How to Triumph Like a Girl -Ada Limón
July 31, 2013, 7:55 am
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I like the lady horses best,
how they make it all look easy,
like running 40 miles per hour
is as fun as taking a nap, or grass.
I like their lady horse swagger,
after winning. Ears up, girls, ears up!
But mainly, let’s be honest, I like
that they’re ladies. As if this big
dangerous animal is also a part of me,
that somewhere inside the delicate
skin of my body, there pumps
an 8-pound female horse heart,
giant with power, heavy with blood.
Don’t you want to believe it?
Don’t you want to tug my shirt and see
the huge beating genius machine
that thinks, no, it knows,
it’s going to come in first.


The storm you say -Elizabeth Barnett
July 31, 2013, 7:15 am
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it wasn’t
real, ice only
ringed the pond.

Catfish sunk down
in the mud,
and all the long
fingered boys
in the world
could twitch

the surface
and it wouldn’t matter.
This is a story

where we lie down
in the woods.

The air is empty.
They can see us
from the road.

Loud Morgue- Sam Ross
July 29, 2013, 10:32 pm
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Cadavers under blankets, they’re quiet
under the vents. Like hotel slippers

wrapped in plastic, a body is single-use.
A paper cone filled with water.

Now these dry mouths, voices
frozen inside blind cylinders.

The larynx: a dark, airless box
holding beautiful sentences.

On the verge of speech, unnamed
birds fly over a stone ledge

in staggered rows.
Finished and unfinished,

close to free, then
caught in the throat.

Ralph Waldo Emerson
July 29, 2013, 10:30 pm
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“People seem not to see that their opinion of the world is also a confession of their character.“ -Ralph Waldo Emerson

Eventually -Amelia Martens
July 24, 2013, 7:26 am
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There will be nowhere else to be
and Santa’s glass existence will smash
against the sidewalk in the last failed factory
town, where tire swings make no sound
as they sway from burned out oak trees.

Buttons will collect in puddles
where the bodies of snowmen succumbed
sideways; their lazy coal eyes carried
away by the saw-cawing crows.

A single red mitten, like a bloodstain,
will mark the driveway where Santa’s mind
rewinds to the night when all was a clatter.

Abandoned, the streets won’t give a damn
about what one old man thinks is the matter.

Overhead, icicles drip drip drip into icepicks.

Pablo or Taylor?
July 16, 2013, 11:27 pm
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July 16, 2013, 10:37 am
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