Stream of Consciousness

The Telltale Signs . Runner-Up in Static Challenge.
I've been thinking a lot about how static builds a charge within us when we caress or rub certain fabrics and materials, how it builds and builds silently, subtly, without warning unless you see those telltale signs: the flicks of hairs standing on end, dancing dust particles.
By Paul Stewart2 months ago in Poets
Big Bang Dust
Shirt shirt, shirt shirt Life can change so quickly one moment to the next You were here just now Skirt skirt, skirt skirt
By Amos Glade2 months ago in Poets
She's a know-it-all
She carries herself like a statue in a museum display case Never changing Her stance and demeanour remain the same As they were five decades ago
By Sun Bee2 months ago in Poets
Worship at the Office
The corporate structure, a city with rules of its own. Company policies, the commandments to the city of stress. The CEO, the mighty God, with HR being his or her noble disciples.
By Armand Slayer2 months ago in Poets
I tHinK… veRy liTtlE!
I’ll I’ll just… I’ll just… What? I’ll just have a drink And? I’ll need a drink… if this keeps up! * What? What was I doing?
By Angie the Archivist 📚🪶2 months ago in Poets
F*CK OFF
We come into this world soiling ourselves and rest under that same shitty soil once the lights go out for good. When you see me, do not ask me, "What do you do for a living?" I exist in my mortal shell for the time being, nothing more, nothing less.
By Armand Slayer2 months ago in Poets
Smoke Haze
Haze drifts over the trees, smoke wisps lying low, snaking through towns, over the streets, and highways, rising, rising, higher and higher, blotting out blue The Landmark pointy peaks are i nvisible in the smoke from wildfires east and north, riffed here by the wind, and now encircling us for days The sun is a round brilliant fireball in the sky at sunset, Blinding to eyes even with sunshades, its rays hitting particulates from the blazes A regular occurrence each summer, these fires; it used to be drizzly and slightly warm after July 4th through August Now the months are suffocating, heated up at five o'clock for dinner, staying overnight and for many days, hanging out like a guest who overstays their welcome. So many days now, the firebreath mixes with this damnable smoke, and I worry for the wildlife and the birds while everyone waits for that clean wash to flow from the sky, a gray sky filled with fresh water, not gray from smoke Copyright © 8/5/2026 by Andrea O. Corwin. Washington State is on fire east of the mountains. Oregon and Canadian forests are on fire. The prevailing winds send the smoke out, and the air quality is bad. Every summer now.
By Andrea Corwin 2 months ago in Poets
old fragments #2
i sit, worried, listening to lyrics. an attempt to soothe. little simz says, "time will heal you." how odd, i think, because i once wrote a haiku, when brand new here: time will tell, they say. or, in time you will heal. but time does not serve you. i wrote it, but often write things. the question is, do i believe it? i was sad then. am i not sad now? i am. yes, and... not sad like i was some time ago. but yes, i believe it. despite the sadness, in that time, having changed in more than name alone. the grief, as i call it now, was wild once. when i was young and more certain, my grief was the decider. which is to say, my grief called the shots. my grief didn't leave room to assess, run a cost-benefit analysis, or even think more generally. my rational mind was absent, hardly at work, unless you consider the work of wild grief a rationale equivalent to the caliber of my stable and contented mind... i don't. is the work valid? yes. but reasonable or measured? hardly. what is all this grief for, you might ask? what is it that acts as tether to this potential weight? death, i suppose. to put it simply. loss, more broadly. the loss of self. the loss of loves. the loss of our planet and entire species, en masse. the loss of compassion from people and of empathy for things that don't happen directly to loved ones or us (whether complicit in their occurrence by choice or not). you know, perhaps by using time to patch all wounds, we liken ourselves to the concept. perhaps the world is so heavy, that we prefer the indifference of omnipotent measure. perhaps our hearts are opened, but lose the heat of emotionality. perhaps our minds are quieted, but lose the clarity of connection. you see, time isn't concerned with memory, or preference, or truth. you see, time isn't concerned with convenience, or perception, or linearity. you see, time isn't concerned with people, or flora or fauna, or any conception of mother earth gaia terra. you see, time isn't concerned. but i would hate for that to be me.
By kp2 months ago in Poets
Do Not Disturb
Wrapped in your arms Legs tangled together My hair laced around fingers Entwined Enlined Two souls wrapped into one Perfectly attuned
By Mother Combs2 months ago in Poets
Say...
I’m out. The common novel has shrunk to the novella to the novelette, and here I am, like the meth has left me next to a dumpster; this is a free-form death wish on the danger of the demon, hyperbole as I let loose on a soapbox upon a dead corner. A march, under starched for good, in the ether, and it’s getting a little cozy. Post-PUNK, Air-walking the gap-to-sloper, wall planter through the wall that turns out was formally promised declaration of a hay-day. “A dab will do, Love.” I'm not (eye roll) that special. Minx of Tartars, hear me! “…you cut out there, but I have you now. Flipping, flopping on whether I use this to prove a point to Thee INSIDE or take the dare like a child, pretending I’m only stumbling on the refresh button for the third time looking for that dreaded front button. “You meant back, right?” To say it plainly, Dane sees the biblical heaven fees, not worth the new fucking app, but if the gates of Six Flags can’t stop me…
By Willem Indigo2 months ago in Poets
I Don't Want That Cake!
The thought of that sugar sweet taste, The thought of all that yummy chocolate; A foodies dream to our taste buds, Resisting would be futile,
By Carol Ann Townend2 months ago in Poets
Static. Top Story - August 2026.
close, so close, close enough to almost touch the space between us, our breath crackles, violet electricity settles prickling my skin,
By Ellie Hoovs2 months ago in Poets