Im Noticing That For A Lot Of Americans “free Palestine” Has Been An Ideological Motto And Symbol

To make a prairie (1755) - Emily Dickinson

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,

One clover, and a bee.

And revery.

The revery alone will do,

If bees are few.

#1,200 hermit

when i leave this tight fit of an exoskeleton

i wonder what will be found from those times

when something was lost to the tide

rather than gathered and disposed of

there are some things

you just cannot rid the world of

corn cob husks

used-up push-pop tabs

empty of disinfection tablets

all the library books i could never return

paperbacks so worn down

with indentations and water damage

you can barely decipher the original text

neon orange, made to eat

inside-out wrappers, forgotten sweets

saved for never, piano sheets

shucking

prying

always denying

hoarding away contrabands

collecting what’s left for the next finding in the sand-

but even hermit crabs

in their ever adapting, tenacious habits

leave behind something worth remembering

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!

dandelions are magic. literally tiny suns in the grass that turn into the moon and then the stars when you blow on them. fucking insane.

#1,501

blistered fingertips scratch against constricting linen

i lay in a bed of moss

underneath my grandmothers afghan

and woke surrounded in mold

the clay beneath

tugs, tearing open old gashes

revealing layers of decay

interlocking rigid muscle tissue

every motion scattering spores

i find myself coughing, clenching

crawling through the colonies

for

i am not

your

host

i am only

flesh

and

blood

and yet

that flesh is powdered in mildew

that blood is blooming

i will not yield

i swear

i will taste fresh air

alongside a mushroom omelette

without an inkling of a sour memory

but i fear

i am

rotting

oh im gonna be weird about this for so long

# 31

My chest feels like a big red balloon.

Switching between over-swelled, Bulging, Tight.

To deflated and limp.

Again and again and again.

In. Out. In. Out.

The breaths come faster.

The balloons limitations heighten, only so much air can pass through at a time.

I grasp at the stings that dangle from my shirt. Who is sending all this so fast?

They need to slow down.

But I don't hate it and I can't stop it.

In. Out. In. Out.

The strings are wrapped three times around my wrists.

When did I do that?

In out. In out. In out.

The air is whooshing over and over.

I can’t-

Inoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutin

I force myself to focus on the softness of my sweater buttoned around my taut chest.

I fold my hands and feel the roughness of my palms, the smoothness of my nails, the surety of my string around my finger.

I focus on the lights above me and count the tiles on the ceiling.

The balloon miraculous slows a bit and I can feel my head again.

In out. In out. In out.

It didn't float away.

I didn't fly away on an overwhelming air currant.

I am still here.

I plant my feet in the ground and feel fresh roots make a home below me, anchoring me to reality, to the world.

The air gets slower and slower until I feel flowers bloom between my toes.

Until I feel the strength return me to a slow and steady flow of air in and out of my lungs.

In. Out. In. Out.

Bottlecap Press

poems i shouldn't have written, by amelia nason

Poetry, chapbook, 28 pages, from Bottlecap Features. interwoven with fact & fiction, poems i shouldn’t have written chronicles young lov

From amelia nason's chapbook, poems i shouldn't have written, available from Bottlecap Press!

Closing shifts.