ocean of headaches - blake bolger

sometimes the days just seem to shine too brightly
and the wind picks you up
into space
into poppy fields
and your head wont hurt ever.
sometimes i can't see at all with even beauty in my way
and everything slides like forgetting
a dream
a life
and there aren't enough saviors.
sometimes, like now, i am 10,000 feet underwater
and my mind is exploding
under the sea
under gods feet
and i am so fucking ready to be seaweed and sand.

grandmothers and grandfathers - james warren coldiron

We can mourn and mourn
All those who perished
In sickness, in genocide...
In purges, in suicide...
And, perhaps, miss that joy
In realizing how
Grandmothers and grandfathers
Carried heart and life
Beyond wounds and despair
To gently, sweetly
Send light forward to
Descendants they would not meet.

antebellum - big hired assassin

there used to be
a tremendous appreciation
for artistic endeavors.
now, there is only an act of appreciation.
there used to be magnificent statues
built in honor of the chosen few.
now, there are only photographs
of the artist's epitaph.
o, how they have forgotten us my friend,
as our remains are spread over barren soil.
our tempers appeased by xeroxed copies of hamlet.
our words pacified by men with laconic tongues.
our minds are mutilated by labor.
our inspirations are murdered by wanton desires.
we struggle to maintain at minimum,
at least, one creative thought.
this desperation is what ails me the most.
we used to be so courageous;
braver than rattlesnakes.
now, we are all just ruled by indolence,
and worst yet, politics.
forgive us artists for walking on your petunias.
your grand gardens of indulgence
and your syphilitic, sybaritic trophy rooms.
a thousand nights of fever, justifiably so

stains - airisi

Crimson blinds cover the eyes
				                                  as pain
					                                      sears through the soul
and glancing up to see the 
				                             wild
                          horses run through the prairie clouds
				                                  and the moon
          	turns to a man who laughs at the clowns in the brilliant
				                             circus
			                 holding his belly and drinking an ale poured by a woman in a blue dress
surrounded by abstract Mozart with a hint of cilantro and a touch of spice
                               on the food to make him choke as he holds his throat
		         gasping for the 
		         air that protects the great mother and her proudest achievements while
the sun looks back and glances at all he leaves cold in the rain with no
						                                               umbrella
		         waiting for the city bus with the driver who has platinum hair and
diamonds decorating her fingers
			                 with a cheap salary on which she supports a family of four
			                 with food and thoughts
		         and a man whose idea of a Sunday is chocolate and god mixed and served over
				                                 vanilla ice cream
and all the while laughing at the clowns and watching the
			                  bullet
leave trails of red spines on the brand new carpet as the window shades
				                                 are drawn to
					                                     leave the horses where they belong