Month: March 2017

#10 by: Glen Edwards, Ceramics on Metal – 2017

Green
punctures hand with spikes.
Forced removal of my nopal
rooted in heart
seen in thoughts.

White
sears my native skin
to match tones
of invaders.

Red
spice of fire
shoved
upon a virgin tongue.

“ Put on some lipstick, mija.
You’ll be alright.”

Red Curtain by: Bethany Huey, Acrylic on canvas –  2015

I look ahead
It is as though every car is a grain of sand and I am stranded
in the desert; sitting, slouched, in solitude and silence.
My only companion is a gnome peddling a stationary bike
in my mind producing scads of offensive slander.
I want to launch them into the sky like fireworks “Ooh”-ing and
“Aah”-ing as my insult embers trickle down on all who surround me.

I look to my left
A porky little pipsqueak forcing french fries into his black hole
of a mouth.  His mom has a growth on the side of her face,
a cell-phone-anoma.  She is completely oblivious to the grease-stained
glutton perched next to her using his fingertips as paint brushes,
he is going full blown Sistine chapel on her dashboard.
I look at the clock
Although I am stopped, time is not.  I can see the minutes
dripping away like an ice cream cone Satan tried to carry home.
I try to catch them but they slip right through my fingers,
exploding as they splash on the blue matted carpet below.

I look to my right
The cars inching forward like a tortoise pouring molasses
in a January blizzard. An opening appears, as if Moses himself
has parted this sea of four-wheeled soul suckers just for me.
I turn on my blinker and slide in like hot butter on a frying pan.
Flooded with excitement, I step on the gas pedal for the first time
in what seems like an eternity.  I am happier than a little girl
who has just seen a mermaid riding a unicorn over a double rainbow.

I look ahead
Brake lights twinkling like lightning bugs on a clear summer night.
I imagine I am in a discotheque, dancing, dreaming, distant.
Stopped again.  All hopes of being on time, crushed like a spider
under my shoe on the kitchen floor.  I feel hopeless on this hooligan filled
highway from hell. Practically parked, guess I will enjoy the scenery.

I look to my left

Family Photo by: Crystal Garcia, Photography – 2017

I found myself standing by the door,
watching my dad’s side of the family in a room all together.
Everyone was either eating, having a conversation,
laughing or taking pictures.
I suddenly felt someone pull me into a hug, my godmother,
who asked me if we could take a picture.
I smiled and handed my camera to my mother.
We did funny faces and different poses,
but my favorite one was when I unexpectedly carried her in my arms.
She shut her eyes as her face turned bright red,
which almost matched my t-shirt.
My aunt from behind, who usually never smiles,
was caught giggling once she saw her sister’s reaction.
All I really remember is the sound of laughter
and the flash of the camera going off.

Brown’s Clarks by: Samantha L. Barbosa, Photo- 2017

I wipe my tattered boots on the mat that reads “Welcome,” although I feel anything but.

I leave my shoes at the door. This is not home. Not anymore.

I walk the hall and see the old photos, we always talked of taking new
ones, but we never did, so they hang on the wall perfect and outdated,
although everything’s mostly the same, it doesn’t feel the way I remember.

Time to pack. Time to throw out the old. Time to store.
I open my first drawer. Old love notes from a crush read with
embarrassment. Wristbands from concerts I wasn’t supposed to
attend. Pictures, tons of them, I haven’t seen in years. In most of them,
I am wearing my Clarks. My beloved boots. I wore them
everywhere, with everything, my noble companions.
The rust leather faded in the parts with the most wear.
A hole now on the bottom of the sole.
They are beaten, they are worn. 

I feel as defeated as they look.
I grab them from outside, wear them one last time. They are so broken in.
I know. It is time. They must go, too. 

I think back to how excited I was when I first
brought them home. They were so shiny and stiff, ready for adventure.
I gently set them in the box.
I place a picture of myself, Clarks on my feet, wind in my hair, in with them.
I plan to donate them.
Someone at a thrift store will see them, appreciate their value,
and they will go on walking.

Untitled by: Thomas Clark, Mixed Media – 2017

You shut me out, you built a wall
A fortress of a thousand unanswered questions
You self-centered selfish woman
Crude like a child’s drawing
You left me without answers
Abandoned me like an empty cup
On the unruly city streets
You fascinating facade of a being,
How I loathe yet love you
So my benevolence to,
Is forgiveness
This burden I’ve become,
You will no longer bear.

LilBam by: Natalie Stovall – 2017

Out behind the garage,
down a beaten grassless path,
beyond the concrete desert near the fence
which divides territory from territory,
a seasoned squadron of warped, rusted forms
with wilting wheels and crooked spokes awaits orders.

Await long.

Await still.

Fingers of ivy creep up
toward the handle bars, wanting to ride.
Maybe they’ll learn to, someday.

In Deep Thought by: Lene Pienaar, Oil Painting – 2017

I pulled into my apartment complex parking lot. I sit alone in the car just thinking, characterizing, and considering each and every one of my past actions. I ask myself, “How did this happen?” “Things were supposed to get better, how could you let this happen?” My glasses fall to the carpet before me. I reach for them and all I can see are two mirrors. The one that gives you assurance that you did the right thing and the other that judges you for possibly just having done the wrong thing; I look into them and I’m scared. I don’t know which one to choose, and they don’t know which one is true.

I realize I need to get myself inside, take a long and therapeutic shower and have a good sleep to quit the game that I’ve lost and press “RESTART?” It rains outside, the first drops of the oncoming storm. I open the door to Charlie. He gives me the best hug that he could; only being able to extend two paws to my body. And of course he follows me around and begs for me to feed him.

He’s eating and I’m watching him. He’s so blinded, so loyal. He only knows love. He’s programmed only to love himself and his family. He has no conscience, no concept of right or wrong. When he does ‘wrong’, in my eyes, its’ only out of ignorance, not spite; He doesn’t stay in the anger; he just is, and he’s content with life. He’s the perfect human. No struggle, no pain, no heartbreak. He doesn’t question whether something is his fault, whether or not he’s insane, he’s blind to all judgements including his own.

He’s perfect. No one should be perfect. He’s what I wish I could be, but what I know I can’t be. Let’s go out for a walk boy. You haven’t seen this collar since you were a puppy. You grew out of it, your neck is too big to fit into it now. If you were really perfect you could do it. If you loved me, you’d do what I wanted. Stop running, stop resisting, stop reasoning; just put it on. Just fit inside. Stop fighting me; stop moving; stop breathing; just stop. Just stop.