Tag Archives: poetry

12 Hours In

12 Hours In

katrinatea:

we hit 287

the fat cows

stopped looking

like shadows

started looking

like statues

we blinked and hands

came into focus

thick

like hams

wrenches gripping

pop caps

a sharp click

and soothing fizz

soda sucked

through phallic straws

we whispered

“Virginia”

hurtled by

XXX signs

projecting magenta

tinging

the grapefruit moon

shoulders shouldered

rat eyes

squinted

we cracked

our chicken necks

pulled

our

gristle

from the bone

we all touched

somehow

my thigh rubbing

hers elbowing

his elbow

resting against

the front seat

the moon had

burst and

 leaked

sticky juice

into the trees

we rolled

down the windows

in Maryland

Great poem by a great friend.

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“I dwell in the possibility”

Emily Dickinson project for photography class.

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While avoiding..

reading for a class I found this when looking through some old writing on my computer. I wrote this about seven months ago, when the summer heat was stifling. Oh, seasons!

The Grapes, and then the Wrath

The hot summer days remind me of a life I have never lived. I am a wanderer, in a time way before my own and all I have are the worn out boots on my feet. All I know is what I have learned. I am everything I would like to be now without even trying.

My hair hangs in long braids. I have a thin layer of dirt covering my skin. My slouchy white shirt hangs off one shoulder. My brown pants are covered in mud stains, that if washed away would reveal grass stains. I wear black boots that lace up and are purely utilitarian. 

I sit for hours on train tracks waiting to feel the vibrations that will lead me to my next location. I bathe in rivers, pretending the rushing water is a replacement for soap. I sit around a fire and fall asleep to the constant chirp of cicadas.

But at some point the fantasy ends. I ask myself what would I eat. I don’t think any interpretation of myself would be able to cook up a rabbit I snared in the forest. The beauty of my story ends here. I am no longer hitching rides on trains, but instead selling my body for money for a decent meal. I end up pregnant and marrying some widowed drunkard who is just happy to have someone look after his six kids. I spend the rest of my days tied down to a reality so grim it can barely be dreamed up. So here I lie on my bed thinking about how the heat isn’t as bad as making fried dough that can’t feed all 9 starving children.

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If It Weren’t for the Words Edith Frost “I’d be writing all day, if it weren’t for the words   I’d find something to say, if it weren’t for the words  It’s the words that give me trouble  I’d be alright, if it weren’t for the words”

If It Weren’t for the Words

Edith Frost

I’d be writing all day, if it weren’t for the words 

 I’d find something to say, if it weren’t for the words 

It’s the words that give me trouble 

I’d be alright, if it weren’t for the words”

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I think I need to have this man read me everything.

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