Prayers for the Order to Our Houses

After the living room shake-up

the pleading fight

to watch

“just one more show.”

The brushing of the teeth

lasted less than I care for

gummies and two Batman phonics readers

the long I and U

sounding suspiciously

like a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

 

Say it with me now.

 

After the bedroom shake-up

the pleading fight

to read

“just one more story.”

The gnashing of the teeth

lasted longer than I care for.

 

After the noodle song

which was first composed

from the front seat

during the witching hour

(expertly timed to the latest breakdown)

a tune, incorporating

long vowels of its own,

yet never mentions noodles.

 

Say it with me now.
Nah, we’ll not go into that nonsense.

 

Then come the prayers,

say them with me now:

 

We pray for Harrison

We pray for Mommy

We pray for Daddy

And we pray for baby Ida Mae

 

We pray for all of Harrison’s friends

all of Mommy and Daddy’s friends

and all of Ida Mae’s friends

 

We pray for Grammy and Bop-Bob’s house

Poppy and Julie’s house

Gumpy and NiNi’s house

And we pray for our house at North Hall

 

Last comes the freestyles:

 

Heavenly Father, thank You for this day.

We especially pray for Mommy

for NiNi…

…and Gumpy.

Yes, Harrison, Gumpy, too.

…and the 3Ds

…and George

 

…and GiGi.

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Call for Submissions: “Fazed”

Think I”ve got just the poem!

EPIGRAPH PRESS

EPIGRAPH PRESS is currently hosting an open call for submissions for our first issue, “Fazed.”

Submissions close Monday, October 1st at midnight (PST) with a projected release date in October 2018.

Faze: (v.) disturb or disconcert (someone).

What fazes you? We’re looking your darkest and most eclectic imagery, whether it’s Sharp Objects-esque or related to our current political state, in the forms of:

  • Poetry
  • Short Stories
  • Artwork
  • Photographs
  • Essays or Articles

We are interested in submissions that are multidimensional and subvert the horror genre while humanizing our deepest fears.

We encourage:

  • surrealism, science fiction, mystery, thriller, and satire.
  • Creative submissions and artistic interpretations
  • Works that combine and play with language (English works that intertwine other languages are encouraged).

DEADLINE TO SUBMIT: Send submissions for “Fazed” to epigraphpress@gmail.com by no later than midnight on Monday, October 1. We will respond to your submissions via email.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:

For poetry, please submit 1 – 3…

View original post 270 more words

Illinois, by India LaPlace

This is some good stuff here.

Silent Motorist Media

Illinois

by India LaPlace

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We drove through Illinois once.
Actually, we were driving home to Utah,
From Huntsville, Alabama.
You were leaving me.
Not leaving me, really.
That wasn’t fair.
You were being deployed to South Korea.
I had to wait it out until the army said that I could come too.
I told everybody how sad I was,
How much I would miss you.
My heart was aching,
It had never felt so heavy
And I wanted to tear it out of my chest.
But it was aching because I knew I wasn’t in love
And I didn’t know how to leave.

This was real.
Legal.
And I had made a mistake when I signed those papers.

I was nearly four in the morning when we finally stopped.
The hotel was shitty,
But we were exhausted.
You always talked about how you could drive for hours on a road…

View original post 502 more words

Endurance

My end
shall not be
determined
by their finish.
Photos or not
bodies thrown
prone
spread out before you now
all within an arm’s reach
length, step
gingerly
aside, footsie, footing
for the best purchase
until these rugged
places become plains.

It’s all fluff, nutter.
Bananas,
sandwiched in
aren’t ever
going to make this healthy
no matter how palatable
the lie you tell yourself.

Keeping the pace
of your own race
struck
down
again
and again
(and again?)
pavement
sending shocks
through the system
algorithmic
malfunction chip
pry it loose
as it gnaws at you

try your best but you don’t succeed

or

pull yourself up by your trail shoes

because it’s not
place, PR, age category
but about time,
the shining glory
of your participation trophy
isn’t coming from it.

How the Hummingbird Got Its Sound

The glassy red feeder is dry, but I fill it up
with my words, ink drying as quickly as liquid sugar
as it permeates upon this page, sticky,
with the sensation of saccharine and empty calories.

There is a corona about my hands as my characters waltz airlessly
through the story, their auras attaining a rose-colored hue
memories of you and I. Even bad times
shade every sentence.

Hummingbirds, zumming across the porch
to sample its sweetness, spanning
galaxies, singing space operas
with the force of their dancing wings.

Overburden

My heart is heavy.

 

I marvel at this

rock of ages, eternity even

strip mined

for what’s stuck beneath

the surface.

 

All this runoff

just so I could,

baring it all

and laying it to waste

water, tears a by-product

of a cold coal

carbon-copy

of once-living

matter

stratified plants,

and these dinosaur’s bones

as layer

upon stinking layer,

the fecal fecundity

of fickle feelings

fossilized:

compacted

impacted

though it seems

as if it doesn’t

matter,

and we may not see

the error of our ways

for years to come.

 

The hardness,

burning hot and dirty

so close to beauty

can’t see

for buried too deep.

 

Time and pressure,

like Superman,

taken in his hands

to make a diamond

out of me.

Hillsong

They’ve given the business

to my mother’s favorite hill,

just off Little Plum Run Road.

 

Once:

a cascading glade,

the kind you’d see

in those old movies

couples, bounding

in slow motion

abounding

in endless love.

 

Banners agitate

waving the crests of

Science

and

Progress

white knights

mounting

their noble steeds

in the name of domestic independence.

These star-crossed

lovers of yore

(or at the very least a stanza before)

lost, the flames from the rigs

blotting out the night,

targets of this endless

economic war.

 

Taken up arms

taking aim

the birds and the bees

hooded robins

unsure anymore

of when to sing in spring

our faltering flags

the white fields of surrender

choked

with the soot

of a cleaner,

more “natural” gas.

 

Enjoying the view

from your ivory towers

thousands of feet above

while our view nine hundred feet below

as they dug

our fracking graves

one well at a time

beneath the surface,

much too far for our protests

to be heard

let alone do any harm.

(T)rain in the Distance

April showers

twice now this month

and we’re only three days in

    –not to mention

the onion snow

guaranteed

to make you cry.

 

Thunder

shoulders the heavy

lifting, furniture

looks better against

the far wall

upright

bass as the raindrops

plink against

the air conditioner,

grill, I’m itching to use.

 

And the train

bellows at the crossings

peals of its whistle

announcing its arrival

snow-capped gondolas

boxcars

I’m itching to use.

 

Finding flowers

along those Western routes.

Lounging

surrounded

by this great cloud of

witnesses

behind and before me

letters

the stepping stones

speaking out Your name.

 

I cannot bear to drink

from the cup

You’ve been offered,

yet I continue to request

a seat at your table.

The left, of course,

my liberal side,

but not too much so

because I am more comfortable here

with my OCD

holding me fast
to the simplest forms

of norms

I’m not willing to do without.

 

Stepping in time

with this parade of sinners

saints, as they go marching in

robed in the school colors

blood of the lamb washed white

technicolor dreams

of funding the arts

reflecting facets

of Your unending

spin cycle

the rinse and repeat

as I stare

while You hand wash

the delicates.