âWall Drawing #913â (1999) Ceretto Chapel, Alba, Italy
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@lostupnorth
âWall Drawing #913â (1999) Ceretto Chapel, Alba, Italy

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Sea Serpent Pulpit - St Jadwiga Church
John Kupersmith
wherever the fog refuses the sun is where we meet iâm obsessed with your eyes and formulating a plan to learn how to stay whether itâs haunt or hunt i will do that to you
here we are      again      swallowing all the cityâs fog as though the universe will only end when itâs run out of things to steal and reproduce as something new so weâre good
who does sadness turn to when the moon finally explodes after all these decades we are starting to smell like all these decades
so      yes iâm selling off my own agency to become the target of your tongue and its language to become endless to open my body in the middle of july and find that my body is filled with fog so       yes i am gifting you my bodyâs fog

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William Gedney. Women in front of the Diego Rivera Mural in Detroit, 1967.
I wandered the night scrying for the sign to my makeshift tent, of strange delights.
Iâd like a room of taffy- colored pillow fights and peacocks. Iâd like a fizzy lifting drink,
but they wanted me to choose: war or famine, to check the box for screams of the dying.
Make no mistake, we have already chosen. I caught the thin arm
of a Tarot reader bony and beckoning. In the dark, she had
dealt a new deck, she had the cards spread out:
child falling, child sleeping, child slipping, child being taught what flags mean.
Jack Davidson
Travis McEwen, Reflection (2017)
debbie tea

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my mother calls
i. and asks what itâs like to live in the desert surrounded by cacti, except she says xưƥng ráťng: dragon trees.
On the way to the bus stop, I tell her I count two with hooked spines, one with short barbs deceptively fuzzy and yellow like the pom poms on my grade-school hat.
Back then the bus stopped around the corner from our blue house and in winter, I skipped over the salted roads, nose in my scarf.
There was the morning I stepped in frozen dog shit and was last to get on the bus, the morning my mother drove by and pressed a book against her frosted window in question: Chicken Soup for the Pet Loverâs Soul, do you need this?
I shook my head so hard my earmuffs fell lopsided, a plea. The others laughed and delegated me to the seat behind the driver â the ultimate humiliation. But this, too, was a privilege.
ii.
In the background, I hear her yell to my father: Tuan, his name, means chivalrous, honor, respect.
When I was a kid, I told the kids at the bus stop my father went to prison once for 7 or 9 years, I could never remember. Something about the war, I said.
iii.
I tell her there are sweaty thigh imprints everywhere: on public transportation, in my office where the salt gathers in the well above my upper lip, the sound of my skin unsticking.
In the desert, they want me until they donât want me here.
So, I talk about the internetâ how there are videos of people jumping from moving vehicles into thickets of white cholla with their arms wide open on a dare or faith.
Or drugs, my mother says. Donât ever think of doing that.
I donât say: here, like everywhere, means getting confronted on the way to the bus because my dark hair, dark eyes all belong in somewhere-else.
Here, means sidestepping cacti, mistaking a rattlesnake in the road for a fallen branch, my tire inches from its head. Here, I leave evidence of my existence, a red-blooded survival, wherever I go.
Marsha P. Johnson w/ Snoopy
to miss america
is to turn twenty-four with an ass that refuses to fit squarely into a string bikini. to miss america is to miss the point of each perky, each taut muscle rippling its way across a wheat field. or to miss the wheat entirely. it is almost an art: paring
a strawberry into symmetrical slices for a midnight snack in front of the late night show. amazing how static can fill the mind, the gut. o america, i, too, have a stash of sashes, folded up & boxed, their ribbons too thin now for my frame. you donât have
to tell me: this body is nothing like yoursâspindly tower that knows its saunter, knows its shake. you strut down a lit aisle & miss the brush of grass against your knees. god, youâre as smooth as they make âemâteeth vaselined
like a slipân slide, you are oil & bronze & glow. miss america, i, too, know about thigh gaps. i know what goes missing, the space between girl and grown. you miss dining room tables, fruit of your labor, warmth in your belly, warmth
in your home. i am with you: dried flowers in my hand, the metallic sky dulling your tiara. look at this mud where a meadow used to be.
Sitting next to a woman at the health clinic with a âLive, Laugh, Loveâ neck tattoo. Never been more sure that weâre living in a simulation, and shitâs getting glitchy.

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today i saw a child being pushed around in a grocery cart. she was offered snacks to stop crying. i wanted to ask her how she got this job.
god is popular with athletes they think about him while they practice but rarely will he watch with one of his eyes he has countless eyes a hundred eyes, more he is all eyes, but they hurt and he can never sleep the ocean is okay but boats crowd it with their wakes god canât help but look at every bubble it puts a strain on his eyes to watch small things and fast things cities, streets, fingernails, dots on a die he prefers to watch other planets Saturn and those ones those are graceful more one color watching pyramids be built something lengthy painfully cumulative he hates fireworks but the worst is to see a needle being strung the little end of the string struggling to fit his eye feels like its been injected with iodine a space shuttle has crashed into the eye and now its stuck he cannot rub it he is invisible no one can help him