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Poems you want to read:

Poems by Jamaal May. Sixers Review

HOW TO DISAPPEAR COMPLETELY 

 

"You are quarter ghost on your mother’s side.

Your heart is a flayed peach in a bone box.

Your hair comes away in clumps like cheap fabric wet.

….”

Little River update

why not?

littleriverlitmag:

hi!  I’m extending the submission deadline for Little River to August 10th. send me up to three of your poem/s, art work to katherine.osborne.d@gmail.com and include your name. 

You can send work that has been previously posted on your tumblr. but not previously published in other lit mags. 

I’m excited about the submissions I’ve been reading. 

tell your artist friends to submit, too. I would love more art/illustrations. 

xo

Missing

When a person goes missing, somebody is bound to notice.
“I killed him,” I always told people when they found out. “Not literally! Metaphorically,” Amber was quick to add when the eyes grew wide and the silence palpable. Soon the discussion would refocus on a different topic, with Amber clutching my hand too hard to shush me up.
I didn’t think it made a difference: his absence felt the same to me. It filled me up. His death didn’t eat at me the way the silence did.

What is a metaphor? That it must have hurt beastly when I stuck the knife into his chest four times? The steel gnawed into him and it was so silent, the gushing blood. Surprised me. I would have thought he would be louder overall, more spiteful. The turning point was casual and quick, his large eyes staring at me in the dim light next to the bed. I should have waited for daylight maybe, for him to be awake. To witness. I always needed witnesses for us. Then I had run out of people to talk to about him.

Some had chosen Amber’s side, as if he had anything to do with us. Others simply grew restless and bored with the story of nothing. What is bleakness? Each morning staring at empty inboxes. Each mango soda drunk on the beach surrounded by beach ball throwing college students. Each cold caught after sitting too close to the air conditioning in the economics library. A brief history of avoidance.

He must have had family but the newspapers said nothing. I heard nothing from the police either. When I told Amber her eyes grew small, unlike his in death. Tiny eyes asking me to go lie down. “Everything will be okay,” she said and brought me a glass of water. “ I know,” I replied. I made it so.

There are many stories out there now, I sometimes get confused. What is the present? A frantic rush to understand what just was and what will be. Each postcard carefully composed in a brain in different cities, then not sent. This is the present, and this is.

I look into my mailbox and it’s empty. I miss him every day.

Many truths in this one. Hope you are all well.

lk-shaw:

1. i am late on all of the deadlines

2. i just don’t feel like writing anything

3. when i walk vaguely through bedstuy towards bushwick and arrive at the library after everybody else has already gone home or more likely to another party, i am relieved to just see jordan and life…

We shall all howl at the full moon

With ice cold feet they burst through the doors and hide in a dance floor darkness. Limbs brushing against each other, deep in thoughts. Breathe in the generated fog, the damp air, the crisp breeze near the window. Scream something in my ear please, come up close. 

That’s all we’ll do, that dancing.

aliterationmag:

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Congratulations to April’s contributors, tminstral, lizletsgo, unfeignedheart, futureancestor, wordsbyjake, theartmedley, thespiritcodes, deeplystained, octobermoe, materialmirage, lovedly, rakuli, theincrediblemeeow, and silentmanjh! aliterationmag:

Ctrl+Alt+Del
Congratulations to April’s contributors, tminstral, lizletsgo, unfeignedheart, futureancestor, wordsbyjake, theartmedley, thespiritcodes, deeplystained, octobermoe, materialmirage, lovedly, rakuli, theincrediblemeeow, and silentmanjh! aliterationmag:

Ctrl+Alt+Del
Congratulations to April’s contributors, tminstral, lizletsgo, unfeignedheart, futureancestor, wordsbyjake, theartmedley, thespiritcodes, deeplystained, octobermoe, materialmirage, lovedly, rakuli, theincrediblemeeow, and silentmanjh!

Friday night

Your windows are vast and spill candle light reflections back at me. The opposite of clinical, your living room, where I began dissecting each shadow movement a few months ago. The dark couch my operating table for removing all these splinters and itches. Hold still, I tell myself, count to three Mississippi, then leave the room under the pretense to get some more water. Water, water, everywhere some spillage where I opened you up too briskly. Somebody else once looked after me as I left rooms to get more water. Across an ocean and a forest somebody is always looking at somebody else’s back and ass and shoulders and wonders what to do with their hands now.

This is the one lesson we’ll need to teach a child, to look up and wash her hands clean in disinfectant after brain surgery. More clean hands for more sullen minds. More compromises in the professional business of grinding your heel into aspirations as you spin and delete chat histories.

How one could eat potatoes on the floor, cooked and tenderly wrapped in melted cream cheese; I’d thought we’d get on the ground for one act only.

Conceptualize your lighthouse

this is where you fought them with the key between your teeth and a fierce growl inside your throat. All the ways a body signals discontent: liquid, sounds, neurons firing, keeping core temperatures from plummeting. Catching an off-shore break:

Sssh, I am prepping for the grand deception.

Berlin

A red balloon pops up in the sky in front of you and its color splashes against the blue and white, and you might want to take a photo but the wind tears it away too quickly so you just breathe.
You eat all the cake, all the mousse, all the chocolate until your stomach and belly extend and you finally have a reason to raise your voice, to berate your beastly body, until you can love it again.
You and your body sit in an empty pathology lecture hall, on the blackboard you write one hundred times all the ways your body is betraying you. Then you both start crying and hug and promise to be better, the sobs echo up to the last rows, but you sober up and repeat that you will love more, care more, breathe more. On the table they sometimes put corpses and cut them open under a microscope. Write everything one hundred times.

Newborns

The way they jump up and down on the dance floor, with bottles of beer and glasses of clear liquors, one in each hand: it seems as if they are maybe ten minutes old. Just last week pushed out of their mothers’ uteri, so fresh and plump. Sweet dancing babies. It will be so easy to find flaws with you: each eyelash glued on too thickly, each pair of hands so free of callouses. Such few scars. Such greedy throats and booming voices screaming for more of these precious experiences hugging strangers and licking somebody’s teeth under the disco ball light. Sweet tiny, hungry babies falling on top of each other as the final take-home song blasts rhythmically into the night: the shapes you create of things I have never even heard of.