, the suits don’t care,
the governments don’t care, the viruses don’t care
And they are it and we are it and this is it and that is that.
Not much unlike the Georgians,
they had not reached a talking point.
They threw clay jugs through glass ceilings
that protruded from the alleyway
Their senseless arts were like mad libels,
monkeying around while carrying a blowtorch.
They were not anesthetized,
Though there was something quite trodden
About the miniscule reason vanquished by their ancestors
They didn’t quite hammer out
that which was in store
but what they did know they could not see
for fierce winds blew down the alleyway
They jutted out face-first
Before lending themselves a spare moment to do as they pleased
It didn’t matter what they came for,
It was just the audience
for whom they paraded their nothings and their scorecards
And here we still are, suggesting that we might stop them.
And here we still are, donkeys pulling wheels.
Labels: Dalia
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Fred |
He takes off his shoes first, as usual. He carefully unlaces them, the better to put them on when he is through; it is a ritual, after all, not codified stupidity. The socks he places next to them on the ground, their laundry machine purity dingy against the unbleached fresh snow. It is as he unbuttons the fourth button of his outer coat that he feels the first real tremors of cold, as the residue of warmth from his house and the socks are washed away by the tiny eddies of air wrapping themselves around his feet and splashing against his ankles. He savors them, these first overtures, as he gently shrugs off the parka, looks thorugh the trees at the empty white sky, the sun devoured and scattered by the featureless clouds.
The parka stands upright for a moment, rigid for the impression of a wearer, before it crumples sideways with a slight crackle. His zippered jacket comes off quicker. It is here that he must always consciously force himself to keep his pace steady, to remember his purpose, as the cold passes through his shirt like oil through a sieve. The joy comes then, too, from his now tingling feet, trilling up his spine, his body answering with a trembling shudder. The delicate time has passed now, and he feels no difference on the surface of his skin as his shirt comes off, and his chest and arms taste the raw air. His dulled fingers wrestle with the top button on his pants briefly before falling back into rhythm again.
He breathes deliberately, his whole body breathes as he steps out of his pants, then out of his boxers, his breath appearing then disappearing like a chimera or a mystery, or life itself. The trees, they are now sacred somehow, silhouettes and monuments, he almost feels as if their tips are within reach again. He pulls the skin apart at the top of his sternum, and it splits easily to the bottom of his abdomen, the two flaps hanging at his side. He is shivering now in earnest, and his ribcage expands defiantly, a trace of blood tracing his thigh, then his shin. The joy comes almost between shivers in a silent call and response, arpeggiating down the length of his arm, to his fingertips. He can feel the air both in his lungs and on their surface. The clearing is a smaller place now, as the snow begins to fall again, his body more than naked, raging against winter.
Labels: Fred
1 Comments
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DrewTM |
Daisy 3
Dalia 3
Mariko 3
Ambar 2
Anshul 2
Becca 2
Ryan 2
Drew 1
Fred 1
Greg 1
Matt 1
Nick 1
Dalia 3
Mariko 3
Ambar 2
Anshul 2
Becca 2
Ryan 2
Drew 1
Fred 1
Greg 1
Matt 1
Nick 1
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DrewTM |
Fred 63
Drew 49
Dalia 42
Ryan 11
Daisy 8
Matt 8
Nick 3
Ambar 2
Anshul 2
Becca 2
Greg 2
Drew 49
Dalia 42
Ryan 11
Daisy 8
Matt 8
Nick 3
Ambar 2
Anshul 2
Becca 2
Greg 2
Mariko 2
Labels: Drew
2 Comments
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DrewTM |
If it doesn’t strike us it will strike us later.
As though we were cheetahs, we run,
As though grey machines of steel, we stand,
The never-ending, piecemeal plot.
We are not challenged by gnostics.
This sweet Hippocrene pouring forth on Mount Helicon,
To us, reduces and sharpens us,
Agrees us into hollow troughs.
We wear our speech closely in this new plane of meetings.
Deadbolt nine-millimeter, we find dilapidated mineshafts
To anguishes, delights, to unspoken, purple-mouthed truths.
We squeeze tunnels through where we weren’t meant to meander.
Following smiles will be knowing, laced with milk-skins.
We are petering, teetering, blanched
Toward the white, misty abyss,
Its spidering ironies ever before our faces,
Our feet rooted in the salted snow of a vast empire.
We can’t come to our conclusion.
We shall come to it at another time.
We’ve got cherries and bunting,
I’ve made a bunt cake for the ride;
I can’t make certain what the time will be,
But we can feel electricity shock through us
Like electric needles piercing our veins
Whatever is hurtling before our nonchalant city brights,
Nine times out of ten a candle illuminates it for us,
Adventuring ever forward as though we knew naught.
I don’t know how to hurry out of here,
But if there was a pleasant theme tune I would hum it.
We carry on, we lag behind.
Baskets and scenery
Heralds and clauses
Fairly missing sadscapes and rocket-disasters.
We carry on. There is no ‘lag behind.’
We call it the coming and going,
The talking from east and west.
Dogs and cars are ashen to our call.
We elapse forward and scurry back.
It started with him and we have this world.
Labels: Drew
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