From Amelia Nason's Chapbook, Poems I Shouldn't Have Written, Available From Bottlecap Press!

which one of u was going to tell me that tea tastes different if u put it in hot water?

did you guys see the poem from a couple of days ago in poetry dot org’s daily poem it was so good and a treat to read 

#100

It was a wondrous day with splendid company.

Old friends but fresh rushes of feelings, turns of conversation,

And the laughter?

Hers.

Rich, bubbling, pure.

Like mustard meadowlarks singing for mountains streams.

His.

Grounded, unexpected, revitalizing.

The rough stream of sounds a lake makes under the watch of a persistent moon.

And of course, mine.

Not much of note, but if I were to speculate,

A little kitten leaping up the scales of an out of tune piano.

we had harmonized together.

Every hour was full of sweet humor and compassions.

When I had slipped into something less than,

His hand was at my slumped shoulder, thin fingers spinning shapes into my sleeve.

When it happened again and I felt at a loss,

She hurried beside me to help roll up my sleeves.

I'd like to believe I had been there for them in the smallest of ways.

There was surprise hugs from behind and comments of sentiment,

Shared sandwiches and the sweetest of silences.

A trio like us made me think of

Mundane mornings, nights out and exploring, of-

I pulled away.

It's a wondrous friendship we shared.

In a way, their company was wondrous and fearful tucked in a bundle.

I had hoped to keep relishing in their laughter for a long time.

I’ve had other wonderful days,

And yet

Bottlecap Press

Chan Says & Other Songs, by Caleb Nichols

Poetry, chapbook, 56 pages, from Bottlecap Features. At the intersection of land/sea, sexuality/gender, and fairy tale/reality CHAN SAYS & O

From Caleb Nichols' chapbook, Chan Says & Other Songs, a companion piece to Caleb's Kill Rock Stars EP of the same name!

I want to write you an escape.

A pocket of happy time and space.

Where you're okay.

In the mountains, in a tree, in a nothing of muted pastels.

Just somewhere where you can sing,

and your fingers don't sting from strumming.

And our lungs can go on for forever.

I can write up that sort of escape with ink and paper and imagination.

The clouds would be puffy, and grass would be wet beneath our bare feet.

The longing and worry and confusion of yesterday would slip through our fingers.

We’d watch the drops puddle and tumble and fall through the cracks out of existence.

We would stay and it falls away.

And the rain blows and the wind smiles and the leaves sing.

Nothing makes any sense, but we are safe.

Yet that place, it's not...real.

The world collapses around us and I am left with ink on paper that I can't see clearly.

Your eyes are downcast and clouded.

You can’t see my words.

I don’t know how to cocoon you in that existence.

But then you take my hand and we run away.

And we make our own escape of flesh and blood and brick.

We joke in puddles of blankets and you play your ukulele.

And yet we have to leave for the bathroom.

The conversation is jolted and a little awkward at times.

Your fingers grow tired, and strings get off key, but we are here.

We made it.

And it's just the sort of escape we needed.

pure love

  for you and me who experience artblock.. keep on drawing!

— natalie díaz, from “american arithmetic”, postcolonial love poem (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

I think I was just born with something dark and ugly inside of me. Always waiting to be found out.

planetarium - adrienne rich/@twoheadedfawnn/ugly, bitter, and true - suzanne rivecca/a burning hill - mitski/a hora da estrela- clarice lispector/ @100493503004422/sharp objects - gillian flynn

via yumi sakugawa