Excerpt from “Redhead (to Denver) by Brice Maiurro
you are between a rock and a hard place
your face does not illuminate the same as the others
your lights are few and speckled
but i’ve always loved freckles
you are a grid system at first glance
i know they tell you real women have curves
but real women know better than that
sometimes you are cold and the conversation runs dry
but it’s not easy being as high as you are all the time
i love you
i never want to leave you
and i know you don’t believe me
but you are the manic pixie dream girl
who at times is slightly annoying
but i know your heart is too full of
homeless men laying out sleeping bags
on the floor of your rib cage
great tent cities on your shoulders
Our planet died, for no living thing can thrive forever beneath the grinding thumb of neglect. But the blue squalls and wind-carved rime weren’t the first to herald a long overdue demise. We endured fires, then the parched ash and dust of rainless drought. Snow seemed almost a blessing until summer never returned.
Now we trek south, burdened only by the essentials, all luxuries of the past abandoned along the way. Lighten the load. Always lighten the load. Learn to survive with less because that’s become the single, intentional goal. To survive.
I wonder, do the southerners trek north? Will we meet in the middle and goggle at each other, our doom reflected across the narrow gap separating our frozen breaths? These are the things I ponder as my snowshoes cut a jagged groove through the crust.
We reach the mountains’ divide. Finally. Ahead stretches a white tundra…
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With John’s permission. Comments closed, please see the original.
The lovely silence
The real poets and writers know. The silence is golden. Words become meaningless in the midnight hours. True lovers don’t need to speak. They allow their mouth, hands and body to send their message of need to their lovers.
Sweet lady whispered please don’t say nothing and her soft hands danced on willing skin of her lover. In the midnight hours, lovers don’t seek permission. They open their minds, hearts and body. They don’t take and steal. They give and expose willing places and skin. They are willing to climb the mountain of wild and deep passion. Three a.m lovers don’t seek forgiveness and repair. They seek solemn place where lips and body become one till the morning light.
Pretty woman eyes filled with love and hope. Perfect words said to lucky man. In the quiet of the night. We can be saviors, takers and…
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We must never ignore injustice or the disparity around us. Thank you Dennis.
In the past two weeks
I’ve had a lot of time to think
about important and unimportant things
I have come to some very basic conclusions
as is my right and obligation.
They may seem obvious to some.
To others they may seem inflammatory.
Deal with it —
say what you want on your own page.
I believe that as humans
UNIVERSAL EQUALITY IN ALL ASPECTS OF LIFE,
UNIVERSAL ACCESS: TO FOOD, WATER, SHELTER,
MEDICAL TREATMENT AND AVAILABILITY OF MEDICATION,
UNIVERSAL ACCESS TO EDUCATION,
UNIVERSAL FREEDOM OF CHOICE OVER OUR OWN BODIES,
UNIVERSAL FREEDOM OF MOVEMENT,
FREEDOM OF SPEECH,
These are big issues
that have repercussions in news events
around the world.
I haven’t worked out all the details, yet,
but I have seen a lot of headlines on television
in print media and on the internet.
On our planet
we must eradicate (as much…
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I’m pleased to be included in the creation of this very fine anthology. Please consider adding it to your collection.
We Will Not Be Silenced: The Lived Experience of Sexual Harassment and Sexual Assault Told Powerfully Through Poetry, Prose, Essay, and Art is the brainchild of Kindra M. Austin, Candice Louisa Daquin, Rachel Finch, and Christine E. Ray. The four indie writers and survivors felt compelled to do something after the strongly triggering Kavanaugh Confirmation Hearings. Ultimately, they decided to advocate, educate, and resist through art.
They opened submissions for only two weeks to women and men around the world. The response from writers and artists was overwhelming: the final anthology includes 166 pieces of writing and art from 95 contributors around the globe.
The editors decided early on that this was a project of passion and compassion, not profit. 70% of the royalties raised above the publishing and promotion costs will be donated to organizations that provide services to sexual harassment and sexual assault survivors. The editors have prioritized…
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Drab morning, no aperitifs! Someone left a suitcase monster filled with marijuanilla.
You are still asleep, opened up to my peeping eye,
your auburn hair anarchistically fanned out on the cushion.
I put on Monk, then return to the serious business of rolling Mexican calumets and while I meditate on your perfect breasts I inhale to wed myself to life again and three joints later all has become lovelier,
I bow down to make lips meet * . Afterwards, “Coffee, my sweet?”
You bite my neck. “frappé please”.
“Oh, Greek? “ You laugh and say “no, not now “.
* from L. Irigaray’s title: Quand nos lèvres se parlent. but everyone knows what I mean.
It’s a phenomenon how as
late as May the firs,
not yet blooming,
silhouette in a light and beige blend
against a whitish blue sky
filled with birds and insects,
living things of all kinds that
settle in to nourish from
the flesh of bark.
That music the firs make in the night
needs fine ears to hear the subdued
whooshing, creaking, and rustling
and the unexpected sigh when the wind
bends the twigs too roughly
yet they refuse to break.
Poetry by Serge Gurkski