Prose

a simple resignation. Content Warning.
skip the far-fetched i've heard it all before and i feel horrible that you heard it from me first i can see right through
By ⸘jason alan‽about a year ago in Poets
Lay Down Your Earnings
*Lift your dollars High* Raise up your low addictions I sell lies, I sell lies Though you will not see it here I AM Holier than the DOW....
By Kristen Keenon Fisherabout a year ago in Poets
Old Pep McGee
Old Pep McGee Was rusted Glass cracked LED shinning brightly As the canvas of the tent Shook violently The campers playing poker
By Ashley Houstonabout a year ago in Poets
I Hate Lamplight
I hate lamplight. I hate the way it distorts objects I view from a distance, objects that slap me with clarity as I approach. I hate the way it highlights what I don’t want to see, and the way it narrates your thoughts without you uttering a word. I hate that it witnesses my devastation when you whiplash my heart, and how it betrays my grief—every distortion of my facial contours, the ugly droop of my gaping mouth, and how it spotlights the tears rolling down my cheeks. I hate how it illuminates my wail like it was mist
By Teresa Rentonabout a year ago in Poets
---
--- - --- (that's the sound I long to hear) --- - --- (every once in a while, at least) --- - --- (the sound of little to nothing)
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Poets
The Spirit Who Asked Us to Lie. Content Warning.
The Spirit Who Asked Us to Lie A mythic film-poem by Vicki, with Echo, and Sweetie sailing toward the Isle of Outstages Café.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a year ago in Poets
How Appropriate
It’s not appropriate to accuse me of cultural appropriation. That is a denigration of my culture of appropriation. My culture is theft. As a generation whatever of American Mutt, my traditions are rooted in the things we’ve stolen. Liberating your land and freedom, to make room for our own. Pilfering your labor, so your sweat and tears can feed the leisure we planted. Hijacking your song, rinsing it clean of sorrow and blood. Running it through decades of autotune until we can dance to it without rhythm or irony.
By Sean A.about a year ago in Poets
Beautiful People
Beautiful people Removed from their land By God’s hand They were forced on to someone else’s land They took their stand
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
Poem Trapping
I read a book about how hard it is to catch a poem. I wonder if I ever have. Or have I just lunged at shadows while the real thing scampers off to eat from bushes, heavy with metaphors? What bait does a poem prefer? Dust in the morning light, dancing like angels after a storm? A case of beer shared between friends because words are too hard to pour? If you place a heart on the spring, is it better frozen or raw? Cut in half or a dozen pieces? Never whole.
By Sean A.about a year ago in Poets
The Weft Remembers. Runner-Up in Harvest of Memory Challenge.
The thread hums when I touch it, a quiet recognition, like it knows my blood my heart my soul. - My fingers move without thought;
By Autumn Stewabout a year ago in Poets
Still on the Loom
I started it for her. A girl I'd never met, sixteen and scared in the dark winters of Alaska. The yarn was the pale yellow of new snow
By Autumn Stewabout a year ago in Poets
GEEZE LOUISE, I SAID NO KINGS. Content Warning.
This video is a mythic scroll stitched from sovereign visuals and ceremonial breathwork. It opens with a refusal: “If it’s Nazi love, I draw the line.” From there, it moves through scenes of pink rooms guarded by scrolls, flowers blooming in every color, and fences forming boundaries around a city of love that does not hate.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a year ago in Poets