poetry month 2019

On May 1, 2019, at 3:57 PM, Gabriel Coleman gxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Hi everyone,

We did it! We made a month’s worth of amazing writing! Whether you just wrote when you could or didn’t miss a single day, I hope you feel that you were able to stretch yourself and grow in your practice and that you’re proud of what we’ve made together!

I will finish updating the blog post as I have time over this next couple of days. I would love to make it public so please let me know if there is anything you’d like to redact from a public facing version or if you’d like to keep your work private in general. I’ve also been exing out email addresses but if you would like your email associated with your poems I can also do that.

Also, I’m planning to make a little printed version of this thread just for us all to have so please send me your mailing address and feel free to send along any visuals that I can incorporate!

People have also expressed interest in continuing to exchange words – I know personally that I am always open to surprise poems dropping in my inbox and, though I don’t want to make too many assumptions, I think most of us are of that mind so please keep writing and sharing throughout the year!

Love you all so much. I’m so proud of you all and incredibly thankful and moved that you would all jump in on this adventure. Those of you who don’t live in NY, I miss you very much and and will hopefully see you soon.

Much Love,
Gabe

On May 1, 2019, at 1:21 AM, Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

I dug too deep too fast
And grew a birchbark forest.
Spiney trunks
All my own doing.
Tethered to the right crease of my trembling wrist.
Bone white silhouette of stalks
Surviving all sorts of weather.
My own private national reserve
For things endangered no more.

On Apr 30, 2019, at 9:35 PM, Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Fight Me
Pull my heart out of my chest
and smash it against the concrete wall.
Let the bloodstain be graffiti.
Let me love things, let me love things.

You were an expert time piece
always counting, always waiting.
You said you knew your time was coming.
Let me love things, let me love things.

Scale back your expectations
and let go of that scrutiny.
I’ve been aching for some beauty.
Let me love things, let me love things.

You once said that you’re afraid of falling,
and I said it only takes an instant.
I could never take you with me.
Let me love things, let me love things.

That last time that I saw you
I assumed it would have been the last.
I read see-you-laters as Irish Goodbyes.
Let me love things, let me love things.

This cities heart is quaking, people pulsing,
and I know just where to find you.
I’ll pace the stairs as seconds.
Let me love things, let me love things.

If I pulled you over the edge of the clocktower
on the hour, would we hit the ground
before it stopped ringing? I don’t know but
let me love things, let me love things,
let me love things.

On Tue, Apr 30, 2019 at 20:46 Irene Henry ixxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

there’s something
nostalgic
about rain;

the possibility,
more than the
consummate
tender droplets;

the dusk-cloud
coaxing your gaze
inward
toward warm bodies
of rains past

the corners of memory
less sharp
more indulgent
softer hued

always
returning to that perch
eyes on the towering pine
stable through the storm

On Apr 30, 2019, at 6:49 PM, Cosimo cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Stymbol
have you ever had to think
about what your stomach looks like?

I have
and I’m happy to say
my mind has moved into the land of love:
rolling hills of flesh
that bisect sharp skin cliffs

ruins and canyons that nestle
beneath my belly button
and above my intestines

castles with pink undertones
rumble above the surface
of my digesting food

biting and cracking
in between my ears

my stomach’s spirit
lives in a rosy bungalow
a jiggly love nest
with nothing but good sides

it smiles under me
midriff and post euphoric
it rocks me to sleep

looking like an entire biome
of pink flesh

On Apr 30, 2019, at 4:43 PM, Gabriel Coleman wrote:

By the David Zwirner Gallery
and I went walking
past the place where I used to live
and the places where I may one day live

I went walking
from the future into the past
and then I went back again

I went walking
by the grove where we kissed
in our old neighborhood beneath
the dark summer leaves

I walked across the bridge
and into the construction zone

I walked past your ghost
and my ghost

I went walking
where cars only go and I
stopped for a while to breathe
in their smoke – there weren’t answers

to the questions, just the same space
ever becoming new/old
places in my mind.

On Apr 29, 2019, at 8:34 PM, Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

They kept a star upstairs
In the attic they kept it.
Unlatched the skylight three times a day
They brought platter or shishito peppers every third day.
It watched and it thought.
It grew slowly
But steady.
And sometimes
The family would climb the ladder
And sit in a big circle around it, talking.
But when it was time,
The took a sleghammer to the roof in the dead of night.
And let it meander up to the sky.
And the mom cried
Because she had loved it so.

On Apr 29, 2019, at 11:31 PM, lena greenberg wrote:

we held each other
on the sidewalk
swaying like all the breaths we’d
taken apart

(brooklyn NY, 4.29)

On Apr 29, 2019, at 10:11 PM, Cosimo cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

One Crack
the same sun withered tulips
that crawl through my walls

vibrate
with the same tenuousness
as the bed
that flies out the window

On Mon, Apr 29, 2019 at 8:34 PM Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

In the attic they kept it.
Unlatched the skylight three times a day
They brought platter or shishito peppers every third day.
It watched and it thought.
It grew slowly
But steady.
And sometimes
The family would climb the ladder
And sit in a big circle around it, talking.
But when it was time,
The took a sleghammer to the roof in the dead of night.
And let it meander up to the sky.
And the mom cried
Because she had loved it so.

On Mon, Apr 29, 2019, 4:43 PM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

i.
he told me, “i don’t live,
i just grapple with existence”
and i said “same” or actually
“lolololololol
lolololololololol
i mean
same”
but i think
it’s all the same

ii.
i caught myself in the mirror
and realized my hair looked
kind of okay
and instantly some voice
lit up in my head
cheering, “OH MY GOD
YES LOOK AT YOU YOU’RE
SO CUTE WE LOVE YOU”
and i don’t know
where that voice came from
or how it got there
because i’m not sure
if it’s even me
but i want to take a moment
to thank it

iii.
i realized
that i now own two pairs
of duck socks
which i have taken to mean
that i am really into ducks now
except when i tried to type that
the first time
i accidentally typed
“i am really into dicks now”
which like, lol,
and what a textbook example
of a freudian slip

On Mon, Apr 29, 2019 at 10:56 Gabriel Coleman gxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

The little gods of daytime television
put a little too much milk in the tea.
They brighten the stage lights and
clothe the set in blonde wood and light
blue linens in an attempt to
daylight the windowless studio.

The little gods of daytime television
lighten the screen in our living room
the hosts’ tired smiles stretch around
the dozing audience nesting in
their chunkily highlighted hairstyle.

The little gods of daytime television
put on a show when we aren’t watching:
press false palms through the pixels’
mesh to squeeze something out of the
pulpy masses. It drips onto
the lonely dog who,
lacking opposable thumbs
can’t find a way to turn it off.

On Mon, Apr 29, 2019 at 1:24 AM Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Tali was talking without need or reason
Staring at my face and pushing the salad spinner
Whiz whooosh whiz
Whoosh whoosh whoosh whiz
Faster faster faster
She kept talking
Exponentially feeding off the noise
Louder louder
Faster faster
BAM.

A hole in the roof
Where the spinner and lettuce
Took to the skies.
On Sun, Apr 28, 2019, 2:39 PM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

the kids on the roofs
in the lower east side
snapping pictures amid
concrete skyline six stories
high it’s amazing that they
never fall or even just
spill their drinks

On Sun, Apr 28, 2019 at 01:06 Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

The deep purity of low light
Paper absorbs flicker
antiquity and elegance.
This time the floor is soft and springy
And my feet walk with the history of everyone else warming the soles.
Clean smooth wood panels slide me forward.
There is only one way to describe this:
Lustre.

On Sat, Apr 27, 2019, 9:50 PM Gabriel Coleman gxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

I haven’t been thinking about you at all today. There’s no truth in that at all actually. I’m just tired. I’m feeling a lot of things right now I’ve been a little overwhelmed. Maybe I’ll just keep drifting from one thing to another, keep driving the road between this place and that keep shuttling:
I’ve been sleeping under the ground. I’ve been riding underneath the river. This here it beats in the back of my throat that one resonates in the space behind my left ear and there you press into the sore spot in the middle of my hip. It makes my back shiver and reach my arm out. The curve of my spine waves crashing through my epiglottis,
does this make sense? There was a gesture, a look behind, you always said my eyes were beautiful and I haven’t been thinking about you no in the amber light we were lost to one another and the shade came down over that forth chamber
hrt mrmrs fluid filling my vase liquid rushes in to the interior space.

On Apr 26, 2019, at 9:37 PM, Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

There are daisies on the counter,
and roses and marigolds in the garden.
I do not have to care for any of them, thank god. They would die at my hand.
I can barely keep my jade plant alive,although I’m currently trying to
resurrect it. Although, I supposed
the daisies, are already dying, if not already dead. That seems a bit like a tree
falling in the forest question though—
if you cut a flower from it’s roots,
is the time of death that instant,
or a week later, when you throw
it’s withered carcass into the trash.

On Apr 26, 2019, at 12:37 PM, Gabriel Coleman gxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Pepper
I love it when
you break open a pepper
and there’s a little
baby pepper
growing inside.

Raising vegetables taught me
that these mutations
are more common
and more beautiful
than we think.

On Apr 26, 2019, at 12:17 AM, lena greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

home is breathing down my neck:
i start to make plans

a gust of wind reminds me
spring is slow coming

the calendar says,
keep going

the rain drains
the car stalls

there but
not yet.

On Apr 25, 2019, at 9:48 PM, Gabriel Coleman gxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Re: Re: Re: Re:
I am sleepy.
He calls me baby
which I guess I like.
I’ve been running around
the city for two straight
days for two straight
years in two months time
and every cup of tea
just tastes like
hot water.

On Apr 24, 2019, at 6:07 PM, Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Enough
(cw: reference to trauma)

I used to press,
“Wait, what? When did that happen?”
“I’m sorry that happened to you.”
“Oh, so that’s why—“
But now I can’t tell anymore
what they thought I already knew
or assumed.
I can’t tell anymore if
they’re holding their breathe
or letting it out.
Now, I let people tell me their secrets
like they aren’t secrets.
It’s happened enough times now
that I think it’s easier to say
things like, “Ugh
I’m sorry someone asked
such a stupid question,”
and let my, “Ah, you too,”
be silent, so that they can be as loud
as they want.

On Apr 24, 2019, at 6:04 PM, lena greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

what would the state troopers say
if i pulled over
and buried all the road kill

(somewhere OH, 4.24)

On Apr 24, 2019, at 2:09 PM, Gabriel Coleman gxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

High Line Interventions
1. Radial Bench Lunch
From 12:00-14:00 take lunch on the same bench as everyone else.

2. See and Be Seen – After Kara Nichols
i. Wear something noticeable.
ii. Notice what others are wearing.

3. Move
Find a comfortable place of stillness. Disrupt the flow of traffic if necessary.

4. Radial Bench Telephone
Fill every seat on the radial bench and play a game of telephone or two.

5. Race
Without breaking park rules, endangering yourself, or inconveniencing others, get from one end of the park to the other as quickly as possible.

6. Move II
Find a cozy spot to take a nap.

7. Cruise (for queer people)
Using our learned vocabulary of identifying gesture, find someone else like you.

8. Paraphrasing Nam Jun Paik
Draw a line and follow it.

9. ( )
Without breaking park rules, disappear completely into the parkitecture.

On Apr 24, 2019, at 10:31 AM, Gabriel Coleman gxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

The Mirror (from 4/23)
Beyonce is playing over the
speakers and the coffee is
beginning to buzz in my brain.
I channel my desire to stretch
move, dance through pen and
paper.

“I love it here.”
“I was just thinking about that —
the best coffee.”
“Yeah and the people are really nice
and the crowd that comes through
is a who’s who of our industry.”

The conversation and the light
and the air is like rain outside the
window warm inside wet grass and
fresh cool cozy mom and forward
fold.

The mirror takes it all in: the ficus
and the ash, the traffic cone and
bench and me sitting with a blue
mug and throws back the cool gray
planter wiggly table book phone
frosted glass and the sun – the man
to my left is packing his things.

Wood on the front – green within
and without and a mirror against
brick reflecting it all back.

He wears
green pants and a navy fleece
vest and I am moved to tears by
his flannel and sneakers and we
are in a ray of sunshine bouncing
between the window and the
mirror back and forth across my
mind.

On Apr 23, 2019, at 8:32 PM, Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Adoration
I praise the floppy haired pop stars
and the superheroes and talk-shows.
I praise the overnight lines and
hundred-thousand word fantasies
and the the days-in-the-life.
I praise the inside jokes shared by thousands,
and attention to every detail,
and the time spent making only in the name of love.
I praise the belief that anyone
can be anything, and that
everyone can be anyone,
and the opportunity to feel
the warm and eager weight
of adoration.

On Apr 23, 2019, at 7:00 PM, Irene Henry ixxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

revoir
the whistle trills
a squawk in young
indignation

grayness looms
heavy over
textured lime
accents

threatening
but the sun
still sticks to skin

a dragonfly
zaps by
perturbed

the path
lined with tiny
yellow wind-
flipped umbrellas

On Tue, Apr 23, 2019 at 9:13 AM Brennan R O’Rourke bxxxxx@nyu.edu wrote:

where i decide to wake up
where i decide to shower
where i decide to brush my teeth
where i decide to live a little more fully

when i remember to look in the mirror and say you’re beautiful
when i remember to fight for my space to exist
when i remember to say no

not every day
not every hour
not every minute
not every second

but more often than i used to

On Mon Apr 22, 2019 at 11:20 PM M Kaldjian mxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Missed some days choosing
guilt is a choice always I’m
choosing to forgive.

Would rather miss trash
day or poem day or not
pill paycheck deadline (day).

I am not van gogh
who ate paint – it sounds awful
pretty – it is not.

On Mon, Apr 22, 2019 at 8:03 PM Gabriel Coleman gxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

i could step right through the mirror
if i wasn’t in my way.

On Apr 22, 2019, at 7:55 PM, Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

There is a calendar,
set to December 2017,
hanging on my wall.
The picture is of a
vintage travel poster
of the Taj Mahal.
I’ve never been
to Northern India,
but once I sat a church
in Tamil Nadu on New
Years eve while some
kids danced to Scream
& Shout by will.i.am
…
Anyway, I think
my refusal to take down
the outdated calendar
a year and a half later
is probably more absurd
than that was,
relatively speaking.

On Apr 21, 2019, at 7:49 PM, Cosimo cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Irvington
seizing above the waves
and bowing with its curves
at the horizon line of the Hudson
you ask me if we’re alone

I don’t know how to answer
between bits of flotsam floating underfoot
and ghostly manatees skirting
out of vision
and the hazy mental image
of metallic snowfall
(hundreds of airborne smartphones
descending from the pockets
of upside down people).

The sky is dull and dim
trembling with fire
from a late sunset

On Apr 20, 2019, at 8:11 PM, Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Poems from Yesterday and Today
If you yell happily at a rock
And it is loud enough,
It will almost always yell back.

Today (groupwrite with housemates)
Washing machine
Damned thing
I need to put my cycle to delicate because the tension is high
My insides are rumbling but my outside looks calm
Like a sea of Pepsi before the mentos drop
And I forgot the stain detergent again
Tide pods or not
That is the question

On Apr 22, 2019, at 9:25 AM, lena greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

little kids with big backpacks
the old man outside read the new york times
and shakes his head

the lawn is green
the sky is blue

who am i
if i can only doubt
a scene so serene

On Apr 22, 2019, at 1:13 AM, Ash ey axxxxxgmail.com wrote:

The Party Next Door
Boom bap
And basketball.
Belly laughs
And beach talk.
Big balloons
Big hearts
Creaky gates,
False starts
Running down streets
Racing cars. and kickflips
And sweet frosting
licking lips
Lemonade and cool breeze
This bash is bumping. bees knees

On Sun, Apr 21, 2019, 6:02 PM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

I’m learning to dance
and take steps two at a time.
I’m pacing the city
and bracing for tomorrow.
I never seem to want
the things I’ve worked for
once I finally have them.
And yet, I keep working.

On Sun, Apr 21, 2019 at 19:49 Cosimo cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

seizing above the waves
and bowing with its curves
at the horizon line of the Hudson
you ask me if we’re alone

I don’t know how to answer
between bits of flotsam floating underfoot
and ghostly manatees skirting
out of vision
and the hazy mental image
of metallic snowfall
(hundreds of airborne smartphones
descending from the pockets
of upside down people).

The sky is dull and dim
trembling with fire
from a late sunset

are we alone?
hard to know.

On Sat, Apr 20, 2019 at 8:11 PM Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

If you yell happily at a rock
And it is loud enough,
It will almost always yell back.

Today (groupwrite with housemates)
Washing machine
Damned thing
I need to put my cycle to delicate because the tension is high
My insides are rumbling but my outside looks calm
Like a sea of Pepsi before the mentos drop
And I forgot the stain detergent again
Tide pods or not
That is the question

On Sat, Apr 20, 2019, 9:55 AM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Thousands of steps
pound the earth,
marching forward,
ever forwards.

We keep are open
secrets and
open wounds,
stitching ourselves
together
across the battlefield.

Limbs twist
like shrapnel,
backs arching
because bend,
because the
pressure demands
for it, because
we know they’ll think
it’s beautiful
like that.

There are some
who are learning
to live under the weight
of their armor.
There are others who
would rather die
than carry it.

And then there are some
who are planting poppies
under their skin
in their mourning,
and we mourn them,
but we know what it’s
like to want to bloom.

You won’t bury me
is a mismarked grave,
I am not an unknown
soldier. I am not your
monument of bravery
nor your memorial
of shame.

This war isn’t over.

But instead of
fighting against,
we’re fighting for.

On Apr 19, 2019, at 11:01 PM, Lena Greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

(poem from yesterday but didn’t have phone service!)

the lake is long
a black cloud passes over.
the path is a stream run dry
its bed hidden in last fall’s leaves.

water laps at the shore as the cloud
begins to shed its weight
big sharp drops on rock.

following the path, i come upon
a structure: it is the right colors,
right curves, even, to belong here.

but it is of human hands, too sharply cut
into the landscape.
coming around the corner,
i see the dam;
it wasn’t really
a lake
at all.

(wichita falls OK, 4.18)

CW: sexual assault (poem from today)

grown men

at the army surplus store i met a guy who kind of looks like someone who fucked me without asking.

we poked around looking for things that fit. i was looking for a blanket.

he picked one up and said, you wouldn’t believe the number of grown men i’ve seen curl up in these.

(eufaula OK, 4.19)

On Fri, Apr 19, 2019 at 8:18 PM Gabriel Coleman gxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

There’s a sense, after the drums have
been set, the moment the main act
begins playing, of the yolk being
broken open – the yellow flowing now
from the speakers
In unexpected new shapes in
the light of the darkened theater.

On Apr 19, 2019, at 7:41 PM, Irene Henry ixxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

chemical
and cognitive
reactions
for hate
and love
are the same;

those who mirror
ourselves
cause both
repulsion
and attraction;

what are the
factors
that make
the difference?

On Fri, Apr 19, 2019 at 6:01 PM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

I am always on the verge of being fragile
one strong breeze and twisting branches grow tangled
I don’t know when my bones will go brittle and snap on their own
but I am an expert at runaway heads
and I’m an expert at runaway hearts

On Fri, Apr 19, 2019 at 17:58 Brennan R O’Rourke bxxxxx@nyu.edu wrote:

here and now, today
i will love myself without
regard to others

On Fri, Apr 19, 2019 at 17:03 Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Butcher blackened apron string
Meat and fur and marrow fiend
Gristle grumble grunt and stomp/
Block of hock on wooden thumps.
Bread as soft as petals new
Kneaded thumbs the flour flew
Whirlwind sunlight sift and rise/
Holy Halo loaf of lies.

On Fri, Apr 19, 2019, 9:38 AM Cosimo cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

in between memories of sagebrush
and desert scrub

I feel a pair of eyes cut into me:
pawing with a jagged gaze
in the muggy noontide

and I suddenly become cold

On Thu, Apr 18, 2019 at 1:59 PM Brennan bxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

blocked

but not lost

forever etched

forever remembered in silhouette

your words strike and leave imprints in my mind

your face forgotten

your mark not

On Thu, Apr 18, 2019 at 10:17 AM Cosimo cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

poem from yesterday
Do you think me ignorant
because I thought the subway ran underwater
instead of beneath the river floor?

I hope not because I still feel comforted
by that thought

On Thu, Apr 18, 2019 at 9:57 AM Gabriel Coleman gcoleman.mn@gmail.com wrote:

Variations on a Northfield Sidewalk Poem
“Why are your eyes
cast down? Look up
and listen: The world offers
its own poetry.
—D. E. Green

1. PARAD(W/M)E
magnolia, forsythia, dogwood
Each year I forget the names and,
as each bloom arrives, ask myself
“Which are you again? a snowdrop
or a crocus – or maybe squill or hyacinth.”

I’m impatient for midsummer when I can
turn my gaze to things other than
spring’s parade of buds and
blossoms and the progress
of my spinach sprouts.

2. A green thread is stitched through the urban fabric.
Church Ave
Fort Hamilton Pkwy
15th St/Prospect Park
7th Ave
4th Ave
Smith &

9th
Carroll
Bergen
Hoyt
Fulton
Clinton/Washington

3. New York struck me again this morning.
I was riding across the bridge noticing
how the buildings rise against
the banks of the river and I—

oh

On Wed, Apr 17, 2019 at 11:03 PM M Kaldjian mxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

April 17
Dirtbag peptalks are
Just what they sound like except
No pep and more dirt.

On Wed, Apr 17, 2019 at 10:51 PM Gabriel Coleman gcoleman.mn@gmail.com wrote:

Cool Pants
I wore these cool pants I bought yesterday.
“Cool pants!” said most of my coworkers.
And I’m not sure if they’re actually fashionable
or just attention grabbing but I took it
as a compliment.

On Wed, Apr 17, 2019 at 9:08 PM Irene Henry ixxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

the mugg
did you know
that freshly sliced
watermelon
cubed
and glistening
with lime juice

is the sensory
equivalent

of a popsicle
warm
not melted
with no
brain
freeze

On Wed, Apr 17, 2019 at 7:31 PM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

sp l i ting headache
and the wreckage
of trying

On Wed, Apr 17, 2019 at 6:26 PM Lena Greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

soup hovers on the edge of a simmer:
cooking at seventy
twohundredfeet

when the sky is grey time
stands still. we are waiting
to say goodbye,
but first a meal,
an evening of pretending we
didn’t argue,
that family is family

yesterday we drove past a store
with four signs
guns guns guns guns
then back the other way
snug snug snug snug

she told me she needed one
all alone in the woods
‘but how would i protect myself?’
she asked.

this time last night i
thanked the turning of the earth
she hadn’t gotten one
yet. i stayed very still while
she went through the house slamming
doors.

tonight, we’ll sit
smiling at the table
because family is family
snug snug snug snug

(edgewood NM, 4.17)

On Wed, Apr 17, 2019 at 2:49 PM Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Good stretch
My body is hollow resounding echos of earth
Pulsing through heels
Racking this chamber of ribs
These fingers pierce
Up to clouds
Those great misty entities
You arch your spine and
r
e
a
c
h
Your sinew sweeps that cavernous sky
Your bones grow longer taller
Collarbones slicing this planets air
Great dimples filled with ether
Throat warm
Heart burst
Strong toes
Breathe into you.

On Wed, Apr 17, 2019 at 9:09 AM Jack Langdon jxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Event 13
building, forward

remember: one can only walk so far in a day
if you ask nicely
a car can take you further
so can a train or an airplane
but you won’t get there alone
unless you can build an entire vehicle by yourself
if you claim that you can—
please leave.
you can’t

On Wed, Apr 17, 2019 at 12:04 AM M Kaldjian mxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

April 16
Go look up how to
love I’m sure it will say you
must be prepared – now.

On Tue, Apr 16, 2019 at 11:04 PM Lena Greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

one ritual,
in the face of
uncertainty

i’ve picked them up and
put them down
as needed

but old problems swell
from beneath a solid surface

maybe it’s time
to go back
to something i’d started
in crisis

turn it into something that can
run on energy of
the everyday

ease myself into that
space
between
chaos
and
plan

(edgewood NM 4.16)

On Tue, Apr 16, 2019 at 10:20 PM Irene Henry ixxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

urgency
scanning for key words
in speech resembling knowledge
meanwhile; the world burns

On Tue, Apr 16, 2019 at 7:37 PM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

exhaustion
eyes fall shut
like a curtain of
summer rain
so suddenly
you can almost
hear the thud
of lashes against
your cheeks or
maybe that sound
was your brain
shutting down
there is a whole
world out there
that thought alone
is enough to start
you crying when
you are so tired
you start to forget
all the things you
fight to remember
to keep your
heart and your brain
from running away

On Tue, Apr 16, 2019 at 7:24 PM Cosimo cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

he takes her by the hand and leads her into the castle, the others follow
Suck the mystery out of me
through your clammy clasped
hands

and lead me to the perfumed shore
of your secrets

that long gray hallway
I linger in and pass through

from silence into silent silence

stop
look
listen
now we are on the mezzanine
now my heart has two chambers.

Rub hot honey on my shoulders
cure my keratosis
and smother my feet
in false blossoms.

From the top of your neck
the skyline looks quite like a cage

and I’ve heard that from within a cage
there is quite a lot to see
regarding the painful goings on
of this arid world

and I linger long in the depths
pinned down by my own will

until I reach a fetid threshold
that has been stuck closed so long
it becomes a wall.

Take me by the hand
lead me through the door
do not fall.

On Tue, Apr 16, 2019 at 5:01 PM Gabriel Coleman gcoleman.mn@gmail.com wrote:

Inyan Bostada I
to be from
to be of
there’s a rock in the back
between the vermillion (vernacu-
lar) and the Lahontan river.

it was taller before Saturday,
now the trees have grown up
around the pit where its tip
dis integrated

the shallow sea and and what
remains in marks of the
picknickers of the 17th C
bottles and initials i’m
looking for a relief but

can’t recognize what came
with the moraines you used
to be able to see
it from miles away rock
standing on the end
of the prairie.

I was born in the elbow of
the cannon and the water in
me is what takes first the
name and then the shape

On Tue, Apr 16, 2019 at 12:23 AM Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

A moment I forget sometimes
The month when
Men with guns
Wanted the house.
Staring at us as we drove home from school.
We locked, double locked
And pressed our bodies one with the walls.
Walls are no match for stares.
Mom sometimes cried
And dad got hit with a shovel.
I slept with a thrill of fear
Racing up my spine.
But woke floating in a room of gold.
And dressed myself in the slip of the mirror.

I turned to meet
Man eyes
Outside my window.
Guarding our mortal grounds
The security man standing sentinel.
Watching over the house.
Watching me.

On Mon, Apr 15, 2019 at 10:48 PM Irene Henry ixxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

early summer
the wildflower game
in texas
is fierce

bursting through crevices
barricading
from both sides

spiraling
eyeing passersby
at concerning height

fizzing with nectar-
filled
bumbles

On Mon, Apr 15, 2019 at 6:03 PM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

TOY STORY 5: LOST IN NEW YORK
i.
To the toy pony
in your trash cage
on the corner of
6th and White St:
Why?

ii.
EXT. CORNER OF 6TH AND WHITE – DAY

On a street corner in New York, a toy pony—just a little small for a child to ride, fragile in a way that makes it look like it’s not designed for child’s play at all— rests in public trash bin.

PONY

I bet you’re wondering how I ended up here?

On Mon, Apr 15, 2019 at 5:15 PM Anna-Christina Betekhtin axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

When will the body cease
And the mind begin to bend
The elbows and knees
Were made for this

On Mon, Apr 15, 2019 at 5:12 PM Gabriel Coleman gcoleman.mn@gmail.com wrote:

Making Water
we go together
like urine and porcelain
holding each other

On Mon, Apr 15, 2019 at 5:03 PM Cosimo cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

afterbirth
(after Gabriel Coleman)

spring rumbles from within
a desiccated womb
suddenly uncaged
from winter’s frigidity

it breaks yoke
wailing with bloodless cacophony
soaked in amnii
smacked with a cedar branch

and left to wallow in its own afterbirth
(spring does not get cleaned)

spring shall I compare thee
to the festering ginkgo tree
that flowers in flagrance

and stains the sidewalk with a mixture
of squashed blossoms
and mushed mulch
and streaked bird embryo,

this feels springier
than a sudden
burst
of seminal scent.

blossoms are nicer ways
to ruminated on
messy painful difficult
bloody
masses that writhe
from out of the most wretched depths
of the underworld

To dawn again
when the kidnapping winter
lays his sword down:

Persephone coming home
and lingering in the threshold
fearing that her mother’s fortune at seeing her
will be replaced by mere admonishing
fit for a goddess
“this is why I tell you not to go along
with boys like that!”

and just as spring comes out
from the depths of hell
so too does Dante fumble in the black night
after climbing down Lucifer’s ass

how the last interesting passage
of the divine comedy
is about how i can see the stars
and not about what satan’s leg hair
smelled like

and I am confused
by the phenomenon of starlight

light of the stars
that does not move

a thousand blooming fallacies
booming in the air off the river

On Mon, Apr 15, 2019 at 12:58 PM Jack Langdon jxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Event 12
voltage

—poppy seeds. she lays there, sullen and sick of the warmth.
a breeze bringing the scent of the sawmill—never mind the noise…
oh, that racket was hard to ignore. i asked—with a definitive tone, of course—
what might be bothering her. she let the wind speak for itself. we walked down
the quay later that evening, when the cedar in the air was replaced by salt.
where begin, where end. i awoke in the back seat of the station wagon on the
way back inland through the hills. i glanced across the darkness to see a dim
barn light—reminding me of viewing the substation outside of the cafe—the hum
that was difficult to ignore when it was late and the patrons had gone home. and
yet, my vigilance would be short lasted and like the morning of my old age i was
no longer fixed to the grounding—no longer among the crowds contesting the image of god
—and yet between youth and bedtime i feel the cold wind every once and awhile

he came to the end of the trail, out on the far reaches of the prairie late in the evening. a stranger in this place, he followed the hedgerow of scrub until he came upon a light hanging
far in the distance spanning a gate to the pasture. he looks around the treeless expanse
looking for the portal, turns to the sky, and walks through the gate. what seems like hours, yet the moon hangs in its position still, the rough path giving way to open grass, untrampled by the feet of others—fresh in its newness, purplish in the moonlight. the land between him and his long abandoned truck, the land between his truck and his long abandoned home—how much further must one persist? and in the disappearance of time, the moon skewered above
unmoving, the footfalls on the rolling silent hills, growing tired. a warmth and then a low
buzz. vibration in the lungs moving to the crown. the sun, a light, is rising. eyes blind,
somehow. the mine is collapsing—the workers safe at home. just me now. the moon has
disappeared. a swirling hole in the sky. teeth smiling lie beyond. over the plains. cold. singing a forgotten song. a spark lighting my cornea. waves of gravity. no more space. the purest no.

loveliness, only seen for a moment barely awake—in the vapor of a fleeting mathematics.
under the blanket in january, clouds of rosemary bubbling, sleet on the wooden siding. she calls from the neighboring room. another world, yet. another pasture, yet.

On Mon, Apr 15, 2019 at 10:57 AM M Kaldjian mxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

April 15
All artists steal no
idea is a new one
And yet and yet and

On Mon, Apr 15, 2019 at 2:09 AM Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

The healing properties of tea
Tea
Can heal
A snowball to the face.
A strawberry hangover.
A tearstained breakup
A frustrating piece of arithmetic
Smoothed crumples
With chamomile and mint
Rose and bergamot
Honey and ginger
Fire and water.

On Sun, Apr 14, 2019, 10:03 PM Lena Greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

can a poem
be sexy
like a song?

(edgewood NM, 4.14)

On Sun, Apr 14, 2019 at 8:58 PM Gabriel Coleman gxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

TONIGHT everyone is making
nonverbal mouth sounds
except for the man on the train
giving directions and the woman
to whom he is talking.

Voices rise in a wavering
chorus around me, everyone
has something to cry out for
it seems, while the the man
and woman go back and

fourth: “is this train going to
14th St?” and “lemme call you
back when I get to Fulton,”
and the work lights between
stations bounce around the car.

On Sun, Apr 14, 2019 at 10:18 PM M Kaldjian mxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

April 14
When is good enough
enough and when is it not
And when is it not

On Sun, Apr 14, 2019 at 6:23 PM Jack Langdon jxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Event 11
tuesday, uh

cool vibes man
cool vibes bro
cool vibes dude
cool vibes broseph

my bro plays in a band, dude
my bro is an entrepreneur, dude-o
my bro lives in the city, my dudest
my bro is a backpacker, my bro-dude

woah man, not cool!
woah dude, bad vibes!
woah my bro, chill out!
woah my broseph, take a chill pill!

cool vape trick!
this vape is awesome!
cool vape yo!

tonight’s gonna—
uhh

literally…
uhm

…eh
hmoof…

uh, yeah ok—
…

like, uh…
—fuck yeah, down on like…

sure dude uh…

…

…

!

On Sun, Apr 14, 2019 at 4:42 PM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

the art of conversation
send a
big blue
box

of mostly
unsolicited
advice

immediately
worry that you
were too much

send a gif
to lighten
the mood

no reply—
follow up
in an hour

later receive
an update
(unrelated)

/

maybe
love nowadays
is defined

by the benefit
of the doubt
and forgiveness

and letting
things go
not people

On Sun, Apr 14, 2019 at 4:38 PM Irene Henry ixxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

leisure time?
a free day carries
possibilities
of debilitating
vastness

so much
to
say
write
experience
read
think
discover
plan
attempt

yet maybe
a success
is as simple as
that flake
of dough

caressed by the breeze
swiftly
taking flight
landing
in the mouth
of a young
peckish
grackle.

On Sun, Apr 14, 2019 at 12:12 AM Lena Greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

snow on the ground/ and
time moves backwards so i can
have all the seasons

(edgewood NM 4.13)

On Sat, Apr 13, 2019 at 9:44 PM M Kaldjian mxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

April 12 & 13
Food is hard these days
I worry for my self
Inner/outer, which?

Frippery glitzy
glam is not my middle name
But I love to fake.

On Sat, Apr 13, 2019 at 6:50 PM Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Two people flirting at the concert
His sips slip between cracked lips
His teeth click and his eye dims
A snarl creeps
(I can tell he’s a prick)
He leans in a bit and she looks hesitant.

But his muscles are cream,
And she wants something bad.
And they have a great night.
He is gentle, and she likes that.
In the slim hours early she slips out to the stairs
And facetimes her mom
And they laugh til she tears.

On Sat, Apr 13, 2019 at 11:55 AM Gabriel Coleman gcoleman.mn@gmail.com wrote:

Ode to the Blooming Linden Tree
Spring is often said to be a very sexy season
when the buds and bees and bunnies all prepare for fornication.
Though as humans we see frivolousness as below our station
we are annually humbled by the flowers of the linden:

for the linden tree reminds us through it’s close approximation
that plants and animals alike find pleasure in the season
and that all of us are bound by that ejaculate connection
for the scent of blooming linden is akin to human semen.

On Sat, Apr 13, 2019 at 7:10 AM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

They Said They Knew I’d Be Fine
(cw: abuse?)

There’s a pounding

coming from the room next door—

and it goes on for hours.

Then there is yelling,

and door slamming,

and someone threatening

to call the police

(They never do).

Except now the someone

is me, and the threats

are more like

quiet fantasies

that things could

reach their breaking point,

just so they could break

enough to fix them.

I thought that I’d be older now,

but I’m still so easily trapped,

so easily… durable…

At least I don’t keep secrets now—

I don’t owe anyone anything.

I’ll tell anyone anything,

although usually like a joke,

usually where my trauma

is the punchline.

But I’m still here. I’m still

eight, twelve, sixteen years old.

I’m still praying

for the night to end.

I thought that I’d be older now,

but where am I going to go

on a night like this?

I could have always

walked out. I could have always

called for help.

But I never did.

And I don’t now.

Twenty-three years and I know

that the morning

will always come.

That the night

won’t really be sleepless,

and the sun will rise,

and the world will be quiet,

save for the lull of traffic

and birds who sing.

And then I can get back

to telling myself

that it’s not that bad.

Then I can get back

to telling myself

that it’s over.

On Sat, Apr 13, 2019 at 00:45 Lena Greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

it’s not the altitude
but the latitude

i forgot where i was today

there was only tahini
from israel
in the supermarket

but four kinds of
flavored gluten-free
chips

when i wake up in the morning i have to breathe deeply and imagine my feet landing back down on the earth, bare feet on this rocky green planet, remind myself that this is my country and this is my mother tongue. when i wake up in the morning i have to shake myself loose from the dream of floating, from the dream of moving seamlessly between worlds. when i wake up in the morning i remember that i cannot forget the big sky and deep valleys and smoggy cities and dirty water and beautiful people and fresh fruit that held me while i looked for myself, searched in the vulnerability of being far away.

when i wake up in the morning and find breath stuck in my chest, it’s not the altitude.

(edgewood NM, 4.12)

On Fri, Apr 12, 2019 at 11:53 PM Brennan R O’Rourke bxxxxx@nyu.edu wrote:

i still get giddy
about cheesy love stories
Move On/For today

On Fri, Apr 12, 2019 at 11:05 PM Gabriel Coleman gcoleman.mn@gmail.com wrote:

Midday on 20th
If I lived on this block
on days like today I would
hold a cookout for all the neighbors
and the dog walkers and the people
passing by that would stretch
from the front stoop to the
back garden

everyone with plates
of potato salad and vegan
bratwurst crouching on the steps
and the paving stones

If I lived on this block
on days like today I would
open all of the windows and
doors to let the moist wind spiral
up the stairwell, tickling
the leaves of the plants
on the countertop

and ruffling the hair of
the sleepers on the
topmost floor

On Fri, Apr 12, 2019 at 6:40 PM Irene Henry ixxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

rising sun
the outlook
can feel
hopeless

participants
often seem
powerless;

gathering
for the first time
in solidarity

in hope
but
with fear

how validating
how intensely
comforting

to know
sharing fear
causes
hope?

On Fri, Apr 12, 2019 at 4:27 PM Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

I’m farther from the future.

The last fortnight flew from my fingers

Replaced by a new friend.

I follow chains on wheels
And frames that feel
A little too short for my forearms.
I’m always replying
“I’m going but I don’t know when”
With my hand around yours
I feel limitless.
Close to the clock,
And farther from the future
Than I have in a while.

On Fri, Apr 12, 2019, 2:14 PM Jack Langdon jxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Event 10
chrysanthemum

it was the dust from the porch
chrysanthemum under the sprinklers
greenest grass, across the road
bluffs above the houses
treeless street with cracked sidewalks

the park flooded and grandma showed me the pictures

i live next to a different river now
still grey in the month of april
upstream from the city
the smell of dirt and a cool wind
the sound of bells across the valley

soon i too will be filling sandbags to halt the river

On Fri, Apr 12, 2019 at 1:13 AM Lena Greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

map spread out
we traced routes
from past and
for future

I tried to picture myself:
oklahoma
arkansas
missouri
and

alone on the road
clutch down
ease into first

don’t jump ahead
too fast
or you’ll stall

(edgewood, NM 4.11)

On Fri, Apr 12, 2019 at 12:38 PM Cosimo cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

evening collections: the non-rhotic and erotic
How fortunate am I
that I may walk through the hand beaded
and the tulle pleated
to feel like raffia

to walk amongst the gardens of organza
and finer fabrics whose names I do not know yet

I may glide through the aisles
guiding my hand with the same way
I guide my speech
(my sister told me last night
that New Mexicans don’t pronounce
the ends of their words,
so between the racks I spit every T
roll out all of my Ns
and hammer all of my Gs)

I can do all of this
unmolested
only buckling behind a shivering state
when I lock eyes with a guard
or man in a suit
and my hurried smile is returned
with a cold confusion.

And amongst the cushiony silence
all these high prices make sense:

Georgina’s collection
going for five seven then five
thousands of dollars
earning her money back
in the shadow of debilitating scandal

Mark works through the night
to parade work through
an empty hall choked with
air and hushed wood

the ghost of John, Lee, and Alber’s hands
shake when I lift a beaded sleeve

that weighs as much as my bag.

And this weighs on my head
in thinking about why there are so few people here
in the evening collections.

We forget how to dream
we fear our dreams while they turn into nightmares
into vast sums of money
into a delineation between off the rack
and custom
and made to order

and I’m fortunate no one has followed
me
around the store yet

but I swear to god I can feel it on the back of my neck.

I am thinking about the anthropological study
about the famous New York non rhotic
R

how stores like Saks and Bergdorf
hit the R hard when they say fouRth flooR
and lower rung department stores like Klein’s
drop into fowth flow-uh.

and I wonder how much the stewards
and stoic wardens of the evening collection make
and I wonder what is behind the smile
of the woman who sits stridently
at a desk that radiates with implied cordiality

where does she live
how much is she paid to sit and smile.

I am lucky and unlucky in strolling
between beaded hands and an idle man
turned steadfast and fierce
if I linger my gaze, speech, tongue, money, history
on a gown that won’t fit and won’t do.

I am fortunate to parade through silence
unmolested
as I take the escalator from the fourth floor
to the fowath flow-uh.

On Thu, Apr 11, 2019 at 11:35 PM Cosimo cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

chained action

it’s supposed to be very nice this weekend

a sand colored cat crossed my path
Napoleon blew the nose off of the Sphinx
In rank imperialism
drunk off of his lack of lineage

the white heart of a tomato
grimaces on the horizon line
of the east

it was colder than anticipated today

On Thu, Apr 11, 2019 at 11:33 PM M Kaldjian mxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

April 11
Everyone needs things
No vacuum to suck us dry
Full, swollen, present.

On Apr 11, 2019, at 7:50 PM, Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Fascinator hats

Could smell like nail polish

With fishnets

And dragonflies.

On Thu, Apr 11, 2019, 3:38 PM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

No Strings on Me
I’ve spent most of my life

trying not to make

other people

uncomfortable

with my body.

That doesn’t appear

to be changing

anytime now.

If anything,

the stakes are higher.

I’m falling asleep on the train.

What do I look like

falling asleep on the train?

I’m sitting in a cafe.

What do I look like

sitting in a cafe?

I’m sitting here

thinking about all the things

I’d like to be.

What do I look like

to you?

I can’t understand

how you decide

who I am.

I’ve never felt

like any of the words

that you’ve called me.

My body feels crumpled,

like a marionette

without a puppeteer.

A Pinocchio

that can’t lie

because he doesn’t

know the truth.

Have you seen me

recently?

I’m starting to feel

like I’m doing my best

impression of myself.

I’m trying to carry myself

like I own the place.

I’m starting to feel

like this is some kind

of radical personhood.

On Thu, Apr 11, 2019 at 3:54 PM Jack Langdon jxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Event 9
chorus

we speak but our voices remain quiet

mother shapes a new vase on a saturday afternoon
father plays a tune on the organ
nonetheless moving the air with feeling
with no one to hear it

the streets outside absent
suburban lights flickering
god died long ago
the people left
allured by the gravity of certain zip codes
the question remaining:
was it or was it not their choice?

across the divide, a hole opens
thousands fall inward
cities sinking
earth crumbling

on the other side
a new road begins

On Thu, Apr 11, 2019 at 1:10 PM Brennan R O’Rourke bxxxxx@nyu.edu wrote:

an ode to the patch of no hair on my left leg
there’s a patch on my left leg with no hair
that patch reminds me of how much I used to hate my body
not embracing the femme-ness of my body
believing Hair is Masculine and not Femme

every morning i wake up and run my hand along that patch

to remind me of where i came from
to remind me of how far i have come
to remind me of how far i have to go

in Loving my Body for all that It is

that patch gives me strength and courage
to live a fuller, expressive life
to be more me
and to be proud of that!

On Thu, Apr 11, 2019 at 11:27 AM Gabriel Coleman gcoleman.mn@gmail.com wrote:

you probably don’t need this right now but
here is the map:
some scratching along
a flat place between
the slope of the hill
and the bank of the river

did i ever say that i

these textures
mean the damp
spring breeze, how the air
made the barometer feel
that morning we went down
early for a bagel

loved you ? did i even

here is the street where
the car door finally broke
and the footprint of
the building
where you let me stay
that night and even the time
i was feverish and snored

feel it until we stopped

here is green tea with honey on snelling avenue and all the places
along 394 where your car complained about stopping too fast and
this shows the shape that isn’t the shadow of the elephant ear
or the glow from the grow light but something else entirely

dreaming ? did i break

these are the kitchens:
the one where i roasted plantains
we had foraged outside your work
the one where i laid down on the floor
and you roasted potatoes
and the one where we made lentils
with cinnamon

your heart when i

this line is the route where we ran
and afterwards both felt broken
here is where my bike route and
your drive converged to eat ramen
and sit in your car

left did i break mine ?

more than two years tucked into
heres and theres – the angle
between the sidewalk and the wall
collapes into points and
lines and polygons

On Thu, Apr 11, 2019 at 12:16 AM Lena Greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

sometimes when I look at her,
I see my mama
and it feels like home

in this house I haven’t seen for
ten years:
pictures of baby me on the wall

she takes me out
to check the water pump
explains how to work
the wood stove

these are timeless facts
shared almost
in passing

but for the manila envelope
sitting on the office desk

this is my will, she says.
I’ll send you a copy.

(edgewood, new mexico 4.10)

On Wed, Apr 10, 2019 at 11:50 PM M Kaldjian mxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

April 10
Beethoven knew: fire
in your belly does not mean
Happy sane healthy

On Wed, Apr 10, 2019 at 10:53 PM Cosimo cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

return high
what does the music of the spheres
smell like
is it that same sensation
as a well purified
roomful of air?

The faint phantom rumble of a broken escalator
ferrying ghosts
from the pit to the mezzanine?

perhaps the smell of post tongued
stone

wet and warm,

or a skylight on a cloudy day

On Wed, Apr 10, 2019 at 10:49 PM Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

A stare
Can say a lot of things.

I love you

I feel you

I judge you

I’m here for you

I think you are beautiful

I think the sunset is beautiful

I need to pee

I wish I could take your fear away but I can’t

But mostly

I love you

I love you

I love you

On Wed, Apr 10, 2019 at 10:18 PM Anna-Christina Betekhtin axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

I am trying too hard to be new.
I have forgotten everything about the former life. And yet the fragments rise, bile in my mouth every morning as I struggle to swallow my pills: remember you used to dance? And the knees frantically whisper back, we remember, but we are tired. I shush them violently as I lunge to the toilet, try to cough up whatever vomit I can.
A store window today reminded me that I wore heels once, effortlessly.
I am trying too hard to be new, sneakers scuffed.

On Apr 10, 2019, at 7:52 PM, Irene Henry ixxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

sometimes I read the news
and my head
does a heavy somersault
into my neck
imploding, slowly
the future
blurring
into nothingness

but at least
now
there’s photographic proof
of what was once
thought unseeable

On Wed, Apr 10, 2019 at 12:02 PM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Spring Cleaning
I’ve given myself a mission

to do all of my dirty laundry.

It is spring now, and my

warm weather clothes have

been in the hamper for nearly

six months. This winter

was short but strange, and I

will not survive the summer

heat in my protective layers.

Three loads down and the

kitten bats at my feet from

under the bed as I fold.

It is appropriate to sometimes

reach down and ruffle the

bed skirt while chattering

until bright eyes stare back

at you and there’s a small

squeak. Sometimes, she’ll

try and scale the bedsheets,

but her claws catch and she

aborts, falling onto her back.

She tries again. It is essential

to keep her off the bed until

all the laundry is folded and

away. You scoop her up and

toss her into the mountain of

still dirty laundry and she

somersaults down the side

of the pile. Imagine being only

nine weeks old and a kitten.

Imagine knowing nothing,

barely even your own body,

barely even how to land

on your feet.

On Wed, Apr 10, 2019 at 8:33 AM Gabriel Coleman gcoleman.mn@gmail.com wrote:

Rooms in Rowhouses
having done something i begin
to shrink back in to my self
wearing whatever clothes – this sweater
that i like

the plans that we made, they
have changed but they have changed
us in kind

silhouetted against the curtain
a dog waits patiently, intently
and we are wet – hair matted back

radiator breath hot
and hissing in my ear

On Wed, Apr 10, 2019 at 12:52 AM Lena Greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

life keeps happening
and so does death and we
must participate

(haiku for richard carboni)

(albuquerque, nm 4.9)

On Wed, Apr 10, 2019 at 11:30 AM Brennan R O’Rourke bxxxxx@nyc.edu wrote:

break
it feels like i should have something to say
But i don’t
Nor do i want to

i want a break

On Tue, Apr 9, 2019 at 9:59 PM Irene Henry ixxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

we knew how
to get under
each other’s skin

she admits

young minds
mining feuds
food for quarrels

she says

with anger
you’re getting it wrong now
i’m not attacking you
you don’t know
anymore

and all i can think

is

remember when we
used to run
chasing around
the honeysuckle bush
harmonizing above
the rise and fall
of summer cicadas

muddying our floral
cotton dresses
in her backyard
just us two
us and
the adults

racing up the porch
steps
returning
with dirt and grins
for strawberry shortcake
cool and sweet

your eyes
so much like mine
your features
more refined
your anger
hotter
sparking
swift
nostrils flaring

like mine

in hushed control
Stop.

i’ve been thinking a lot
about defense mechanisms
hers
and mine
and ginger’s –

the new rescue

dog

we just met
and
she cowers in fear
around me

we’re friends
i insist, holding out
a hand
in peace

i might look and smell
like the girl who
caused you this pain

but i promise
i am not the same
let down
your guard

i won’t hurt you.

On Tue, Apr 9, 2019 at 9:27 PM Brennan R O’Rourke bxxxxx@nyc.edu wrote:

Time to Sleep
i’m tired today
i’m tired of sharing
i’m tired of feeling like i have to prove my existence
i’m tired about writing about it
i’m tired

Time to Sleep

On Tue, Apr 9, 2019 at 7:51 PM M Kaldjian mxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

April 9
Decisions are the
Bane of my existence ugh
Sent from my iPhone

On Tue, Apr 9, 2019 at 6:36 PM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Sometimes
I want to write a poem
without any of me in it.

Or maybe what I mean
is too much of me in it—

a collection of hyper-
specific images and

feelings that sound
beautiful but don’t

mean much of anything
to anyone but me,

a poem that could mean
anything to you

and make you want to
know my truth. But then,

one time I wrote a poem
that said I wanted

nothing more than to
bare my soul so that

everyone could know
and I think that is the

voice I’ve been given.

On Tue, Apr 9, 2019 at 4:30 PM Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

At a cafe when a fire starts
On a beautiful day.
Sky as clear as the cafe’s pastry glass.
Layers of Graham cracker hazelnut nougat and warm caramel.
Atop teetering stool I perch.
Sun is gleaming,
glinting off the eggwashed shortcrust.
Piano is playing,
Plinking from the open window.
Steam is drifting,
drifting up from the clinking cup.

Snap of a crackling gingersnap.

Kindling takes to spark
Rushing, raging, growing.
Rising like bread in warmth.

Heat,
Hot acrid burnt beans
Burnt tongue on hints of nuttiness.
Puff pastry pockets of air
(Watch carefully).
Delicate as fragments of gold leaf
Fluttering with every soft breathe…
Flecks of ash like birds,
Smoke takes half the sky.

Fire raging behind bars
Turning cutouts to cookie,
Crescents to croissants.
Flames oozing
Across porch and stair.
I stop and stare
Forgetting my Danish in hand.

On Tue, Apr 9, 2019 at 10:35 AM Gabriel Coleman gcoleman.mn@gmail.com wrote:

Body Betrayal
c/w: bodily fluids and other gross things

Head:
When I went to the dentist they showed me the yellow dentin pits I’m digging in my lower molars from grinding my teeth and now when I look in the mirror all I see is the sharp point on the edge of my right front tooth where my bottom tooth nests perfectly. I worry a lot, set my jaw, run my teeth back and forth across each other sympathetically when I slice bread or scrub the counter. My mouthpiece migrates to the right side of my face as my facial muscles overcompensate for lack of air and I get headaches when I squeeze the outside of my eyes to read the screen or when I think of what someone is thinking of me – if they can see the anxiety carved into my smile.

Shoulders:
I’ve had this sore on my left shoulder for the past week and a half and today it decided to finally drain. Not the pus I’m used to from pimples but a bubble of thin yellow liquid held on the edge of my shoulder blade by surface tension – more liquid than you think could be sitting there just under your skin ready to drip slowly down my chest and back. I applied gentle pressure, coaxing it out of this new hole in my body until it ran clear, washed with soapy water and bandaged it. Under the band aid the sore is still an angry red a purple shadow underneath the center where it protrudes still very slightly from the plane of my shoulder. This release is not the ending.

Knees:
Coach Mike says that I’m maybe pushing myself too fast, that my hamstrings are too tight, maybe that I should be doing more hip strengthening. When it starts to affect me I’m either too far out or already on my way back so I try to correct – anchor down through my core, lift my knees a little higher, follow through more completely, engage my hip flexors. I try to monitor the chain of support under every step, left ankle supporting right knee balancing out with left hip, the arms swing back in line with the hips, pushing the shoulders to oscillate in complement with the sweet twisting of the lower back and this one piece out of place – am I under or overpronating? Should I be striking more towards the ball or the midfoot? I can’t help but betray the twinge around my knee that tells me to stop and hope that somehow the way out is through.

Toes:
I’m sitting in Baddha Konasana massaging the arches of my feet with my thumbs. I interlace my fingers with my toes, stretch and spread them and think about the spring when Taylor Heitman taught me to walk barefoot through the dark empty parking lot outside Buntrock, taking small steps on asphalt and then half walk half run down Thorson Hill through the cool wet grass on the fields, step carefully across the gravel on the sides of Greenvale Ave and over the concrete threshold into our house. The only time my feet have met New York was the first night I took myself out dancing in these heels and couldn’t bear the block-and-a-half walk home from the station.

On Mon, Apr 8, 2019 at 11:38 PM Lena Greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

in the part of texas
that feels like méxico
i ate texmex

i’ve learned to say yes
when people suggest
what i should order

i want you to have what i like:
a gesture across the border
of social roles

she called me honey
and asked if i liked the nachos
we’re famous for them,
she’d said, gel nail
on the plastic menu

i walked across a bridge today
it spanned a dry river
called the rio grande

crossing a border
of political shapes
drawn on the land

on this side i paid in dollars
but i spoke in spanish
i want you to have
what i have

(el paso/juarez, 4.8)

On Tue, Apr 9, 2019 at 11:20 AM Jack Langdon jxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Event 8
grounding

now is the time
here is the place

don’t forget to bring
everything you had to remember

On Mon, Apr 8, 2019 at 10:38 PM Brennan R O’Rourke bxxxxx@nyu.edu wrote:

you will
i want to tell you everything that is wrong right now

or rather everything that feels wrong right now
or why i don’t feel worthy

i want to tell you everything that i want to fix about myself

but then
there is nothing to fix
or rather there should be nothing to fix

but there is
even if i choose to ignore it
or try to believe that everything is right the way it is

today has been a hard day
and i just need you to tell me

you will be alright
you have all the Tools you Need
you have made it through this before
you can do it again
and
again
and

again

even though you should not have to

you can

and

you will

On Mon, Apr 8, 2019 at 10:29 PM Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Combing my hair
The barber asked me to tell her if it hurt
The thin comb yanking through my thick thick thick
“Wow so thick!”
Palm sweating gripping the comb so tight
“Wow so beautiful!”
Yank yank yank
“Does this hurt”

When I was young
My dad used to comb my hair
And I’d cry
Actual tears leaking out my scalp.
So much that my whole head would soon be sopping wet,
But my scalp blazing fire

So no
It never hurts
It will never hurt again

On Mon, Apr 8, 2019 at 6:57 PM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

fragment
the spring haze sets in like a coma
i cannot sleepwalk myself out of

On Mon, Apr 8, 2019 at 4:51 PM M Kaldjian mxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

April 8
There are not enough
colors in my palette to
describe what I taste

On Mon, Apr 8, 2019 at 3:14 PM Gabriel Coleman gcoleman.mn@gmail.com wrote:

The Weather
New York looks like the FIT kids all together all looking their best all standing or sitting along 27th.

New York sounds like sirens (of course), the skateboard moving behind you and the helicopter above your head.

New York looks the way the building you’ve only walked directly next to looks from across the street.

New York smells like mulch, wet and wooden, and like dry rot if you are familiar with that smell.

New York looks that way from the eighth floor.

New York feels like three elderly people sitting on successive stoops, the ones you made eye contact with on the way.

On Mon, Apr 8, 2019 at 2:30 PM Anna-Christina Betekhtin axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

I wish I knew how to say thank you enough, do they understand the gratitude, I am trying to breathe through mucus and new drug regimens and I still cannot comprehend how the gentleness began so swift and has not faded.

On Mon, Apr 8, 2019 at 2:20 PM Jack Langdon jxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Event 7
-/-

movement of the ground, not real
—felt regardless
having had too much work to do
and too many worries for anyone’s use

blue water underneath the bridge
over the road, over the train tracks
wind along the alley
neon in the garden

on the floor, muttering

in the sky, sleeping

On Mon, Apr 8, 2019 at 12:30 AM Gabriel Coleman gcoleman.mn@gmail.com wrote:

Run Behind
So if this is the way it was going to be being
then was there a kind of _______ waving just
behind the folds and creases our bodies pressed
into the space around us?

On Mon, Apr 8, 2019 at 12:06 AM Cosimo cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

cold breeze
bus graveyard

two out of service buses
hover on the edge of the street

shadows of humans
sway towards me
give me pause
take my tenderness

I harden
against the brisk spring night

in fear of the dark evening
retaliating

against a mark
I thought not to be mine

but the winds do shift
and even ghosts can nod

On Sun, Apr 7, 2019 at 11:59 PM Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Feel like floor
Feel like floor:

Dust and hair.

Snail trails on my face:

tears.

Onions and tea light:

My dinner guests.

I am sad because

I am sad.

On Sun, Apr 7, 2019 at 11:42 PM M Kaldjian mxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

April 7
Would rather watch Grey’s
Than have sex with a str8 guy
Most days (like today)

On Sun, Apr 7, 2019 at 10:34 PM Lena Greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

road
(slide the key in)

gen z song in my head
mood swings on my brain

withdrawing limb by limb
from an unidentifiable haze

(engine turning over)

saying goodbye again:
more of a see you than a never.

(shift)
(accelerate)

on to the next.

(chihuahua city 4.7)

On Sun, Apr 7, 2019 at 5:31 PM Brennan R O’Rourke bxxxxx@nyu.edu wrote:

i found my light today
i breathed
i created
i danced
i found my light today

in relation i found passion and joy for life
for creating
for being who i am
for nurturing my body and what it is capable of
for knowing my limits

my possibilities
my triggers
my joys
my personhood

On Sun, Apr 7, 2019 at 5:18 PM Irene Henry ixxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

waking in solitude
walking in wet
color coaxed out
by persistent rains
ivy-coated
bricks
fleur-de-lis
bright easter eggs
betraying remnants
of morning drops

then
together
the setting is the same
the characters in place
but
there is no script
for this occasion
no holiday cheer
to acknowledge

we hold glasses
converse genially
laugh genuinely

but
there is a gap
a vacancy
a character missing
from the scene

so we raise toasts
pass bottles
and photos
of past generations
reflected in caricature
in present iterations

and finally
we exchange flowers
share words
briefly

if we are all together
to commemorate
a matriarch passed
then why does this loss
feel so
alone

On Sun, Apr 7, 2019 at 11:35 AM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Random Lists of Things
1.
Floral upholstery,
foreign language films,
indie theaters,
early nights,
family meals,
Indian food,
bands that sound
a bit like Queen,
dancing in crowds,
long walks,
telling myself
that I am a certain
kind of person
because I like certain
things.

2.
Body modification,
button downs,
curating a taste
for beer and pop music,
spontaneity,
nail polish,
incense,
hooking up,
marijuana,
crafting,
rock climbing,
worrying I don’t
like enough things
to be a certain
kind of person.

On Sun, Apr 7, 2019 at 12:13 AM Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Walking in Berkeley
She said “breathe in something fresh and new”

Can you imagine

Produce stretching from red to brown

And back again for the organic section?

Bright eyes and sandy bums

Buying cashews in bulk.

Succulents bright

Alongside cacti.

Asphalt, clouds, and coriander.

Slim houses with well work stoops,

Smoke and spit, and dirty aprons hung up.

She said “get your white ass out of here bitch!”

On Sat, Apr 6, 2019 at 10:13 PM M Kaldjian mxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

April 6
I painted a room
With a libertarian
It wasn’t awful.

On Sat, Apr 6, 2019 at 10:32 PM Brennan R O’Rourke bxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

i have all the Tools i need
i have all the Tools i need
i have all the Tools i need

i know because i used them today

and felt my power

not some cliched power
but an actual power to define my worth and accept my emotions
to live in the present
And
To
find the Joy

On Sat, Apr 6, 2019 at 9:37 PM Anna-Christina Betekhtin axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Fragment
enveloped by the dark coolness,
gritty wooden floors
beneath my peeling feet,
the hay fever high in my throat,
I swallow a strawberry.

On Sat, Apr 6, 2019 at 8:28 PM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

The body can do incredible things,

like obey the mantra of “please

don’t throw up on the train, please don’t

throw up on the train,” until

you cross over the threshold of your

apartment and begin to retch.

On Sat, Apr 6, 2019 at 17:56 Gabriel Coleman gcoleman.mn@gmail.com wrote:

is this how the Other Side feels?
1: love song
i rode
across the
manhattan
bridge this
morning
which i
hadn’t done
in a
while
and i
guess the
thing that
i’ve been
thinking
about
is if
when
i was little
and
stuck pebbles
up my nose
one of them
stayed and
presses into
my brain
blocking
me from
feeling
this too
deeply.

2 : bike lane
i love
having
this space
where i
can go
at my
own pace
so much
that i
yell at anyone
that
crosses the
line and
gets in my
way.

On Sat, Apr 6, 2019 at 5:19 PM Travis Amiel txxxxx@travisamiel.com wrote:

i tried a poppers
to cure
curiosity

i sniffed
i inhaled

and felt
flush,
and whelm

not over
not under

haven’t i sniffed
for highs?

nail polish remover
hand sanitizer
sharpies
yankee candles

is it all
about
the butt

On Sat, Apr 6, 2019 at 3:32 PM Cosimo cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

bunny
(after Alison Kobayashi)

don’t retune my wire
until I’m re-recording

isn’t it funny how
when you’re in front of the microphone
or behind the lens

everything you wanted to say
suddenly turns diaphanous

I have so many words but
can’t seem to get them together

let them simmer
burning my back

while time two steps along

only wait till I’m found
dusty yet alive
in the back of the estate sale

don’t retune my wire
just say something

On Sat, Apr 6, 2019 at 2:46 PM Lena Greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

little purple flowers
tweezers and
keys

leftovers of a tired/
hurried entrance
so late it was early

i look down at my feet
and ask them where they’ve been

(mexico city 4.6)

On Sat, Apr 6, 2019 at 12:17 PM Jack Langdon jxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Event 6
the magnet, dark hall

seen through a crack in a dream
beckoning from another world
crying from across that expanse…

we walked the street corners like everyone else—
ordering a soft drink at the counter
warmest summer afternoon in a year
sleeping above the shops
a flash in that corner of the sky
an unobserved mind
the empty room

they worked tirelessly—
pulling the fire through the ether
—not once sensing the energy
this brazen pursuit
the seismographic consequence

maybe we’ll all wake—
i’ll find you in the corner booth
sitting on the naugahyde with the peeling brass
eggs and toast in front
nothing outside for miles
two vectors meeting at a point
finally, a rip in the world we know

finally, the silence of life affirmed

On Fri, Apr 5, 2019 at 11:48 PM Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

My blue socks
My blue socks are so gross and smelly yet
I love them even full of dirt and sweat

On Fri, Apr 5, 2019 at 8:06 PM Lena Greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

today
it rained

someone suggested going
indoors

the rain stopped
that was all

(mexico city 4.5)

On Fri, Apr 5, 2019 at 1:10 PM Jack Langdon jxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Event 5
vitalism, metabolism

shuddering, inhaling the wind
complete darkness, still-silence
rosemary, a rush of brightness
your presence, fleeting then
neighbor’s den, carpeting
tv dinner, running to
basement toyroom, outside
cicadas, dandilion
memory, memory

one moment, different outcome
a walk near the duck pond, october
ripples in the water
a distant creak in the woods
blinking
sensor damaged from the sun
stepping on a mushroom—
a cloud of spores

breathing again, calm body
not mine, but nonetheless
marked by exteriority
not determined yet
observable

not fudging the details
still seeking the truth
not in the air, but
in the grounding

On Fri, Apr 5, 2019 at 12:59 PM Anna-Christina Betekhtin axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

{cw: cancer and eating}

Wednesday I finished chemo and on Thursday I went out for brunch with the boy from Italy who makes violins who I met on Tinder last summer while I had a brain tumor no one knew about and was as horny as I’ve ever been. I threw up in the bathroom, woozy and the room spinning. Had him pay for our food with my card, the least I could do. Called my father to come pick me up. Lied that I met him in college. Stumbled home on my dad’s arms. Took a shower.

…

Is the truth a poem? As simple as I can, write down what is happening to me my body.

…

Body smaller than it’s ever been, it’s true that I’ve lost some weight. Where my belly is convex with all the water I must drink to drive the poison out. How hard it is to force myself to eat. The nausea medication works when you have enough food in your belly to make the nausea medication work. About ten spoonfuls of chicken broth and five raspberries do not cut it.

On Fri, Apr 5, 2019 at 12:07 PM Cosimo cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Late
This delayed M train
gliding over
golden hour Williamsburg
is not unlike
a day moon

piercing the afternoon haze
with a bawdy unexpectedness

On Fri, Apr 5, 2019 at 12:03 PM M Kaldjian mxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

April 5
Wake at 6/drive far
Work/eat trash/hang with kid
It’s Friday fuckers.

On Fri, Apr 5, 2019 at 11:55 AM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

pigeons & potatoes
i.
brian’s therapist
told him that it might be helpful
if he thought about answering the question
“who am I?”
so I told him that this morning
a pigeon almost got run over by a car
but managed to flap itself
out of the way
and when it landed at my feet
I told it, out loud and
disregarding the passersby
to “watch out baby,”
and that I think that’s who I am
and that I think maybe he should
think about moments like that
where he feels
authentically,
if albeit ridiculously,
himself.

ii.
brian told me
about how he just yelled out loud
“the only reason I’m unhappy
is because I started believing
I should act and be a certain way”
and he sent me a cartoon he drew
of a potato drinking coffee
and said that his identity is based on
his Starbucks consumption
and his odd shape.
I told him that sounded
like a very good thing to acknowledge
about himself
and then later regretted
that I forgot to reinforce
that his shape is not odd
and if it is then perhaps odd
is not a negative word.

iii.
I share all of my poetry
with brian
except for the occasional poem
about him.
I think I have a complex
about being accused
of loving people too much
or about people
thinking things matter to me
more than they should.
which sounds like the same problem
dressing up like a paradox
I think,
but is nonetheless
probably a bigger part of me
than the pigeons,
just like brian thinking he has to be
a certain way is probably
a bigger part of him
than the cold brew and potatoes.

On Fri, Apr 5, 2019 at 11:19 AM Brennan R O’Rourke bxxxxx@nyu.edu wrote:

i can’t sleep tonight: variation 2
i can’t sleep tonight

as i listen to the rain crash upon the tin roof

and the thunder strike the earth with no regard for those below

i can’t sleep tonight

it surprises me

because

usually i’m soothed by the rain and the thunder

But
Not
Tonight

something is different
i’m Thinking about my Queer Siblings
the ones no longer with us
the ones living in fear
the ones living their best lives

and how does my story intertwine
and entangle with theirs

like vines in the rainforest seeking canopies

the sunlight
the brightness

the Light

i can’t sleep tonight
i’m searching for my Light

On Fri, Apr 5, 2019 at 9:23 AM Gabriel Coleman wrote:

Love Poem from the Window to the Sun
these late nights
aren’t good for me
early mornings
wrapped in your
warm arms

the sun floods in through the window.
i’m sitting on the floor next to the dog;
the glass is cool against my back
and her golden hairs are floating around,
the light glinting off them.

your glowing belly
breath against my skin
if you’re the sun
then I’m the one
that lets you in.

On Thu, Apr 4, 2019 at 10:10 PM Travis Amiel txxxxx@travisamiel.com wrote:

I can feel
In control
When I’ve tapped
Every notification

It takes a minute
It takes a finger

The red dots
Vanish

On Thu, Apr 4, 2019 at 8:55 PM Lena Greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

there’s music
soft jazz if you will

it sidles up to the window, arms
wide

this morning we heard the earthquake alarm,
the window said
get outside

so we shook: our internal vibrations
a sound
for a sound

the window is our mediator,
the aural tollbooth of streetscapes
and living rooms

thank you window, for your
permittance of petrachor
amidst august downpours
we’d sit and watch
feet pressed against the glass,
thrilled for your intermediary role

i remember the drag of fair poles on atlantic
every september,
the window called me outside

when the sun sets early,
press your hand to feel the cold,
frame the mauve sky,
note the muted tires on snow

finally: with panes pressed against
unsunned thighs
we’d wipe away evidence of rain
spot buds busting below

the window knows no seasons:
a purveyor of urban rhythm,
measured in sound
or time

(mexico city 4.4)

On Thu, Apr 4, 2019 at 5:17 PM Cosimo cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Urban Lamentation 3: Paragon City
I ride the bandwidth chain
all the way from hard drive to modem
the tightly braided Ethernet cables
that tremble with a phantom shock
and through the smoky circuitboards
until I’m on the Paragon City Green Line.

I am zooming through war walls
and pixelated sunsets,
past multistory pewter monuments to apotheosized heroes
and labyrinthine office Meccas to organized crime.

my face before the frame
warped by the disappearance of the human
and emergence of the hero
smiles at the vast and unending digital sandbox

I am no one and anyone
my heart beat slows
thinking about
an erotics of anonymity
the shadows of possibility

the freedom to traverse buildings
in a single leap
or fly at hairstanding speeds
past the police or the civil servants.

but this is all the dream of a Styx city
a city that slopes in pre-rendered rubble

where vigilantes used to teleport
from one urban precipice to another
where crime was crime
and it did not become subsumed under a blue badge
or a power trip
where the slow moving blue sky
once perpetually oscillated between
true blue and spotty cloud cover

now there is a computerized flat line
the ghost of an imprint of a memory
of an imaginary city
of hard fought justice
and power beyond power.

where once the ever replenishing well of brainpower
flowed endlessly like the fountains in Atlas Park
now the dessicated husk of a font
shivers in silence.

If I were to mind meld
into my motherboard
and corporeally jump
from physical world
to the city of heroes

I would be met with nothing
save for the glowing hum
of absence

as my screen runs home
to Kings Row
and turns on the television.

On Thu, Apr 4, 2019 at 3:33 PM Irene Henry ixxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

here we are again
together at last
all you strangers
and me

how long it’s been since
I’ve looked blankly
at your faces
familiar
in anonymity

we sludge through
the gates
of liminal spaces
with choreography

lugging hints of
false affinity

at a brisk pace
or toddling along
meandering
slouching

we feign control;

On Thu, Apr 4, 2019 at 2:50 PM Gabriel Coleman gxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Reflections in the Kwik Trip in my Head
While trying to write about the rubber plant in my family’s dining room I stumbled into a Kwik Trip that had been lurking in a corner of my mind. I sat in the passenger seat, having just pulled in from 3rd, past the pumps and into the spot where Mom and I always parked. It’s dark outside, early evening maybe. For a long moment I watch the yellow rectangles of light from the doors swing open and closed, a steady stream of people going in and out. Pushing open the car door with my forearm I walk along the sidewalk, past the propane tanks and the ice cooler, and into the store.

Once inside I take an inventory: the automotive supplies and sunscreen in the first aisle, Gardettos, gummy candy, and jars of spinach artichoke dip in the second. I walk past the island piled with bananas, potatoes, and onions and down along the coolers on the far wall, full of Arizonas and crates of bagged milk. Beyond the coffee station is the smoothie/milkshake machine and the pastry case. I move to stand in front of the counter, looking past the cinnamon rolls nested in clamshells to the chewing tobacco and cigarettes along the back wall.

It is completely dark outside now, the window shows only my own reflection, hands resting on the ice cream freezer. The store’s undifferentiated design, the ubiquitous sand colored tile and always-in-the-same-place bathroom, makes me feel that I could step out of the Kwik Trip into Apple Valley or Northfield or LaCrosse or any town or highway rest stop in the upper Midwest and so I place my palm against the metal handle of the door and I push.

On Thu, Apr 4, 2019 at 12:13 PM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

i don’t know but i’m sure someone would tell me this is how the government controls us or something
my problems are starting to bore me

and your problems

they’re boring

my privilege is starting to bore me

and your privilege

it’s worse

my cynicism is starting to bore me

and your cynicism

it’s tedious

triggering          torturous          tantalizing

trendy

how did we all end up cliches again?

this                        time                     around

alt-all like this
indie-pundit
pop. but only if it’s art.

20’s. 40’s. 60’s. 90’s.
neon. dayglo. midnight oil.

to be. young. again.

…

to be

to be

young

and             no             one              cares

(unless they do)

(they do)

(not)

when the concept of youth grows tired…

(people have been young for eons now)

there is no youth left for us

CODA:
my apathy is starting to bore me

your apathy
your ap a thy
y our ap a thy

it’s…

your en er gy
…
YOUR ENERGY

…YOUR YELLING
YOU’RE SCREAMING
YOU ARE HOWLING

and i’ll allow it.

i’ll allow it.

i’ll allow it.

in spite of everything inside me
telling you to grow (give it) up

i’ll allow it
i’ll allow it
there’s so little left to take

…

and
AND
after all

it’s gotten me everything I cling to.)

On Thu, Apr 4, 2019 at 11:37 AM Jack Langdon jxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Event 4
mineral point wisconsin, arlington wisconsin, cassville wisconsin

returning there half awake in the backseat of grandma’s oldsmobile
up the rolling incline of the downtown
quaint and oldworldly—like an english high street
the town a small dot astride the driftless hills

ten years later, still in winter
driving to arlington in dad’s truck
out to the prairie, past the hills

alone in the chapel
upstairs in the loft
softly snowing
inside, sounding:

quintaton 8’
gemshorn 8’
mixtur v

then

falling asleep—finally—early in the morning after a long rehearsal
after having to transfer across town because of track maintenance
thinking to myself of what is next
feeling the gravity of the city
where going five miles feels like an eternity
remembering how things felt as a passenger
seeing through the right hand window
on the way to grandma’s house
winding our way down to the riverside village
beyond the bluffs, into the coulee
driving past the swimming pool
seeing the power station lit in the distance
through her porch, wicker-scented
saying goodnight, the sound of a train

On Thu, Apr 4, 2019 at 9:43 AM Brennan R O’Rourke bxxxxx@nyu.edu wrote:

you Defined your Worth Today
im in love with you
for far too long

i was in love with others

or

searching for the love of others

but
Never

in search of your love

Today
i woke up and finally found it within myself
to love you

and

all that you are

every little part of you that people

have called

ugly
wrong
twisted
sick
worthless

Today
i woke

And

loved all of that – all that made you

you Defined your Worth Today

On Thu, Apr 4, 2019 at 2:25 AM Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Re: friendship graves
Living next to a kindergarten.

Next to the fence,

While I stretched,

I saw:

A pink plastic jewelry

A pipe cleaner

A frog made of rubber

A Lego

A hairclip that is yellow

Tossed over the rainbow fence

When they said they would be friends anymore.

On Wed, Apr 3, 2019 at 9:28 PM Anna-Christina Betekhtin axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

what will the blossoms bring?
sing hymns of happy solitude and friendship, all at once I begin to weep
at the wonders that will come
once this is done

On Wed, Apr 3, 2019 at 9:26 PM Travis Amiel txxxxx@travisamiel.com wrote:

your compliments are
a single drip that falls down
a bottomless well

On Wed, Apr 3, 2019 at 8:57 PM Lena Greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

sleeping in other people’s
beds
riding their bicycles
using their
face masks
while they go to work
and catch up on emails

being? or just casting
a shadow
into other lives

finding myself out of place
finding myself, out of place

familiarity lies in objects, behaviors

where do you live?
they ask.

with my backpack,
i answer.

(mexico city 4.3)

On Wed, Apr 3, 2019 at 8:45 PM Irene Henry ixxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

a confession
a sudden hinge
a twinge
of realization

an understanding
an elixir
uncorked
the warmth
a shared drop

radiating

you, too?

“I heard once
that L.A. is
the loneliest
place
in the world”

divided in metal cages
of thoughts unshared
free to be ignorant
of lives caged

so too here
and there

maybe those you admire
are bottled too
their roots
still clenched
buried within
their seeds

or maybe it’s
just the cages

On Wed, Apr 3, 2019 at 6:17 PM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

equilateral nondisclosure
when i was in ninth grade
i took geometry a year ahead
with the tenth graders.
i sat in the back of the class
trying to pretend
that i was one of them— that
maybe they would think
that i was just a new kid,
that maybe they wouldn’t realize
that i wasn’t one of them.
i made it almost all year,
until one day a kid, full of
pre-summer angst, gestured at me
while complaining to the teacher
about the freshman.
i feel like life is still like that now
sometimes, like
as long as i don’t acknowledge it
i can try and pretend
that you think that i am exactly like you.
i can try and pretend
that maybe no one knows.

-Cam, 04.03.19

On Wed, Apr 3, 2019 at 2:51 PM M Kaldjian mxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

April 3
You are not too late
Tomorrow is ramen day
Today, hunger/wait

On Wed, Apr 3, 2019 at 2:36 PM Cosimo cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

sticky
my nostrils are becoming choked
by the renascent trees
airing their sexy sterile laundry

FM tuning reverbs and reflects
in the screams of children

the days of the boom box
have long since passed

but when warmth descends
on the square
I remember how loud it becomes.

and when I search and look
for a stare
back

my pulse trembles
in thinking about

what marks me
what’s my tell
that gives a glance back
to my lazy eyes.

the men in tight pants
who look back towards me
or passed me

shoot a gaze
beyond the most fertile
baby trees of the Union

and far down beneath
the sedimentary bed
of rapidly evaporating
puddles.

I open up my phone
and look at other squares

other trembling pulses
airing out their sexy sterile laundry

On Wed, Apr 3, 2019 at 2:18 PM Brennan R O’Rourke bxxxxx@nyu.edu wrote:

in response to 2nd graders: i don’t know
are you a boy

are you a BOY????

no

what are you then?

i don’t know

On Wed, Apr 3, 2019 at 2:16 PM Gabriel Coleman wrote:

Inside/Outside or Over/Under, a Lunch Poem for Frank
The weeping fig on the stair
seems to hold the atmosphere and all its
small undulations in its spreading arms;
brief changes in pressure coming up from the 10th
floor or down from the 12th.

It’s a nice day so I go out walking,
try to pull something out of the air.

A curtain of glass runs under the landing
and when I pass beneath it on my way from the bathroom
to my desk I can feel its presence
just above the crown of my head.

The endless white plume coming up
from under 20th and Broadway always smells
a little sweet and meaty and
I’m a vegetarian so I’ve learned to
hold my breath as I bike through.

An unintentional consequence of popular
teabag design is that the string acts as a wick
siphoning small amounts of tea onto the table.
Not only does this create a slowly spreading stain
on whatever surface the tag hangs over, it prevents
consumption of the intended amount of liquid.

I walked to Gramercy thinking
to get a coffee from Irving Farm
but now that I’m here I’d rather just eat the sun.

On Wed, Apr 3, 2019 at 12:04 PM Jack Langdon jxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Event 3
dust, red sun, evening in a parallel world (in response to Cosimo Pori’s reflection on The Vessel)

1.
wrong elevator: took me to the second floor
—could not take me to the first, interestingly
a stranger joined me
elevator—again—took us to the wrong floor

i tried to get to the right platform later that night, but couldn’t navigate
it is almost like it was designed to be illogical
one side without access to the other
the other complex beyond necessity

before the doors open in the morning—

a public without access to essential services
in the middle of the city park taking a shit in the bush
another in line at the emergency room door, perhaps
‘make em wait’

the subway, once again, delayed
tracks on fire

have to move, again
—landlord

then, around the corner—closer than one’d think
searching for crumbs outside of the restaurant
huddling away from the wind

off the street
on the other side of the door:
the steak is too dry
a hair in the pasta
wrong drink

2.
i was born on the date september fourteenth nineteen-ninety-four
and nonetheless some people were also born on that day
—before and after, in fact—
and today as i am writing this people still continue to be born and what not

and in placing faith in science and reason
—which we all must do—
the world we live on will die someday
subsumed into the broader collapse of an unstable, fragmented universe
this is simply—with our current knowledge—not a matter of belief
—it is a truth as far as current reason is concerned

as for civilization:
this is a wholly different matter

when i woke up when i was born
i joined everyone else here
eating, shitting, and sleeping
i learned history
listened to my parents
didn’t go on vacation
made some friends

we are responsible for what we do in the end—
not we as a bunch of “I’s”
but we as the one and final “we”

3.
ownership is not a natural condition
valuable is not beautiful
individuality is not freedom
popularity is not community
spectacle is not progress

not to say progress is illusory—
we have certain responsibilities to each other, after all
despite who says otherwise—

when climbing those many stairs
through our days
into that final sunset overlooking the water
we will all decide—together
if we want to charge admission or not

4.3.19

On Tue, Apr 2, 2019 at 10:37 PM Travis Amiel xxxxx@travisamiel.com wrote:

excerpts from my end of a conversation with my father, 2 April 2019
that’s good
good
i’m glad
…
wow that’s great
fantastic
happy to hear that
…
ok good
really?
mhmm
what does that mean
…
great

On Tue, Apr 2, 2019 at 9:42 PM Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Easter
Rhododendron

Peony

Colored vibrant

They believe

Their stamen stakes a claim in

Science

But stigma sticks wild flies

In silence

Leave the leafs to turn in autumn

Chloroform can’t kill this humdrum

Life. Their roots root down survival

Stoma stomachs spring revival

Petals peel a slow reveal

Cycles on, my soul to heal.

On Tue, Apr 2, 2019 at 9:06 PM Anna-Christina Betekhtin axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Listen, I will not relent.
When this is all over,
let the bed-boards bend.
I have called you back to me too long.
You say that time is gone.

On Tue, Apr 2, 2019 at 6:36 PM Irene Henry ixxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

ode to texan cars

from me, the walker

you glide
roar
swerve
confidence fuming

your inhabitant
dawdling

ogling

biding their time
in tin ships
through hollow lives

your exhaust

ing

with your indifferent
callous
stares

at a living
breathing
your fumes
tired member
of the dying race
racing to die

unless

On Tue, Apr 2, 2019 at 4:08 PM M Kaldjian mxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

April 2
What is this anthem
I wake up to bright shrill spring
Purge and re-emerge

On Tue, Apr 2, 2019 at 1:11 PM Lena Greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

there’s a movement
slightly pulsing
more momentous than breath
but similarly unconscious

peeking around at the stillness
but seeing the hum of
electrons, the space
between masses

trying to define ‘here’
is an effort demanding bounds

is it the movement
or the stillness
that guides?

(mexico city 4.2)

On Tue, Apr 2, 2019 at 11:14 AM Brennan R O’Rourke bxxxxx@nyu.edu wrote:

one day they will know their victories
Victory, from Latin – victor, victoria, from Middle English – victorie
achievement of mastery or success in a struggle or endeavor against odds or difficulties
when they achieve victory they should believe in their capacity to master

but they don’t

somtimes they felt like victor
sometimes they felt like victoria
sometimes they felt like victorie

depending on the day
depending on their internal state
depending on how people looked at them

but they were always a combination of the three or none of them

they began to see victories in the small moments and so

they slowly achieved mastery in

showering
skincare
cooking
cleaning
waking up each day

in Loving themself

against the greatest odds and difficulties
Life could throw Their Way

one day they will know their victories

On Tue, Apr 2, 2019 at 11:05 AM Jack Langdon jxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Event 2
black, abstraction, glacial movement

some animated exchange of forces
an indecision or two
inadequate means to complete
—not potential, but present
lacking in community, sometimes but not always
having to wipe the countertop once again

considering the circle, the sphere, the torus:
—what is their presence?
—what does one see travelling along their surface?
—what is hidden and what is revealed?

we were hiding from the wind in a cafe on the clark street side of the square
i was hiding from the boss at the dunkin donuts across the street from the shop
we were hiding from punctuality in the bakery near the train station
i was listening to the water through the cellar door with the storm outside
they were wishing for time to not be measured
traveling through the day—on the clock
reveries of movement
changing through the seasons
time of the body
the worn gears of capital, finally settling
breath returning to the body

i will remember there
spacious, the hole of the wheel

light, we exit

On Tue, Apr 2, 2019 at 10:51 AM Gabriel Coleman wrote:

High Society
Sidewalk bridges are up on both sides of the block now. This must be the slow invasion we’ve been waiting for,

more seem to go up all the time and none ever come back down.
Or its a secret mayoral resiliency plan:

when the floods finally come we’ll climb their spindly legs and get to the office through the second story window.
We’ll say “The Trader Joe’s is underwater, but the only thing above us is the sun.”

On Tue, Apr 2, 2019 at 9:44 AM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

The Door-to-Door Salesman
Feet on the pavement,
pounding like a heartbeat—
you’re always walking
like you’re lost. The skies
could open, the bridges
be broken and you would
just walk and walk and walk.
This is not the life you were
promised. It’s probably better,
but you’re starting to feel
like what you’re learning
is how to be a fraud— to put
on a costume everyday,
until it becomes a uniform,
until no one can tell that you’re a
monster packed in human skin.
(It used to be the other way
around and you can’t tell which
is better.) But all you know (and
all you can say to everyone who
asks) is that tomorrow you’ll be
better. Just another day now,
you promise— you’ll be better.

-Cam, 04.02.19

On Mon, Apr 1, 2019 at 10:45 PM Anna-Christina Betekhtin axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

I took my pills today,
remembered to drink water
and to wash my fruit.
I am hidden to myself even when I do these things.
To stand beneath the shower, mouth open, screaming,
is not the way to find whence the water flows.
I have never demanded answers,
knowing that there are none,
but I wish for them so deeply in the shallow shower pan.

On Mon, Apr 1, 2019 at 10:18 PM Travis Amiel txxxxx@travisamiel.com wrote:

she was equestrian
while her sister
the younger, was invested in
playing
in the mud

the younger a potter
the older a potter
between the two
a mountain
a hill
a love
a tear

fingers always pointing
reversing
and surfing
from head to
toe
turned around

no path has convention
but still they’ll mention
confusion and pride
for why
they walk

On Mon, Apr 1, 2019 at 9:28 PM Irene Henry ixxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

“but wait
there’s more:
the future is not
what you think
it’s”

more
for later
all
for now
words peel slowly
from their core

long thoughts
chase round
sighs
of a past
toward
before

On Mon, Apr 1, 2019 at 7:03 PM Cam Ossege cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

#relatable – Pets at Parties
I forgot how New York in the summer
always feels like a party.

A party

that I’m not really invited to
and that I don’t know anyone at
but the kind of party that feels
c o o l to get to say that I went.

(And
because no one has to know
that mainly what I did was watch other people
have fun while I made faces at the house cat
and imagined a someday where I can figure out
how to

D A N C E

in the streets.)

-Cam, 4.01.2019

On Mon, Apr 1, 2019 at 5:06 PM Ash ey axxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Billie’s songs.
A highly anticipated album:

Is slightly dissatisfying fandom.

Is wily unmediated crooning.

This lightly unconventional sadness
With dry eyes drives golf carts to blackness.

On Mon, Apr 1, 2019 at 4:26 PM Cosimo cxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Sext for Bahktin
Our bodies do not speak the same language
I can tell by the trust you put into strangers
who get too close to you
on the subway.

My words are not yours
or mine
but rather a thin gold leaf line
on society’s embossed vase.

Let my speech swirl
in your mouth
like cold egg,

steal my phrases
and become then,

lower and behold me

(a frayed tapestry of time
put into words),

take my breath away
and give life back to our syntax.

Every sweet nothing was something:
a long drawl
a reply all
in an otherwise muddy riverbank
of chain mail

your utterances stood out to me
like an albino fish
in thick silt.

I long to become your favorite slang
said in between a tense lip
and an inhale through your teeth,

behind something like a smile.

On Mon, Apr 1, 2019 at 2:31 PM Brennan R O’Rourke bxxxxx@nyu.edu wrote:

you may blame me for your hate
you blame me for your hate
But your hate is your problem.
You may tell me its mine
But

it’s not

your words influence
change
shape
create

they do not live in isolation
they live IN relation

you may blame me for your hate
but your hate is your problem

On Mon, Apr 1, 2019 at 2:25 PM M Kaldjian mxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

April 1
Divided sisters
Some days we work, soar, roar, sing
Other days we sink.

On Mon, Apr 1, 2019 at 1:03 PM Jack Langdon jxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

Event 1
nighttime, walking around old town

we’re losing you, see
you decided to go off on your own
and finding your way without any help
and look at where you are now

the american goes into a world and has an experience
somehow trembling with magnificence and awe
an opinion, perhaps
shining with subjectivity

forgetting their subject is less of an I
and more of a fragment, occasionally making sense

going forward, headlong-blind
into the shining shit with wild abandon

who are your neighbors?
have you forgotten?

inside, disorganized
in through:

struggling under the yellowish light
in the twilight of your assuredness

no grounding
headless and frozen

4.1.19

On Mon, Apr 1, 2019 at 11:51 AM Lena Greenberg hxxxxx@gmail.com wrote:

sitting on someone else’s floor
all it
takes
is a little
mezcal

two nights of
fever dreams have me

wondering if i’m
ready for a
home

chickens on the stairs
a case of mistaken identity:
dredged up from

where exactly?

all it
takes
is a little
mezcal

(mexico city, 4.1)

On Mon, Apr 1, 2019 at 8:24 AM Gabriel Coleman <gcoleman.mn@gmail.com> wrote:

The Black Arts*
coffee chocolate sugar
flour milk butter
water

above the shop’s burble
my cup clinks too
loudly against its saucer

pastry flakes litter
my lap, the plate, my lips
dry in the morning, now
stained with butter
milk sugar coffee
ceramic chocolate flour. in

notes of hazelnut? apricot?
fear or moist earth,
the CAFO
cacao plantation and/or
cane fields echo

behind my teeth – water
traces a line between the
black arts, pulls them apart
to be woven into

my body implicated
in their history

*https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/union-porcelain

On Sun, Mar 31, 2019 at 2:05 PM Gabriel Coleman wrote:

Hi Everyone,

Happy Trans* Day of Visibility and happy Last Day Before Poetry Month Shenanigans!!

We have two newcomers to the poetry party:
Cam (they/them/Cam) – Advocate for pigeons, candles, and nice sweaters.
Travis Amiel (he/him/his) – a fart that gained sentience and a debt card.

Hope everyone has a great rest of the weekend, please let me know if you’ll be stopping by tomorrow for the kickoff thingy and I look forward to reading and writing alongside you all!!

Cheers,
Gabe

Hi all,

Thank you all for joining in this collaborative creative adventure!  I’m so excited for us to get started next week so in anticipation of that, here’s how this whole thing works:

1. The goal is to write and share a poem on each of the 30 days in April! This is not a competition and there are no benchmarks for “quality” – the central idea is that in writing 30 things, no matter what they look like, everyone should come away with at least one piece that they feel proud of or can serve as a seed for a developing work!  Missing a day is fine but please try to contribute at least something each day – to keep the creative momentum flowing!

2. REPLY ALL to the most recent email in this thread with your poem.  This is so that at the end of the month we end up with a single document containing all of our poems, a sort of readymade anthology!

Suggested format:

• Subject line: Poem Title
• Email Body: Poem Text
• (whether you include a signature is entirely up to you!)

3. Please respond to one another’s work! If you like something let the author know – and of course keep your feedback constructive! When responding please reply to the author individually in order to preserve the continuity of the thread and to avoid overcrowding everyone’s inbox!!

And of course here’s who everyone is:

Gabriel Coleman (they/them) – Environmental Nonprofit PrOfEsSiOnAl/terrestrial space cadet

Cosimo Pori (they/them) – New School Interdisciplinarian

Lena Greenberg (they/them) – unprofessional listener, seeker of synthesis + story

Brennan O’Rourke (they/them) – sex and arts educator – sometimes separate, sometimes together and theatre practitioner (whatever that means)

Ash Willison (she/her) – Moving, stretching, and overworking my way around the universe.

Irene Henry (she/her) – professional storyteller, amateur professional, future former Texan

Jack Langdon (he/him) – sounds+sights worker, piano teacher, sometimes makes a joke, likes coffee like everyone else

Anna-Christina Betecktin (she/her) – wordsmith, mover, childcare provider, nausea medication enthusiast

Beatrice Mishner (she/her) – podcast producer, under-underground fashion icon, Waldorf kid

Marni Kaldjian (she/her) – Eau Claire cultural booster and scribbler of wiggly figures

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟa special note for our New York family ･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Please swing by 615 Gates Ave Apt. 4B at approximately 7:00PM on April 1st for tea and/or drinks!

Bring along something to share (food/drink) and something to read – it can be your own work or someone else’s.

! ! ! If you aren’t in New York and want to join remotely let me know and we’ll set it up ! ! !

We’ll see you there! ( ˘ ³˘)♥

SO EXCITED TO READ ALL YOUR LOVELY WORDS!  THANKS AGAIN!

Gabe