Parley: Literary & Visual Arts – SITREP: Military Literary & Visual Arts – PPSC News: Link to The Paper
“Listen to me,” she whispered, spinning sphereof seas. “We want healing too” (a revelation).Pines meditating, breathing bombs long gone;she, too, could be rooted, accept rain gutteringin veins, metabolize as a Viper’s bowstring,our chlorophyll equally evolved. Why, in Western philosophies,are levels …
Self-loathing. Disgust.A food walk with small-bites: artisan cheeses,blocks of fancy fudge, tiny spigots of fair trade coffee:how many calories was that?! Sattvicaspirations demolished in a dozen minutesof my desire.What will reverse this binge?Monks say the past does not exist,but my …
Gathering on the edge of winter’s freeze,meeting family and friends at Applebee’s.Blessed for jobs even if we are displeased,eating around the table at Black-eye Peas.May we be generous and kind all throughout, thankful for our health as we scarf down at …
Hours crawled along while my bones grew brittle and stiffOnly the muffled frostiness of the concrete beneath my blanket kept my eyes awareMusty clothes and scents of wet dog floated up my nostrils and invaded my lungsEveryday seemed the same …
She whisperedAnd they traveled softlyLike the wild windsTickling my earsDancing with my hairSwaying me Like the tall wild grassIn which we satShe placed her palmOn mineAnd twisted her fingersInto mineAnd she squeezed And I felt The blood in her veinsThe sunshine in her …
The ink starts to run off the page as she runs through my mind. The past seems like yesterday and I still can taste her on my tongue. Black lipstick, pin-up hips, and smoky fuck-me eyes, my Goddess had me …
It used to seem as if confronting my past and the shame I carried was somethingequal to willingly walkin thru fire.It got to a point where I was burning fromthe residing pain anyway. So I walked thru that fire and it turned …
in respiratory breaths he whispers me a lullaby… his eyes hold no warmth as his lashes drip in lies why do I let him hold me in his clawed clutches when his open teeth are spitting black murder he doesn’t speak a sound but …
I could give you a Rose, or I can give you a thornSomething sweet or something hardA word, beautiful and terribleA word, to be healed or to be torn.It’s up to you, a secret I’m about to revealLove, a hard …
She grew up in the tall buildingat the end of the street,her lungs filled with paper and lantern lightand oil paint and stars,surrounded by the perfectmessiness of livingin a family.She hung wildfrom the ladder that skimmedalong crammed shelves,collectingdusty-sweet bookswrapped in …