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Between this time and last

In by Lara on August 31, 2010 at 11:04 pm

Your hair has grown long
in the time that has passed
between this time I saw you
and the last.

You told me I was shorter,
than before, somehow.
Then pause, and then asked
if I had found a job yet.

I just smiled and nodded,
still unsure if I wanted
to commit to a conversation,
was afraid of being haunted.

The last time I saw you,
you were laughing with me.
You were crying, too,
as you handed me your key.

It had ended well,
no hard feelings or anger,
but somehow that didn’t help
in this meaningless banter.

There Are Stories

In by Chris on August 31, 2010 at 9:12 pm

There are stories of men bending metal into doorframes.
There are stories of women waiting in airports.
There are stories of sailors running aground on blanket-fog mornings.
There are stories of human beings feeling the surface of the moon.
There are stories of chemicals entering bloodstreams.
There are stories of eyes looking this way and that.
There are stories of truckers shouting in loneliness at night.
There are stories of policemen following the traces left by murderers.
There are stories of students leaving their schools.
There are stories of transsexuals rouging.
There are stories of adventurers trapped in forgotten mountaintops.

Alright Chris, Get Rid of Your Huge Ego and Just Write the Hundred Words, Stop Being Arrogant and Thinking These Words Have to Be Everything, It’s Discipline Not Art!

In by Chris on August 31, 2010 at 10:17 am

OK then title, that’s a bit intimidating, maybe a bit freeing, here’s one hundred words without stop and without editing and when I hit one hundred I’ll just stop. That’s all there is to it. Simple. Refreshing? Not really. My conscience is wanting to change those last few words. Well at least I’ll correct my typos, that’s OK right? How can I walk around at night, see so many things, think about so many things, then restrict myself when writing about any of it? Because in writing I want to come to some comprehensive (or at least sensical) picture of

Directionless tag

In by Lucía on August 31, 2010 at 1:33 am

Have you ever looked at clouds’ shadows as they move across the ground, like massive, shapeless animals?  I’ve seen it twice this summer, once from the top of a mountain and once from a plane. They look like dark blobs engaged in a silly and fruitless game of directionless tag.   Somehow it seems to change everything.  All of a sudden, the ground seems to lose its shape, just oozing and floating shadow and light.  One day, some cloud is going to win.  And then they’ll all be able to stand still.  And maybe they’ll give us the solid ground back.

Son, Listen.

In by Michael on August 30, 2010 at 11:07 pm

You’ve got a lot to rebel against: your mother and me, your boss, your girlfriend, your landlord, your buddies. But you can’t always rebel. Sometimes you’ve gotta shuddup and follow. That’s just how life goes, son.

It won’t take you long to realize this, because you’re a smart kid: there’s one voice you can always rebel against, and that’s your own. You can set rules for yourself and break ‘em, and no one in the world will complain. You won’t get yelled at, fired, broken up with, or left alone.

And yet that’s the one voice you gotta never ignore.


In by Michael on August 30, 2010 at 9:31 pm

Did you enjoy your stay with Sunnyside Vacation Resorts?


Ok ok let’s see. Yes divided by No. Hmm. I think I need more information… Wait! Okay, subtract the N, carry the Y. No, no, that’s not it… Two wrongs don’t make a right, but I think two no’s make a yes.  So the answer is a half! Wait, what if yes is 1 and no is 0? Then it’s infinity… I think it’s a trick question! Sometimes yes means no and no means yes, so it’s like 1 divided by 1 equals 1, right?  Gosh this quiz is hard.

The Apocalyspe

In by Marcus on August 30, 2010 at 5:51 pm

In the backyards, alleyways
vacant-lots, abandoned-cities
mining-towns, landfills and
ravaged-forests it grows

Slowly filling the void
created by our past
it feeds off our mistakes
and bathes in our wrongdoings

Pollution and urbanization
are it’s parents, nurturing it
with remains from our
deceased civilizations

It is invisible to us
disguised by the sky
-scrapers and bright lights
we drive by it

But it is all around us
it pees in our rivers
shits in our meadows
and farts in our air

It is here people
in our slums and suburbs,
the middle of nowhere’s
and small towns we grew up in

Growing Up

In by Marcus on August 30, 2010 at 10:48 am

Growing up on a farm, is now a more unique childhood. With the percentage of the population living in metropolitan areas surging over 50%, our children are now growing up in overly populated, overly stimulated and overly developed environments. This transition into an urban world will certainly have far-reaching long-lasting effects to not only the environment but also to ourselves as human beings. We are slowly losing touch with the soil from which we were born. Maybe we are grown and no longer need our mother’s care or we are just rebellious teens who will soon run home to mother crying.

Walk A Thousand Miles by K.M. McFarland featuring Douglas Hosking

In by New Author on August 30, 2010 at 10:35 am

Hidden beneath the trail of ten thousand weary pilgrim tracks,

beneath the crusted red earth, down, down, beneath the cracks

left by centuries of stress and stale sweat I toiled

to find you, restless and desperate for the unchained, wild

fury found only buried inside your crust. To the depths

you escaped with quiet dignity, forsaking any sweet farewell breaths

from love, choosing instead the dark, immense pressure of solitude.

You put down roots, thrived, while those remaining above rued

unsatisfying, concrete companionship. Though tethered within the mild, sweet earth,

you stretched for miles, surging along the self-imposed, unerring rebirth.

Great, Terrible Things by K.M. McFarland

In by New Author on August 30, 2010 at 10:34 am

There is a moment that flashes
before your eyes
of the worst,
most terrible,
acts committed in your life.

When you snatched a macaroon fresh
from the oven at two,
or glanced at an answer from
the girl next to you at seven.
She never guarded with her left shoulder.

At nineteen, the night she was away,
and the skirts in the pool hall twirled just
right to your eyes, before
a word of protest left your lips,
arms were pinned and it was done,

You rationalized,
ignored the messages,
but never fully washed
away the stain of memory.

He’s Just Not That Into You, If he…

In by Marcus on August 30, 2010 at 8:32 am

Sleeps on the other side of the bed
Doesn’t talk to you as you fall asleep
Never talks about his family
Doesn’t enjoy running his fingers thru your hair
Texts you when he could have called
‘d rather hang out with your friends
Avoids having any serious conversations
Doesn’t tell you that you’re beautiful all the time
Can stop looking at you when he’s with you
Doesn’t miss you minutes after you part
Avoids any type of public affection
Has never taken you on a date
Doesn’t give you a kiss goodbye
If you’re reading this and he sounds familiar

What A Smile!

In by Chris on August 30, 2010 at 12:44 am

At the Legion of Honor there is an old man with a smile straight out of a fifties game show. If he realizes you’re talking to him, he’ll first flash teeth that have been whitened and straightened, and then start listening. Before he speaks, he positively beams, a smile that should be on every billboard in town.

He was down in the coat check closet, where he was telling a woman, “Yes, I golf every now and then. I belong to a club where I play dominoes.” His smile should be the one sent to make first contact with extraterrestrials.


In by Lucía on August 29, 2010 at 10:34 pm

The only thing left in the room to greet her was emptiness, and a sickening sense of déjà vu. It was the combination of her absolute familiarity with the unchanged house, and the unaffected observation that what she felt for it now was a void where warmth and belonging had been before.   She was sixteen when she first left, and for years, the walls had continued to faithfully form rooms around the renters that seamlessly replaced her.  Standing in the bedroom door, she looked at her father.  He was unaware that she had not come to rent her own room.

Out on the Rifle Range

In by Chris on August 29, 2010 at 4:21 am

Ted Wurm’s company arrived at the Fort Barry rifle range in June.

The first night, a fellow soldier told him that he was on cow duty, that he’d have to get up at 5:00 a.m. to shoo cows off the range for 6:00 practice.

He did, found no cows around as the sun came up over Hawk Hill, then waited for his comrades to arrive. He waited for hours.

Finally, at 9:00, they walked over in a jovial mood, praising the wonders of a full night’s rest and hearty breakfast as Ted stood staring at them, not a bit amused.

Geology VERSUS Geography

In by Wyatt on August 28, 2010 at 10:37 pm

Borders aren’t places, places are locations and grounded rations station nations but split derivations and plantations of human denomenations —

–Rocks dried into lumps and sit idle, waning tidal, beside time’s idol remaining with pride’s lull the archaic Midas glider of gold pliable but cried and derived — desicated and unanimated, rivaled by life forms —

–Life wouldn’t walk unsupported by bones and deported roads — from whence purport you to record a passage unendorsed by benevolent storms and platforms?

Hey life created the endorsement, record, existence! Brick doesn’t BREATHE, bitch.

Geography hits Geology in the face with a map. Geology retaliates with a rock.


In by Lara on August 28, 2010 at 10:29 pm

Loneliness is a bowlful of salsa with no chips to dip.
Loneliness is a dress sock with no pair.
Loneliness is a cold gun.
Loneliness is a recently shaved upper lip.
Loneliness is a coffee mug of vodka.
Loneliness is that one cookie that ended up with no chocolate chips.
Loneliness is the brown M&M.
Loneliness is being slave to your phone.
Loneliness is videochatting yourself.
Loneliness is secret.
Loneliness is contagious.
Loneliness is the subjective chocolate in the chocolate box depending on who’s picking.
Loneliness is a fart so stealth no one can smell it.
Loneliness is being parsley.

Oh it’s so good I farted

In by Wyatt on August 28, 2010 at 10:15 pm

It’s a cheese-drenched wedge of thick cripsy potato slammed in the scented fat of a youthful colt’s adrenal glands. It’s thinner than paper and lighter than an apostrophe, clinging to the breeze and sticking to ephemerality like a dove in a bubble, singing rich anthems in juicy warbles. It’s the hearty blamph of the chorus bass after a brutal bridge of enriched beats and static excitement, catalyzing expansion and subtracting negation formation, creating and creating and creating. It’s the blue biro on a soft page, soaking up sentiment and mirroring edgless possibility.

It is freedom and passion, unbridled and yeilding.


In by Lucía on August 28, 2010 at 7:53 pm

“…Also, Southwest’s one-way flights from LAX to SJC are running at $39 each way for a good chunk of mid-September.  Let’s talk dates: I was serious about splitting the ticket, I’m not waiting until bloody January to see you, do you know how many months that is?  (That’s going on nine.)  No, come play.  And just think! – we’ll live it up, and go on walks barefoot, and split bottles of wine, too.  And I owe you a birthday present anyway…”

I can’t wait to see you.  I’m sorry that the first thing I said in six months was “Holy shit.”

I Am Yours And You Are His And He Is Hers And She Is Mine by K.M. McFarland

In by New Author on August 28, 2010 at 7:31 pm

Far outside the boundaries
of plentiful, unified metropolis

with a glow that every firefly envies,
are the shantytowns, overrun with whores

of industry and information; where I was
born amidst cascades of cash crash

paranoia and the unheeding tide of blotter.
Leaving was the only way to meet you,

To ride alongside, carried over the sinking,
burning lands of wasted youth,

Arriving at a new horizon bathed in colors
saved for nuptials and dreamscapes.

I will carry you over that threshold,
supporting knees with my weakened arm

and rest by your side, in the dual, infinite
reflections, interwoven to a savior.

Slow Me Down, Tasmanian Devil by K.M. McFarland

In by New Author on August 28, 2010 at 7:29 pm

Spin left,
see the barman slide
tumblers to empty hands
eager for courage.

Boats rock east,
back to the west,
spiraling with the wind of the sails
in soft circlets, dragging canvas
wide around masts

for the harbor urchins on the
bar docks to leer.

Spin right,
find eyes that meet
on a perfect level,
twirl and meet for a breath
but find a way to whisper

with pupils to tack starboard,
raise and lower anchors in deft
syncopation, only for the winds
in his hands to change at any
instant and guide back to
the safety of a dock.


In by Chris on August 28, 2010 at 4:35 pm

Every so often They glimpsed groundhogs looking out from their burrows, furry heads alert and gleaming in the sun. On the homespun blanket They were safe from his father, safe from her nagging sense of fear. Here They were free to laugh, free to fall into one another. At his home there were scours on the tabletop. At hers there was now a padlock on the door. He and she had changed since that day, but They had not. In the meadow They sat, pointing at a hawk circling above as the groundhogs scrambled into their unseen warrens for safety.

A Harmless Accident

In by Chris on August 28, 2010 at 1:47 pm

Damage done there is none, under two cars carried from afar two humans tarry. Are they wary? Who knows? In Hayward, a station wagon rear-ended. No tears fell, no bumpers bended.

But the girl emerges, charged and perturbed, demands information as the man in the Acura behind runs his hands through his Indian hair and withdraws license and registration.

She nervous, he mirthless as she searches for words. He placates her earnestly with gestures invested with accent. Dents and scratches absent. She sees his wife’s sari and says sorry.

He shrugs and drives away; she hesitantly tries to wave pleasantly.

Poeta laureado

In by Lucía on August 27, 2010 at 9:03 pm

Llegaste desde más allá de estos malentendidos políticos, culturales, y hasta del exilio, para compartir una música con nosotros que no entendía esta gente.  Leíste en tu lengua maternal, y yo, yo te escuché con los oídos de mi madre en lo que tu criaste palabras de la manera en que un escultor críe su obra.  No perdí tus ojos, resplandecientes diamantes turquesas, que no se escondían detrás de tus arrugas, ni escondían su juventud.  Su luz se quedó conmigo, y las mañanas me siento en el jardín y leo en voz alta tu poesía al lado de las flores.

A Papercut, A Beginning

In by Lara on August 27, 2010 at 12:05 pm

Sarah was on what seemed the four-hundredth envelope to stuff when she felt a tiny, but sharp pain. Ouch, a paper cut. She reached for a tissue, but the box was empty. A droplet of blood formed at the base of the cut, a plump red cherry, ripe for the picking. She contemplated it for a second, and then seeing no other option to stop the bleeding, she sucked on her finger. Salty, slightly metallic, she was was surprised at the delightful flavor of her own blood, of blood itself. I wonder if this makes me a vampire, she thought.


In by Lucía on August 27, 2010 at 12:40 am

This land is my flesh
cutting through me as
the crimson line on the horizon
tears through these veins
to flow within me
alongside the only air
I may breathe
But you
you are
the stars behind my eyes
You’ve made me alive
Together we fall
from the backs of moonlit steeds
laughing to the centers of
our passions
the tears streaming
our faces to wash away
our two-faced ills
A tangled tree branch
we have grown into one another
twisting around ourselves
more yielding to
These winds
It is you ever you
that I will take
with me


In by Chris on August 26, 2010 at 10:59 pm

The flashbacks, the sweat-drenched nights, the inability to speak without stammering had all washed away with the settling passage of time. It had taken years, but she no longer felt torn by the darkness, the knotted-muscle knife of that night.

Yet the physical wound barely healed. In restaurants and plazas men and women edged away from her. The scar looked as if it were wrenching her face apart, and from behind it she could see the molten nervousness of those with sunglasses or rouge or mustaches. They glanced at her and then felt their hands uncertainly. She felt such compassion.

Dickie, The Third by guest author Madelyn Zoi

In by New Author on August 26, 2010 at 4:46 pm

Dickie had used his time of incarceration very effectively. He taught the inmates to appreciate opera; he organized the jail’s laundry; and he found the Lord.

Two days before his release from Long Reef, Dickie placed a call to mother. To this day, we do not know the nature of that call. She immediately retrieved from the back of her closet a package that she had squirreled away many years prior.

That very day she sold the GOOGLE stocks therein. She became an extremely wealthy woman; the family was reunited; and Dickie was no longer black sheep of the family.

Dickie, The Second by guest author Madelyn Zoi

In by New Author on August 26, 2010 at 4:44 pm

Shortly after Dickie’s departure, two things happened to change our family’s history forever:

– Mother learned she was pregnant with me.
– The Australian Federal Police called seeking the whereabouts of one Richard Thomas Milton Galbraith, aka Dickie.

There was a warrant for his arrest. Apparently Dickie had doctored the books and had embezzled a rather substantial sum of money.

Eventually Dickie was caught living in Harlem with Frank N. Furter, the transvestite antagonist of The Rocky Horror Show. Immediately thereafter he was extradited to Australia where he served 6 long years.

Yet he never forgot his much loved sister.

Dickie, The First by guest author Madelyn Zoi

In by New Author on August 26, 2010 at 4:39 pm

Dickie, mother’s slightly older brother and black sheep of the family, had been erased from our family years ago, shortly before I was born. His mere existence was THE best kept family secret – until now.

An accountant, a financial genius – a man who could make numbers dance – Dickie was also a Renaissance man, a lover of finer things AND a bon vivant, charming, engaging, and charismatic.

It was no surprise to mother all those years ago when Dickie called to say he was leaving Sydney for a job in NYC. A package would be forthcoming. Could she keep it safe?


In by Lara on August 26, 2010 at 10:02 am

Earl had never not had a day of work in his life up until today. So he did what any productive person would’ve done. He made a to-do list. Groceries, bank, video store. That was done fast. So now, he never really watched television, but he had nothing to do. Same thing next day. He noticed his pants were a bit longer than usual. And the day after that, he just stayed in bed all day. When he finally got up to make dinner, his feet were too small for his slippers. Eventually, Earl became so small, he disappeared entirely.

Grande Ninja

In by Michael on August 26, 2010 at 12:52 am

Starbucks baristas come in two flavors, green and black. I never knew this: the ones in black aprons are ultra-elite Coffee Masters.

Wearing black ain’t easy. It takes 2 months of coffee training on every blend of coffee Starbucks sells, learning what each smells and tastes like, where the bean is grown, who grows it, and how it’s processed. They study grinders, coffee makers, and espresso machines inside and out.

No they don’t get paid more. They do it for respect.

In short, next time you’re at Starbucks and you see a black apron manning the machinery, order something fancy.

Déjà Vu and Its Variants

In by Chris on August 26, 2010 at 12:33 am

Déjà vu – The crossing of brain wires making you think that what you are experiencing is coming from memory rather than your senses.

Réjà vu – The feeling that this’ll happen again.

Déjà vu, once removed – The feeling that an event you’re remembering had happened before.

Flambé vu – Déjà vu experienced at Benihana’s.

Kúng vu – Every Jackie Chan movie.

Debbie Sue – That girl you liked in fifth grade.

Déjà vuvuzuela – A blaring case of déjà vu.

Súckà vu – Someone predisposed to déjà vu.

Déjà non-vu – The feeling of not remembering having experienced this.

Non-déjà non-vu – The not-feeling of not remembering anything.


In by Marcus on August 25, 2010 at 7:32 pm

She was beautiful. As she walked off the bus she stepped on my foot, in one beautiful fluid motion she turned and smiled. And then she was gone. I felt chills down my spine and rocks in my stomach. From the moment she stood next to me at the bus stop I felt it. An attraction unlike any other, it was as if she was the sun and my world began to revolve around her as I was slowly sucked into hers. Forced to shift awkwardly I tried to ignore the feeling it was foreign and I didn’t understand it.

Family Business

In by Lara on August 25, 2010 at 10:56 am

“I am unsure as to how to proceed from here, sir.”
The young man was facing an older one, now twirling his moustache and sipping his brandy, one eye sizing up the young one like a lion would a gazelle.
“Well, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. I’m sure you can figure something out.”
“I was hoping that maybe–”
The older man slammed his glass on the table.
“Hoping that what? That you’d just walk in and get your job back?”
“Well, yes, sir.”
“You’ve got to be more than my son to get a job in a time like this.”

Sitting on a train

In by Lara on August 24, 2010 at 10:55 pm

She felt comfortable, sitting in the moth-eaten seat of the subway train. The familiar whrrrr of the train chugging along on the rails, the fluorescent lighting, the wide variety of people, faces. It was communal that way, sitting on the train with everyone. She looked out the window to the cars so small they seemed like toys to be plucked off a plastic track. There were probably no more than two people per vehicle. And you sure as hell can’t daydream out a window when you’re driving one. Yes, this was a damn good ride, a ride to take everyday.

The Day I Quit

In by Michael on August 24, 2010 at 10:15 pm

I had a Bud Light in the shower in the morning, bacon and French toast for breakfast, drove the family minivan to work, going under the speed limit for the first time in recent memory, playing Eazy E on the radio and actually listening to him, parked in my CEO’s regular spot, walked in and asked the secretary for a date, ignored what she said, photocopied 300 copies of nothing, asked my boss for a raise, ignored what he said, and told him to learn how to do his job, and my job too, because by the way, “I quit.”

Our Lives Are Made Of Time

In by Chris on August 24, 2010 at 9:40 pm

Our lives are made of time,
Yet in the present moment, time doesn’t quite exist.
Kurt found a stopwatch in a pawnshop,
Gabriel accidentally knocked his wall clock to the floor
And Wallace set his alarm for PM, not AM.
Time is living in our hair,
Clinging to the roots and cackling,
So that however we turn our heads,
We still can’t find the time.
I’ve missed the bus so many times,
And whose fault is that?
Again, there will be no time under the earth.
Kurt, Gabriel, Wallace – your time is drawing near,
But it will never quite arrive.

Death by Kindness

In by Michael on August 24, 2010 at 9:35 pm

Hi, welcome welcome! So glad you could come over!

Feel free to sit in any chair or couch you see, as long as nobody’s in it already. If you need to open any doors around the house, try the handle or the knob, and if neither works, come find me and we’ll figure it out. Feel free to take any temperature of water you want from our tap, and we have ice cubes in the freezer, if need be. And if any of our books or magazines interest you, you’re absolutely welcome to read as many pages as you’d like.

Time For A Haircut

In by Marcus on August 24, 2010 at 4:34 pm

Running his hand over his head, he could feel the balls of hair forming. Naps they are called derived from the word nappy used to describe black hair. He knew it was time to cut it but he had always wanted to give it a chance to grow. He knew what would happen if he did, they would tease him. They’d call him a dirty nappy slave looking nigger. So like every other month he cut his hair. Choosing to be a clean slave looking nigger instead as he stood bent over watching his black roots fall to the floor.

These Things

In by Lucía on August 24, 2010 at 10:36 am

Head into the mountains in a groovy stick shift that takes the dirt road oh-so-well, and at the house with stairs made from dirt and old tires, leave the car and begin to hike.  Past the horses, the topless teepee, American flags, and barbed wire fence.  “No trespassing.”  Arrive at the hot springs, remove all clothes, and soak.  Hours later, return to the faithful steed …without keys.  Retrace the hike, now accompanied by the sounds of lightning and the wetness of light rain.  Return, and find the keys on top of the vehicle.  Smile.  Know that these things do happen.

Mighty Mr. Mosquito

In by Marcus on August 24, 2010 at 10:29 am

Buzzz Buzzz
Slaps ear, rolls over

Buzzz Buzzz
Covers head with pillow

Gulp Gulp
Slaps shoulder, “Fuck I missed”

Itch Itch
Scratch shoulder, “Fuck two more bites!”

Buzzz HA HA Buzzz
Buzzz Mr. Mosquito – 2, Human – 0 Buzzz

Shakes covers, “I’m gonna find you motherfucker”
“Come out, Come out wherever you are”

Buzzz Invisibility Cloak Buzzz
Buzzz Muahaha Buzzz

“Yeah run away”
“No mosquito gets the best of me”

Lays back down
Buzzz Attack! Buzzz

Gulp Gulp
“Aaaah he’s back”

“Commence strategic maneuvers”
Covers head with comforter

Buzzz Where’d you go? Buzzz
Buzzz You can’t hide from the mighty Mr. Mosquito Buzzz

A Beautiful Girl Walks By

In by Chris on August 23, 2010 at 8:01 pm

My friend’s a big guy. Round face, curly hair, a stringy goatee. The kind of guy that people just beg to be the comic.

We were on Haight street, hungry of course, and he was in one of those moods where you yell for the hell of it, to feel it vibrate in your throat.

“Hey there in the red shirt and sunglasses! Hottie! Don’t act like you don’t hear me! Crossing the street, there’s no one else I could be yelling at!” He catcalled.

Once I would have laughed
But now
I’m too damn wiped
To see the humor

This Should Do The Trick…

In by Michael on August 23, 2010 at 7:49 pm

Ok here is what I want you to do. Think about who you want to be in a year.

What does it feel like? What do you do for work? What do you do for fun? What new people have you met? What are you wearing and what do you smell like and how does it feel to smile?

Let the warm confidence soak in.

Now come back to reality.

Realize that you just created happiness in your head, out of nothing.

Now start over. Imagine you felt this good every day. Think about who you want to be tomorrow.

Letter to Mr. Blackout

In by Marcus on August 23, 2010 at 5:27 pm

Dear Mr. Blackout,

In response to: “ok so at this moment I am great walking home basically sober just like me love you babe”

Please don’t get me killed. I don’t know what you have been up to lately but I have a feeling there have been some close calls. I don’t know what you have planned. But here are a few surprises I would enjoy: waking up with Christina Milian, finding the winning lottery ticket in my pocket and/or a hot breakfast including, pancakes, sausages, bacon, WELL DONE scrambled eggs and TWO glasses of OJ.

Take care,

Marcus Henderson

Night hike

In by Wyatt on August 23, 2010 at 12:35 pm

We embarked on the trail at 9pm. The saucy moon slowly undressed as it rose above the treeline. By the time it was fully exposed we were miles up the wrong hill after a miscalculated turn (no, the other left) and further from the goal than we’d started. At 2am we annihilated our 6 proteiny pounds of grilled chicken and all the water. We we still climbing. At 6 we reached the pseudo-summit, looked up at the real summit mocking us, and collapsed. I slept through the sunrise in a garbage bag. We were exhausted, caffeinated, blistery, and over-exposed.

It was perfect.

Thoreau and the Poem of Freedom by guest author Charlie Zoi

In by New Author on August 23, 2010 at 12:19 pm

“Most men live lives of quiet desperation”
So said from Walden, Henry David Thoreau,
To make a change requires grand anticipation
That something is better, there is somewhere to go!

He also said “Any fool can make a rule,
And if he does another fool will mind it.”
The creative mind will ignore the rule
And seek the joy and fun behind it.

So if I would avoid boredom and despair,
I must circumvent and bypass convention.
I cannot be of that mass of men who care
About approval, acceptance and avoidance of detention.


Inside the Royal Dancehall

In by Chris on August 22, 2010 at 10:49 pm

Casper the Jester entered the royal dancehall perturbed, for inside, the majority of the kingdom was engaged in fierce chess matches. “This is not dancing!” he shouted.

The queen lifted her eyebrows. This irritating jester (no one really knew what his role was) was overstepping his bounds.

A priest in his pointed hat walked over from the corner of the room and stood squarely in Casper’s path to the queen. The hall went silent and waited.

“I will make a joke!” said Casper. He knocked off the bishop’s hat, zigzagged over to the king, and sat amiably upon his lap.


In by Lucía on August 22, 2010 at 10:25 pm

This house is quiet, in every fiber of every wooden board and in every bowl in every cupboard.  Tucked outside of town, the yards are quiet, and the open windows are quiet, and even the crickets’ mellow chirpings are quiet.  The phone hums a small, polite little ring, and because there are no doors, they never slam, and no clocks chime, and no alarms go off.   But I am loud, and with me comes music.  The dog knows this, but the dog likes quiet: the dog wishes I would shut up, and whines, and never missed its owners so much.

It’s Night

In by Chris on August 22, 2010 at 10:03 pm

It’s night and all the house’s windows are open. I’m freezing. There is no wind or rain or snow, just a mist that slinks through each opening and under my sheets. If my shoes weren’t covered in mud I’d be wearing them too. The days are full and make me forget the nights. But tonight I wish I were anywhere but here. The lonely clack clack coming in with the mist doesn’t stop once. I am aware of every bone in my body, every movement my muscles have made. I know that tomorrow will come, and with it laborious warmth.

Writing Poetry by guest author Charlie Zoi

In by New Author on August 22, 2010 at 11:33 am
Stephen Fry in his book “The Ode Less Travelled”, mandates that his reader, if he is to be his student through the pages of this text, carries with him at ALL times materials with which to compose  poetry. AT ALL TIMES!
There are two other rules for writing poetry (and I like to write both poetry and non-verse stuff!*), and these are:
1. Do not be afraid.
2. .Take your time – in both writing AND reading.
I will follow these rules and Fry’s directions!  I have too long been afraid of too much, and have too often been in a hurry.
* Non-verse writing is called prosody, or just prose.