kekekeke

Three Poems by Virgil Cross

I watch you
From an outcrop
Of desert stone
I wait for you
Warm bedrock
Against my bones
Servile to this rock
And to your desert rules
I watch you
From an outcrop
Of city stone
I wait for you
Cold concrete
Against my bones
Servile to this block
And to your city rules
Every time I touch you
It's my withering flesh
Against your weathered bones


________________________________


Last night I saw myself
In the future
Felt real confident
About how things were
Jell-O shots with Jesus when he's down


________________________________


Kids think
They're entitled
To everyone's lawn
Know this girl
From Winter Park Florida
Says the neighbors
Ride their bikes in her grass
All day long
Grownups think
They're entitled
To just their own lawn
They guard it
Like a fort in the sun
All day long
And the stars
Oh the stars
They get all this fame
But don't you think
The spaces in-between
Need some photos
In a book about
The spaces in-between?

Jackson Grind. And His Latest Thoughts.

"All About the Visuals"
By Jackson Grind


this connection
of both infinitely small
and infinitely large
this connection
of homeless stabbings
and empty cigarette packs
this connection
of exaggerated skylines
and coco butter smooth skin
this connection
can be shared with you
and only you
<3

______________


someone once asked me if i was a messy person
based on my bathroom etiquette
i thought on the matter and replied,
"i never leave a mess
but i make a mess wherever i go."

Haiku.

Here are some shitty haikus
i'd like some good ones
contact is available

I rearranged the circuits
Blue plugged into green
Black is all colors

Your hair smelled alright
Under me
I was jacking off

The floor became a window
Could see forever
Would have made a better door

I can admit your eyes shine
I’m guilty of love
I also don’t give a fuck

AWP.MAIN

Air Waves

My grey eyes reflect a grey desert
void of life, inspiration, form, hope, etc…
(my desk)
I hold on to the memories of sobriety
ideals
and skinned elbows.

A human interest story on the radio
made me cry this morning
(Alzheimer’s and shrapnel wounds)
it’s casual Friday, in a casual world

Doug is cackling wildly again
(the laugh of sinister satisfaction)
at something marginally clever
he graced the department with

women will smile, or scorn
(orgasm withdrawal symptoms)
or consider crash dieting
fidelity, and Medicare plans

and being a child
I want to ask them
under a microscope of honesty
and free of baggage
(charades):
how cruel will life become?

AWI.MAIN

pistil

one can’t help but sympathize
with the fate of dandelions:
that which rests in a child’s breath
a nostalgic death by puckered lips

and you look at me now
with a frightful understanding
of synchronized swing sets
and the superstitions of childhood chants

you blow cool air across
the ridges of my lips
a warm whisper enters my ear
downcast, I face the reaper

Virgil

A poem
by Virgil Cross

Told her she was beautiful
The hesitant kind
Asked me what I expected?
Told her I’m a cowboy
And if cowboys
Loved anything more
Than their horses
What’d be the point?
He’s a widow maker
Who’s never seen the sun
Or the time during the day
Said he knew a man
Who claimed he divorced the sea

*__^ graci.

A poem by William J Toburn

the U.K. wakes up and stretches; its feathers unfurl.
calls immediate attention to the tips of its coils.
they explode and they crawl into so many pools.
the chromosones spread, and leak across the whole world.
("she will die with her dues, to this world, 'an unjust.'"

a ghost pirouettes, dives and it digs,
through all of these servile connections,
just so helpless..
his flawless conscience is lost in search of the 'golden id.'
an accordian design, seemingly by
a catalyst through which he still recalls...
a dream we both once had,
to shatter it all
(until there were only roses).

all lust, all hope, all self-respect.
she wants to make real, those gods i rejected. (in the form of old dreams...)
and i'm sad now to be upon these broken knees (...so disrespected.)
where every nerve-ending will refuse to scream
of some blissful end in eternity.
and the silence stood too bold to scream.
within a dismantled insanity,
the silence stands too bold to scream,
"does not this black-hole grant me any mercy?"

the sunrise showed face and we awoke
inside some late-morning sunday.
by now, i've picked them up, tried them on,
the garments of this martyred evening.
i was looking deeply in the mirror.
but it was done by sun's setting.
of course, i was first to blink
and it's time now that i accept it.

you disappear passed door inside door
(or at least some figment within my head).

we ignore the truth. commence pursuit,
i'm stumbling somewhere far behind.
you escape all loss, evading the law.
i'm here just in time to rewind,
the plotting of, my most epic fall,
into the black; towards the sweetest bed.
to somewhere unattached where misery cannot call.
but it's all belonging to some blissful end.

in a room she disguised and left forgotten in the hall,
these planes disintegrate, frame by frame, lost.
and this game always seems to get in the way
of something more meaningless.
but today, it all dissolves.

we are, dying roses become a funeral's confetti.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Probably Not
by Richy Maine

If tranquility Smells like rain,
the ocean feels
like ecstasy,
hot tea tastes like
my mother's kitchen,
and bells resonate
longing for life;

then award, in shame or celebration,
what lurks above my
shoulders,
because it is his miscalculation
and his paradoxical grin
that has delivered me
to you.

And, if tranquility
smells like rain,
then extinguishing candles
aromatizes home , and
the silhouette is cursing my name

so I’m hunched over love poems
drowning the specifics in alliteration
reminding myself of generalizations
weaving webs and writing fairy tales
for the future of
my daughter’s son.