My scarred city,
Flash your wrought-iron at me
When the tourists look away.
Gloss your tiles just for me
And I will run my hand across them,
Pretend for you I am just waiting to cross your street.
I will walk barefoot on your cobbles
Touch you where you need
And no one will know.
Kiss me with your sweet thick pastry air,
My city of bleary voyeurs.
You laugh for the novelty
Of our secrecy.
 
 
 
 
I’ll be out of town next week. I’m dying of excitement.

 

 

 
I have two pieces of musical news this week:

Our old friends, Conspiracy of Beards, are working on a new video! I love the short videos they put out, so I’m looking forward to it.

Also one of my favorite local bands, Crystal Bright and the Silver Hands, is touring the Southeast even as we speak, and visiting many locations for the first time ever. So if you’re in AL, MS, LA, GA, or NC, you should check her out and then see a show!

If all your friends are women,
You see every nail as painted.
Every empty hand as lonely.
Every drink a chance to flush the word No from my kidneys.
Wide-eyed and twitching for victims,
Your altruism rattles the door of my bathroom stall.

Thank you everybody for stopping by last week. I got a lot of hits and I’m glad you liked it.
Today I learned how to whistle on an acorn cap.

Science, you show me the shadow between your thighs.
I wanted to be a woman for you,
Consumed and possessed.
When I asked to be ravaged by you
You sent an itch
Feminine in that if I dug as deep as I wished
My skin would be covered in roses.
Science, you titred my passion into a masculine scent,
You folded my silk into a tie
But if I can love objectively
I will love forever.

How many thousands of my damp hands
Have yanked stubborn cords over the course of my life
Before I became a vessel for electrons to the ground?
Now for three days,
Static electricity,
Secret sex with doorknobs,
Leaves me blessed.
 
 
 
 
 
I’m looking for an explanation for this phenomenon, so if anyone has any insight please let me know. So far, the most plausible sounding one I have heard is “increased sensitivity to already-present phenomena due to exposure”. I prefer to believe I have a superpower, although it has been pointed out to me that simply getting shocked by stuff makes me ineligible for the more prestigious Super Leagues.

Hello ladies and gents,
Today I have something very special for you- a peek at my friend Cooley’s brand new blog, A Window to a Hallway. Cooley lives in the Ozarks with his pet rabbit, Oreo. When he’s not writing, he plays entirely too much Santa Gragas on League of Legends.
 
 
 
 
I Threw My Heart Into a Wall

I threw my heart into a wall
or two. I threw it all around
the room, just hoping it would stick
somewhere. I threw it up
and down the stairs, and then
I threw it out
the window.

When I picked it up
outside, I tried to throw it in a tree
so tall that it would never land.
It did not understand. Oh, all
it ever does is fall.
 
 
 
 
When choosing a second poem from Cooley’s blog to post, I very nearly chose this or this, but instead I decided to post an anonymous poem Cooley has shared via his blog. Because I can pretend I wrote most of Cooley’s poems myself, but I’ve never been able to write anything that takes place too far outside my own skin without feeling like I’m probably wrong.
 
 
 
 
Homs
(Credit: An anonymous Syrian living in Tulsa)

Damascus asked me, How is Homs,
how is her smile?

I said
with tears between my words
here’s how she is…

Homs is a shining bride just in the prime of youth
and now a widow.

She is a baby girl who learns to walk
but will not know her parents.

Homs is a boy of six who asks
if Santa can bring freedom.

Homs washes for her prayers
with blood of martyrs.

She has been baptized
in this same blood.

In Homs, they wear their shrouds under their clothes
and they keep coffins by the door.

In Homs, one building shields another.
It rains in summer and the roses bloom in winter.

The dust of Homs is holy, and it has become
a pilgrimage for brave and honest.

She is prostrate now. A nun, an atheist, both on one pillow
stuffed with whispers of so many hopes.

Damascus, this is but the headline,
there is more to come…

but I believe
my Homs will persevere.

I met your god when I was young enough
To swaddle him in doll’s clothes.
Alone in darkened rooms,
I knew if I opened the windows inside me
Something would creep in and bite off his little brittle limbs.
My little bitter heart saw him stabbed by sunbeams,
Crushed by dust,
Bleeding stolen candy and forgotten prayers,
Poisoned by possibilities under unlocked sinks.
Unaware of the beasts at the door,
Petulant,
He transubstantiated into a toy.
Lips puckered,
Waiting to suck.
 
 
 
 
 
 
I accidentally found myself listening to a man berating his deity for the manner in which it chose to do business, or maybe he was preaching. He knocked this from a dusty shelf in my mind. Big people never listen, do they?