In by Allison on December 30, 2010 at 8:43 pm
They used to mine granite up in Concord, but it’s been decades since these quarries were used. The walls are covered with years of little rebellions:
JT + AH
Funny, because to graffiti the quarry walls, you’ve gotta dive in and spray paint while you swim around, usually in your underwear. No other way to reach the rock. Dumb kids. I mean, I did it too—we all did.
They say there’s a Volkswagen Beetle at the bottom. It’s probably not the only thing. If I ever killed a man, I’d sure throw him down there too.
In by Chris on December 30, 2010 at 6:59 pm
In the evenings, the hour of the abalone,
my eyes remember their loneliness.
Amidst whispers of darkness,
when birds flap west across the horizon,
when the surmising riplets of the sea
are the only noise left,
I drift into thought.
All day I drive vehicles,
have fickle interactions
under bright sunlight.
My body light, an errand in town,
talk of mayors and trees to be downed.
But let the sunlight spin away,
and my thoughts begin to stray
to nostalgias strewn by fear
like queer seaweeds stranded on the beach.
Sun, stay in reach.
My thinking starts
when you leave.
In by Lara on December 29, 2010 at 3:33 pm
“What time is it?”
“About four o’clock.”
“Well, might as well get up.”
“Wanna watch the sunrise?”
“Sure. I’ll get my camera.”
“Wait. It’s 4am. The sun doesn’t rise til like…6.”
“Well. I guess we could watch a movie.”
“Yeah. Do you have that movie about that guy that does that thing?”
“Yeah. I downloaded it yesterday. Wanna watch that?”
“Sure. I’m also really hungry.”
“Hm. We have some cheetos I think.”
“Oh let’s get those and watch that movie.”
“Okay. Oh wait. The outlets are different here.”
“Wanna just lie here, then?”
In by Allison on December 29, 2010 at 2:11 pm
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Will you love me when I’m old and fat and I have saggy skin flaps all over?”
“Naturally. I’ll tie your saggy skin flaps into bows and you’ll be beautiful.”
“Ugh Derek, that’s fucking disgusting.”
“You said it first.”
“What if I were a wombat?”
“Would you love me if I were a wombat?”
“Am I a wombat too?”
“Are you a hot wombat?”
“Sexiest damn wombat in the Southern Hemisphere.”
“Well, in that case, of course.”
“Go to sleep, you goof.”
In by Chris on December 28, 2010 at 11:43 am
It was billed as the greatest ten nights of disco ever to visit the solar system. But when armadas of stegosaurs in blimps attacked the party at the bidding of Overlord Barnstormer, chaos reigned. Thousands of disco balls shattered into millions of pieces, and the orange light of explosions reflected off the trillions of spinning mirrors.
UltraTron Man quietly slipped out of his bellbottoms and into his three-piece suit with the designer grenade launcher built into the left sleeve. He quietly wrested a blimp from the enemy’s control and began to restore order with fusillades of carefully timed disco grenades.
In by Chris on December 26, 2010 at 11:27 pm
I read and grow restless.
My poems do not follow anthologies,
they march out of potatoes that have been
hoed up and gathered in baskets,
dirt clinging to their tendrils,
chalky cores waiting for my olive oil.
I read and my ass loses feeling.
When I return to myself from out of a book,
the lack of color fills me again
for my body has not moved.
I love reading, but afterwards I cannot write.
I can only long for the plodding blooms of potato plants
and my confusion at aching fingers
when dirt encrusts the laces of my shoes.
In by Allison on December 26, 2010 at 11:16 pm
I’m teaching similes to my seventh graders. Correcting papers on the couch, I read one aloud to my husband:
The ocean was like a velvet curtain, and the iceberg was like an iceberg.
“These kids,” I sigh. “The iceberg was like an iceberg? Really?”
I wonder, though. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe somewhere in that navy blue velvet curtain of sea, there really is an iceberg that’s like an iceberg. The icebergiest goddamn iceberg you can imagine. So much an iceberg that any comparison to something else wouldn’t be fair. Words are just words, after all. Words are not icebergs.
In by Lara on December 26, 2010 at 7:20 pm
I always stumble upon my passport when I’m searching for something else, and when I’m holding it in my hand thinking about my future self, about to leave for the airport, searching, swearing, and sweating (partly from exertion, mostly from panic), I will think about storing the stupid thing in a memorable location.
But inevitably I will find it again and relocate it to another more “memorable” location, making the memorable location forgetable. And then I will shamefully call my mother and as if I gave it to her for safekeeping because I’m still this incompetent at the age of 21.