Currently Reading...

Starship Troopers
The Walking Dead, volume 4

chatter

drunk monkey creates havoc
under a war banner of
frustration and technology
and refuses to be shut down

monkey overwhelms the mind
scurrying from room to room
‘monkey, monkey, monkey’

banter grows turbulent
from plagues of speculation
until the only remedy
is to slaughter kinsmen
on the battle field

skin burns under the
syntax of disaster and distraction
but in the aftermath of violence
monkey is not still

Sex Advice From Poets

If The Ezra Pound was a sex position, what would it be?
It would last longer than it should, you’d never know what’s going on, and it would get you thrown in an asylum.

Read more at Nerve.

Rik Mayall Recites Angry Poetry

Probably best known in the States as Drop Dead Fred. He seriously brings the funny.

Katie Loves Star Wars

This is a deviation from the normal postings that appear at Sweet Lozey, but I felt that I needed to share with you this story that tugged at my heart.

This story is about little girl named Katie who is being bullied for bringing a Star Wars water bottle to school. This girl is awesome and she's courageous. She felt like she had to conform to the norms in her school and carry a pink water bottle instead. But, after talking to her mom about what was happening at school, she decided to stand up for herself. Not only did she decide to keep the Star Wars water bottle, but she also rocked her Star Wars t-shirt at school.

I am proud of kiddos who are bold enough to stand up for what they believe in, even if it's the right to be a Star Wars fan. And, I am proud of kiddos who are comfortable with being different and don't give in to group pressure to conform.

Please read Katie's story. And, if you're a Star Wars lovin' chica, please leave a comment on her blog post and let her know. Her mom is letting her read all of the positive feedback so she will get to hear your encouragement.

Katie Loves Star Wars

horizon

boy leads me
     across stones
                  and emptiness
'til we reach
    the place
 where children
     drag the sun
                                down
    until it is drowned
and devoured by wolves

and the screams
           burn me raw

       my knees buckle
and my ribs
                        are crushed

boy flickers in the darkness
            casting apparitions
      against the snow
                  that drill through me

in a symphony of chaos
                and devastation
      that intertwines with my hair
               until i am bound
and blackened
                 and carried off
          into the shadows
 of an angry sky

Family Business

Gracie sat behind the leg of the old birch table and fumbled with her shoe laces. Grandma showed her how to tie them – said something about bunnies and trees. Gracie didn’t like the lace-up shoes. She wanted slip-ons, like Judy’s, pink and sparkly with flowers on the sides. Mama would have let her have the pink shoes. But mama was gone now and grandma said no, said it was time to learn how to tie shoes. Gracie made loops and knots but they didn’t look like bunnies. She wanted to get it right before grandma came home from the market. Grandma would be happy if she could tie her shoes.

Gracie liked living in the old house. She felt close to mama when she slept in the old pink bed with the hand-sewn quilt. She also liked tracing her finger over mama’s initials carved in the kitchen table leg that no one knew about but her. Gracie loved that spot under the table. She spent most of her time there, reading books and whispering secrets to imaginary friends. Mostly, she loved the way the kitchen smelled – especially when Uncle Frank brought in new crops. That’s when the kitchen smelled the strongest, like wet shaggy dog and earth after a heavy rain.

Sometimes Uncle Frank let her help with the harvest. He showed her how to evenly spread out the buds and the shake to stretch the crops a little bit further. He even drew a red line on the scale with a marker so she could help fill the bags. On the line is good. A little under the line is better. Never, ever go over the line. “We ain’t a damn charity, “Uncle Frank said. “Can’t give this shit away for free.” She never went over the line.

He taught her how to tell the difference between good crops and bad crops. Gracie knew the buds sitting on the table above her were really good – green and fat. Not like what Mickey Jones gave to Uncle Frank last week because he owed him money. No, this was a good harvest. Mostly, she could tell by the smell.

Grandma hated the smell. “The table stinks like dirty weeds, Frank,” grandma said. “I gotta drink my coffee and eat my supper on that table.” Uncle Frank reminded her that his dirty weeds paid for the food she ate on that table. Grandma couldn’t work anymore and the bank threatened to take the house. Uncle Frank was making the payments so they wouldn’t have to move.

Grandma never complained about the smell after that. She started drinking her morning coffee on the back porch. She said she liked the fresh air. But Gracie knew it was because grandma didn’t like Uncle Frank’s business, even though she needed the money to buy groceries and lace-up shoes.

painted desert

there is a parallel in the
response my silence
         speaks
           and the bland
words used to maintain
         the civil

failure to ride the rails
keeps you from dangling
off the edge of
           anything

keeps you from
   jumping the train
     heading west and
   fleeing the urgent increase

keeps you from believing the
   systems of tactic in the moment


*this is an older poem from my first chapbook, Idealists on the Funeral Train