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 on: Today at 06:18:54 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Politics is a contact sport
A blood sport once again
Heather Heyer smashed by a car
Murdered for being out there.

Out there with those who value freedom
Marching for liberty
Killed by a racist behind the wheel
A terrorist with a car.

The racists have guns, the racists have cars
The racists have hate in their hearts
The racists have won the White House now
With the help of foreign enemies.

So now there is blood in the streets once again
As there was when slaying Jim Crow
And the hatred of racists is going to be quenched
In the defeat they always suffer.

At Appomattox they gave their word
Never to take arms again
Theyíve broken that word for the last time
Their killing in now going to end.

 on: August 16, 2017, 10:31:50 PM 
Started by Higgs88 - Last post by Higgs88
Beating fast. Rapid ping ponging across my rib cage, like someone spun a top in my chest. Fingers cold and clammy. Fish sticks. Like we used to have at lunch. Lunch is where I first saw her. My eyes zoomed in on her stupor-rendering smile. Now the clock ticks loud in my head as the heat blows in through the late august room and I tap my feet without thinking and wait for Mr. Atkins to look at his watch or for the sound of the bell, that loud, obnoxious, beautiful bell signifying my chance. The air smells of strong spray cologne- guys trying too hard- and also of sweaty skin underneath. My lips feel swolen and veined, breath tight and slow---   

 on: August 16, 2017, 06:56:00 AM 
Started by Dgazzer - Last post by Dgazzer
Red, blood pumping, pounding in my chest, everytime I see those sky blue eyes. They see right through me Holding my gaze. I can feel your soft lips against mine, taste the sweet in your kiss, the smell of flowers in your hair. Heart beating faster, hard to breath, ears are ringing I want you so bad. I reach out, aching to hold you, but as I touch you, you disappear. A dream,it was a dream. My heart slows, almost stopping, I can hardly feel it in my chest, is this the moment before it shatters into a million pieces? A mind of it's own, breathing gets shallow. The stale taste of whiskey on my breath, a slow deep breath and the pounding in my head starts, keeping time with the beating of my exhausted heart. it's warm, I reach out for a glass of anything to quench my thirst, bottles clanking falling over onto the table and rolling onto the floor.

 on: August 16, 2017, 04:34:13 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Throb throb thud thud throb
Shake of chest on the run
Pounding feet, pounding heart
Blood rush red ears can hear.

Sweart on wrist, the count in fifteen
Looking for under one twenty
A sprint and a count cardio out
Workout to get the blood pumping.

Bang on chest gorilla gesture
Sign of animal courage
Buried heart struck in defiance
Brow down on menace burning.

Fading pulse drift to sleep
Heart beating slower and slower
Slow count of breath sluggish beat
Heartís rest longs for the morning.

 on: August 15, 2017, 11:29:48 AM 
Started by Higgs88 - Last post by Higgs88
She walks out with her shopping bags full of groceries, grip straining, veins blue against her frail wrists. Across the lava field of asphalt beads of sweat wet the fabric touching her skin she pops the trunk, that new car smell still present, like they spray something on it at the dealership to make it smell of steampressed upholstery & rubber...the road home is bad, she swerves to avoid a pothole, groceries slide around in the back. Curses under breath, she feels small in this beast of an SUV, lights illuminating the dash--

 on: August 15, 2017, 10:33:29 AM 
Started by Dgazzer - Last post by Dgazzer
The faded brown wood looked as if it was ready to fall apart. The dry leather straps holding it all together. My Grandpa's old trunk, tucked into the back of the dark dusty attic. The roof was low and I had to hunch over as I walked to the back wall. The flash light pointed the way, dust dancing in the beam. I had seen the trunk many times before, I sneak up here every time we come to visit. I don't know what made me make my way up that narrow stairwell to the small creaky door at the top. The hair stood up on the back of my neck the first time I stepped into the dark room. My heart stopped at what I thought was a ghost standing in the middle of the room but it was just my grandma's white wedding gown hanging from a tall rack with some other dusty old suits and faded dresses. The first time I saw that old trunk I felt like an old pirate who had found the gold he was looking for, but I wasn't looking for it, I think it found me. Grandpa was a quiet man, never told many stories of his past but as I lifted the rickety lid of the trunk his memories came pouring out. Faded pictures of him standing smiling with military men, a sash with medals pinned to it, an old German helmet with a bullet hole through the front to the back... and then the Luger

 on: August 15, 2017, 08:34:28 AM 
Started by AlohaAlex - Last post by AlohaAlex
Her memory haunted her, even in her sleep.  Tossing, turning, tangled in her sweaty sheets, the soft sweet smell of morning's dew began to hit her and she knew she barely slept.  Was is it about thoughts that keep us in their stranglehold, unable to cut loose ? During the day, bouncing from task to task, she is able to keep them locked away like forgotten items rolling around in her rusty blue mid 90's Oldsmobile.   Burning candles down to the butt, only to immediately light another one.   Shaky hands hold on the wheel, praying that one day regret leaves her alone.   In the absence of sound, only found in her downtown one bedroom apartment she prepares for another battle. A bitter bite of her TV dinner, only tastes of smoke and nicotine, chain smoking in an effort to keep from thinking.  Another fight lost.

 on: August 15, 2017, 06:40:27 AM 
Started by tbones - Last post by tbones
Climbing up the creaky steps towards the attic through the rectangular cutout in the ceiling with the old wooden ladder that folds down. Dust covers the hardwood floors and there is a musty smell hovering around the forgotten treasures stowed out of sight and out of mind. Cobwebs drape over the beams like blankets over little children pretending to be like ghosts in night. Old furniture, old toys, and old pictures litter the forgotten abyss of memories. I approach a big wooden trunk with a rounded top and striped metal outlining the edges. The lock is unlocked and I slowly open the top as dust fly's away like clouds in the sky. Inside are old pictures of relatives and other items from a time when life was simple. Long Island was a marshland and not the congested suburbs and commercial chaos it is now. Life was simpler, but life was just as hard with farms, and hard winters and hot summers. 

 on: August 15, 2017, 04:55:37 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Trunk of junk smelling of skunk
The flotsam of a raging flood
A waterfall profit of no value
But who knows to whom it belonged.

Filled partway with broken picture frames
Stinking mold covered files
Old roller skates for heavenís gate
A falcon carved out of stone.

Ishmael floats away on a trunk
A trunk for somebodyís body
Isaac's brother cast to the sea
By a whale with Jonah inside him.

This trunk got dunked when the levee broke
When waters swept all away
Bobbed alone like a Noah built boat
The contents maybe to save.

But it all got wet, all got spoiled
Except a stone bird of prey
Loosed now into these gnarled hands
No olive branch glides from the air.

 on: August 15, 2017, 12:58:04 AM 
Started by Higgs88 - Last post by Higgs88
Cold day, walking by shops with dripping roofs and bright inviting glows. My stomach growls and we small talk about where to eat. She knows so much about Harry Potter it's not even funny, she cringes in disgust when I say I've never seen the movies. Is it wrong to be content with the magic of real life? The mystery of air and gravity, the subtlety of freckles and eye color, the serenity of a sunrise when you can feel the breeze gently lift your hair. Tacos and mexifries do little to fill me up, we banter more my fingers greasy and tongue tasting of hot sauce and salt. Maybe I'm being too much like Harry's aunt and uncle; afraid to embrace change, afraid to see magic in a new light. I close my eyes, breathing deep easy, savoring the mo--

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