Prose

Malibu, 1992
Intro In 1992, Malibu held a kind of light that felt endless. Restoring this old photo opened a doorway back to the woman I was then barefoot, sun warmed, and standing at a shoreline that shaped me. The ocean, the sky, the ease of that day all came rushing back. This poem is a return to that moment, to the version of me the Pacific held, and to the infinity that still lives in the tide.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 5 months ago in Poets
Pelicans of the Bay
These photos were taken on the Gulf in South Texas back in 2014, when I lived there and walked the bay every day. The pelicans were my buddies, at least that’s how it felt. They let me get closer, closer than most people ever do, and they always seemed to be posing, guiding, or quietly talking in their own salty air language.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 5 months ago in Poets
Miller's Clown
Sing clown, sing. For no one knows the pain you feel. Face so white, cheeks so red. Green hair, plaid suit, little hat. The sound of laughter is your tragedy.
By Dean Traylor5 months ago in Poets
Coffee Shop
C an’t afford O pulent coffee drinks F rom those F ancy and trendy cafés. Thus, E arly one morning, I E ntered a hole-in-the-wall place,
By Dean Traylor5 months ago in Poets
Stream of Consciousness
If something bad happens, it’s because I was happy for a week straight. We love deeper when there’s no reason to love. From where I am watching things, we might destroy ourselves in different ways.
By Semra Laureen Hill Jean5 months ago in Poets
For your eyes, what the heart has suffered and what it has suffered.
For your eyes, what the heart has experienced and endured, and for love, what remains of me and what is no longer. If only I were not one whose heart is entered by love, but whoever sees your eyelids will fall in love. Between contentment and discontent, nearness and distance, there is room for the tearful eyelashes. The sweetest love is that in which its owner doubts union, and in separation, he hopes and fears forever. Angry with coquetry, intoxicated with youth, I interceded for her with the gleam of my youth. And a clear, honey-stained, clear-eyed one, I concealed my mouth from him. He kissed my parting and the necks of gazelles like yours. They visited me, and I could not distinguish the bare from the adorned. Not everyone who loves is chaste when alone, like my chastity. He pleases the lover, and the horses meet. May God grant the days of youth what pleases them and does the deed of the aged Babylonian. If you wear time enjoying it, you will be worn out, and the garment will not be worn out. I have not seen glances like those on the day of their departure. They sent all the killing from every compassionate person. They turned bewildered eyes, as if their pupils were composite. Above the mercury of the evening, they run away from the sight of weeping, and from the pleasure of farewell, the fear of separation. We bid them farewell, and the separation within us is like the spear of Ibn Abi al-Hayja’ in the heart of a legion. A sharp, decisive force. The weaving of David is with it when it falls into it, like the weaving of the woven silk. It is a guide for the kings of the armies, as if it chooses the souls of the warriors and selects. It tears apart every shield and armor for them, and tears apart for them every wall and trench. It raids with it between al-Luqan and Wasit. He plants it between the Euphrates and Damascus, and returns it red, as if its soundness weeps blood from the mercy of the meticulous. So do not convey to him what I say, for he is brave; whenever the thrust is mentioned to him, he is eager. He strikes with the tips of swords, his fingers are playful with the tips of eloquent speech. Like one who asks the rain for a drop, like one who reproaches him, like one who says to the heavens, "Be gentle." You have been generous until you have been generous in every religion, and until praise has come to you from every source. The king of Rome saw your satisfaction with generosity, so he stood up. The station of the flattering beggar, and he left the sharp spears humbled before one more skilled and adept at thrusting than him. He wrote from a distant land, whose aim was near, on horses that outpaced you. His messenger from there traveled in your path, and he did not travel except over split heads. When he drew near, the flashing, glittering ray of iron concealed his position. He came walking on the carpet, and he did not know whether he was striving towards the sea or ascending to the moon. And the enemies did not deter you from their lives with anything like submissive speech. Adorned, and if you had written to him before this, you would have written to him on the back of the Domustaq. If you give him safety from you, he is a questioner, and if you give him the edge of the sword, then be generous. And did the white, sharp swords leave any of them captive to a ransom or a slave to a freer? They came to its edges like the flocks of sandgrouse and passed over it, one after another. I reached with the sword of the light a rank with which I illuminated what is between west and east. If he wishes to play with a beard A fool I saw, my dust, then he said to him, "The truth is, I did not intend to provoke the envious, but he who crowds the sea drowns. The prince tests people with his opinion and turns a blind eye knowingly to every trickster. Lowering one's gaze is of no use if the heart's gaze is not lowered. O you who are sought, be near him and you will be protected. O you who are deprived, turn to him and you will be provided for. O most cowardly of knights, befriend him and you will be bold. O bravest of the brave, leave him and you will be scattered. If the enemies strive to undermine his glory, he strives." His grandfather's efforts in their plotting are a desperate endeavor, and no clear favor will prevail over the enemy if it is not the favor of the fortunate and successful one.
By Shoaib5 months ago in Poets
The Nearness in the Dark
The wall quivered like wrinkled skin before a twitch. Outside, the vervain shuddered as if something with a windpipe brushed past.
By Caitlin Charlton5 months ago in Poets
COSMIC BLUES 1992 — by Vicki
Cosmic Blues 1992 is a memory film set to music; a blues reel pulled from a decade when San Francisco still hummed with old ghosts and new stories. Some moments never fade; they just wait for the right song to wake them. This piece carries the Palace glow, the Polk Street neon, the barefoot trolley ride, and the Native films we brought to the festival. It’s part memory, part music, part time capsule, a slow burn of truth, fog, and the kind of moments that still echo through me.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 5 months ago in Poets
Ghosts in the Fuel Pump
This old gas station flashed by my train window in 2016 and pulled me straight back to the days of Route 66, soda pops, and “fill ’er up” summers, a forgotten station on a long desert stretch between Austin and LA, where time paused just long enough for me to remember everything.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 5 months ago in Poets
Stormy Sunshine Clouds at the Bay 2014
Stormy Sunshine Clouds at the Bay 2014 Another Decade of Another Life I was standing at the Phillips station in Rockport, waiting on Gloria to finish her shift, the two of us sharing breakfast snacks like we always did. Nothing fancy just the kind of small ritual that becomes the heartbeat of a friendship. The bay stretched out behind the palms, pretending to be calm.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 5 months ago in Poets
Desert Life
I. Stopped for a moment on the edge of a dry lake bed. II. The hustle and bustle of Vegas is ahead, and L.A is in the
By Dean Traylor5 months ago in Poets
The Taneeshiad
O mother of all wisdom let my pen write the tale of when the world was chaotic and lacking of heroes and a monster made of metal and the source of all plenty as it’s blood was born in the world’s water.
By Eldvar5 months ago in Poets