Prose is Writing Poetry

To each reader their own poem

14 notes

ccmpress:

image

CCM is pleased to announce the inception of a new addition to our publishing endeavor, WHITE RABBIT. To be edited by author and events curator, Kalliopi Mathios, White Rabbit seeks to publish children’s books that cultivate curiosity and original thinking while, at the same time, stretching the modes of the children’s book. Inspiring readers of all ages to think outside of the box, White Rabbit books will spark imagination by offering a brand of innovation that is often overlooked by mainstream publishers. White Rabbit exists under the belief that children need not be marketed to, but rather provided balanced, beautiful, well-written literature that instills a lifelong passion for reading. The imprint is planned to launch in the Fall of 2015 with titles from Dorothea Lasky and Porochista Khakpour.

For authors and illustrators interested in submitting work to White Rabbit, note that the imprint means to publish books for kids of all ages, with the possibilities being limitless, from books for toddlers to YA and everything in between. Disgruntled inner-child’s, daydreamers, and experimental creators are welcome.

With White Rabbit, we hope to inspire younger readers to use their imagination, to follow the white rabbit to their next favorite book.

Filed under submission calls

18 notes

A Cautionary Tale

comefriendlybomb:

This essay is contingent on the notion

that the painting is only a painting when

looked at head on. From an angle,

it’s just a lot of branches wadded up.

A bird is living inside it.

A bird is eating a worm inside it.

A worm is slithering around

for no purpose.

A worm is of worth only in context.

 

Brave adventure, stop!

Hold, heroes!

I’m not the fiend you seek.

This isn’t what it looks like.

Paladin, haruspex, Noid, stop.

I’m not at all like other guys, all

spinning a flail around their heads and bellowing—

I’m the silent cousin of Concupiscence,

James Nyquil Jr.

Filed under poetry

4 notes

Tears of Aqua Velva

A woman rearranges her face in the mirror with two fingers, a wrench with lipstick applied, and a wren’s little, skyward inverted wing. The eyes move south over the landscape of her body and the sun sets behind her nose now and her hair is hanging off her chin her hair is hanging itself and her head a bald plate wants you to see yourself inside. A woman tries to shave her tears. A woman saves her tears in a tiny medicine bottle on the sink. The label says, “Take twice daily.” Her ears remain just where they are. But the echo inside distorts sound like a prism held up to a ray of light. Words come in her ears and are surprised at the multiverse that splits them. A woman rearranges the molecules, the atoms, inverts laws of physics, every potential person a person she is always arriving at. A trajectory of little lost birds in flight. Pencil shavings flying into a breathless sky.

Filed under flash fiction or alternatively prose poem take you pick

2 notes

Fantasy v. Reality

dafotology:

ATTENTION ALL PASSENGERS
IF YOU’RE ON THE STARBOARD SIDE OF ONE OF OUR MANY SPLENDID DECKS
THAT’S RIGHT TO YOU COMMITTED LANDLUBBERS
YOU’LL SEE A FAILED LIFE
NOT OFTEN THAT THEY MAKE IT OUT THIS FAR
IN FACT THEY USUALLY DON’T MAKE IT ANYWHERE AT ALL

a tourist laughs and stuffs shrimp into his sunburned face

Meanwhile, the doctor smiles as he grabs her blanketed toe. He gives it a friendly jostle.
"We’ve got good news for you!" He makes a gesture like a magician introducing his assistant.
Her mother speaks, trying to maintain her smile. “They’re not gonna be sticking you!”
She looks at the criss-cross of needle marks in her arms. The bend of her elbow is spotted with dark red bruises over older ones, fading to yellow.
"No more looking like a junkie" jokes the teenage son, before getting elbowed in the ribs by his friend. The doctor chuckles, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
"So when’s the next round of tests?" she asks, noticing the immediate fall of the faces.
"Well, that’s what we’re saying, ma’am. You don’t need anymore tests at all!"
"Won’t it be great to not get stuck anymore?" says her mother. Her face scrunching up in a desperate balancing act.
"Why?"
The question hangs there, unanswered and unchanging
until the doctor closes the door.

Filed under flash fiction

4 notes

FOLLOW ME DOWN (Rose Parade)

The chair Alison sits on is covered by a white sheet. Alison touches her thumbs together. Outside the marching band starts to play. A man fellates a trumpet. A man falls inside a horn and crawls for years in the dark. Alison places her hands on the covered table. She makes crinkles to match her knuckles minus her crescent scars. The drumsticks beat stretched skin. Alison plays along. She is the skin. She is feeling the music fade and fold the street and close it she closes her knees she closes her throat. The floats slide down the street. The tear slides down her cheek. Down her cheek the freckles a constellation a many-headed hydra from a body that holds every brain every note every head in the crowd outside has their chin tipped up to see what is running past. Alison hears a knock on the door. Alison’s chin has tipped up. The buyer is here. This final grave she has to close.

Filed under flash fiction lit

4 notes

This is the Bit About Wine

michelle-writes-birds:

“Do you always buy things that are the exact color
of red wine mixed with blood?”
I tipped the empty bottle better than I did the waitress 

and not a single drop moved across the bottom.
I sigh to myself and slump against the wall, sullen
“Well, you see, this one I’ve broken,”
I finger the mouth of the bottle where once a cork called home
and the more I stood there the later I became.

I flood over the cobblestone roads when I scrolled my eyes
up over the text on the signs that hung upon the wine shops.

Filed under poetry

11 notes

Run fast for your brother
run fast for your mother
and father and all the fallen feathers
the pieces of him weather
scattered and a sky split
by clouds rolling rain sun and a spit
of rainbow that ended where
the animal shelter buried their
puppies but nothing was solid
in a beach town where the sea hid
a song in its throat and scattered foam
between everyone’s toes and some
even lived in those glass ribs on
the strand caging the dawn
a city we named a graveyard
after we played every card
a hand could hold and his wife
in his arms while I had the knife
of four white walls and a suitcase
the cat pissed in but the lace
of his second skin I pried
open like a dentist’s fingers in a child’s
mouth and the many teeth I pulled
a few stars of white and a quiet lull
where the many magics I wanted
were horns tipped back at me and branded
a handful of words scabs and hair
no piano he played with bellowing bear
claws or tongues of Hyacinth opening
to speak. The palm trees bent
to pick up the broken glass
the ocean moved in and past
the past behind me but some myths
aren’t lies but stains with
their hands opening a hand that hopes
to hold its fingers cold the ropes
of blood slacken and the heart tugs
back but the heart also bleeds all over the rug

Filed under poetry

5 notes

Orgy

"The orgy is at dawn"
That was the whole text
nothing about what to wear
and would there be
food or should I bring
a sack lunch?

*

The night before the orgy
I walked my dog
to the stop sign
a cop stopped with me
his face resembling a sunken ear drum
he asked me if I was going
I tugged on my leash
Only if I can bring my dog

*

On the way to the orgy
I saw my boss already dressed
for work while I was dressed
to paint a wall a blue almost black
she said Really?
I told her
Your shoes are on backwards
We walked up the sidewalk together
Her toes like little heads of Orpheus

*

I forgot to bring my dog to the orgy
Shepherd didn’t seem to mind
Shepherd was the name of my dog
and the guy hosting the orgy
he was wearing three tattoos
one of a snake eating a mouse
a hawk eating a snake
and a grandma eating the hawk

*

Some sexy people crashed the orgy
by sexing on the couch
we all tried having a good time
but there was nowhere to sit
and the cereal had sat too long in the bowls

*

At the end of the orgy
Shepherd tried to pull the sun back into place
but burnt his hand
at the hospital the doctor told him
Some things you just can’t have
and, snickering down to his shins,
You have to listen when the cock calls

*

After I got home from the orgy
I tried to eat but found
a mess of sea-urchin shaped thoughts
lodged in my throat
Shepherd licked my palm
while I tried licking something else

Filed under poetry

2 notes

Minutes with Eli

»Philadelphia International has many legs long-stepping the cracks in the country but no hands for me reach into Dallas when I get there when he gets there we say hello with our tongues

»The city words out of order my yellow shell crawls the roads vines through brick

»A house in a face-mask of scaffolding and open-mouthed panting

»Everyone is carrying their scents inside thrashing on the walls and licking the plaster off to make sure it smells like them

»The richest kids even lift their legs and power tools whirl and snarl

»We break in his mattress we break inside each other we break the silence we held for months

»The mattress gets flipped over and we make the bed and carry the fridge and suitcases upstairs

»Oh the places you’ll go I’m legally required to say TARGET, BB&B, CVS, IHOP, A SMALL THUMBNAIL CRACK IN THE EARTH

»A copy of Herodotus flew off into the night to practice vampirism elsewhere

»We watched dragons in the sunset hoping they’d burn the city down but they played in the sprinkler wetting the neighbor’s lawn and we told the fan to wind faster

»Cold showers so we took our coffee into the stall and drank while we washed off

»Theories of negation

»The minutes I spent staring into him negating the days without

»Early mornings and no words but little grunts and growls and puns and a laughter still hanging on my ear

»Our bodies folded against each other like facing question marks and maybe even wings reaching

»Dressing business casual for our goodbyes the construction workers pulling up to finish the facelift for the house

»Going north on I-81 with New York tearing like a zipper and not looking back to see what rose from the open ground behind me

Filed under poetry poem