Young Writers Society

1. April 1st -

When enough time passes
that only light shadows remain,
you can become convinced that
this world is all love at the bottom.

2. April 2nd -

And that is neither here or now,
so sit down with your thighs on your heels
and get grounded. Get down.
The wind howls
outside only.

A disc flung into the rain
cuts nothing
that would not already
die in the Earth.
The wind howls
outside only.

I am waiting and waiting
for the letter you sent
and in the meantime
you chase stars in the locality.
The wind howls
outside only.

3. April 3rd -

there is a clock
that does not tick
that does not tock
rather: a cascade of clicks
as it flows endlessly around the
center.

it has the sound of a ceiling fan in a high room.


apartments are good for
hearing sounds beneath your feet:
an un-described thump and
you feel offbalance again
like a woman relying on
a single three-story stilt
and life goes on
below only.

man snoring
puzzle waiting to be done
cat knocks seven pieces to the floor
deadlines peek out from under unwashed dishes
pick up six pieces
where is the last where is the last

4. april 3rd -

"magnolia buds I am waiting for to open"



creamtip --
it looks like you just curled up
tightening, building pressure,
in the lightest rain,
distending like a dancer's calf.

you slip, stay,
curve of an eyelid, sightless,
humid nostalgia,
stern maiden,
you cling ever harder.

distorting days
down to photographs.
send everyone away,
private -- within,
you are fermenting.

distant,
but intense --
structured and full
as layers of a petticoat girl,
you give no response to the magpies.

contrived and constructed,
the folds you hoarded
emerge likes bugs from overturned rocks
and shudder
to the left
right
a long-awaited dance

and the memories get themselves lost despite.

5. april 4th -


^ not worth reading!!

6. april 4th -

i saw the whale gape open its mouth
as it breached above the water --
simultaneous open sky.
and the birds and the leaves
and all things man made
funneled themselves down its throat
and he drowned on distraction.

i will make this simple:
i gape open my mouth
and i drown in distraction.

i am simultaneously open sky
and play acting.
drowning and keeping one eye open
to look out for who will save me.

the hand, the hand, where
is the hand that will save me?

7. april 5th -

i am living off the fumes
of the imagined scene:

you are sitting somewhere
like a bench or a couch -
something with room for two -
and i am sitting beside you
and just as you invited, we are
playing guitar.


just now i remembered
the last time i held a flame for a boy
and caught him at the last,
we played guitar by a fire.


am i just asking to do it all again?
am i moving forward or backward or nowhere at all?

calluses are making homes on my finger tips
and i am making homes in dreams,
farther and farther from sunlight.

f chord f chord until it comes out right.