Boss said he was the black sheep. I asked what that meant? The screw up, the mess up, compared to his older brother. He was older than me, and I thought it was a vintage idea to feel that way. But now I’m closer to his age now, and I get it. Parents have all these aspirations and hopes for you, and when you are middle aged, they assume that is as far as you will go. And they lament. 2023.
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----------These Are The Things We Don’t Talk About----------
I have built a tomb out of paper.
And I find my tongue, tied under my shoes.
The parallel lengua of “the people”
The sinister pride and propping up of tales.
How do you find happiness, after the splinter has been pulled out
How
do
you
manage
the fragility
of this
floppy
flesh.
Everything hurts.
Everything aches.
Everything feels like the end.
The bull horns and the supporters smile and yell “All you have to do is keep sober” with a thicketed smile.
Those one dimensional words that no one can quite truly explain.
And I felt
a bit uneasy and disheveled,
standing over his grave,
And his family
and friends cried their eyes out
wailing in disbelief,
at how he could keep his sobriety,
but manage to take his own life.
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It was something
That was conjured
In your mouth
Clenched down between your teeth
That rotting bitterness
That turned everything
Into death, pain and sour defeat
A stranger
With
A
Belly full of hate
For a stranger
That hadn’t even tilted down their glasses, to say
Hello.
A darkness
Like that
Eats voraciously
Starved
Chewing and stirring
Unrest
A conjured carrier of death.
The eyes
Now gray
Diminishing shell
And there is nothing left
To bury.
-jb22
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I hadn’t planned on
Staying too long
In this thicketed wet place
This sop soiled dip of earth
Tapping and cracking
Buckling under the weight of all
….the things I’ve managed to
Drag
Behind me
Dreams fall dead from the sky
The clapping echos of
misplaced aspiration.
I hadn’t planned to stay
Too long have I sat
Digging my finger into dry dirt
Puncturing my fingertip of jagged stone
I shut my eyes and see the stillness
The green grass and ripe headstone
My mind hums quietly
Nervously taking quiet steps back, gently away from the dim image
I hadn’t planned on staying,
Long.
But I’m here pushing
That boulder of a stone
Up
And down
That curved dirt hill
Until
My arms let go
And that boulder
Rolls
D
O
W
N
Flattening the surface.
-JB22
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What about my heart ? turned 6 today!
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as you take the artist apart, make sure to put them back together again.
JB (11/2021)
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I find moments in time when i peak
t h r o u g h
lightly fogged windows
and i
w a i t to see
a glimmering flash **!!!*** o f
r a d i a n c e
a c-l-a-p-p-i-n-g together
of light
and
shadow
that makes t-i-m-e-s-p-e-n-t
a worthy series of moments of
t e a r s & l a u g h t e r
to justify my c u r i o u s i t y
but there is no justification for wanting to slip my fingers into the past and lick up the honey that has already spoiled. (JB 11/2021)
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so we sat over a cup of cocoa, we jotted down ideas. tapping our pens against the dirty table. looking for an image. waiting to hear the rhythm. tracing our fingers around the canvas. waiting for the color.
JB (Blythe Ayers 2021/10)
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The past is where dead things lie. A foggy reflection and an ocean of misplaced feelings. A true thief of time. Many have died looking backwards.
Blythe Ayers2021
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Sometimes people drive on the other side, of the road, to learn. How do you describe the other side?
Blythe Ayers2021
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the day is dim
deep grey and washed in mist
crisp breezes drift across soft tender water
bulbs fall
crashing into the fresh cut grass
winged creatures nestle
patches of half curtained sky
rolling sheets of thunder
and
lightenings’ cry.
(jb)
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And we sat across from each other chewing cold coffee and stale cigarettes. I pretended not to notice the stain on your shirt and you pretended not to notice my chipped tooth. It wasn’t always like this, you and I. We used to be miserable. But like the humming telephone pole, a comfort ensues, after awhile. After knowing what your going to get.
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Life: a. Practice of “white knuckling it” holding on with every single thing inside you, until your knuckles break and you fall away.
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A writer props themselves’ up, just like any other artist. Climbing up out of the muck. Peeling off the practical and reasonable and old stories and materials, I’ve seemed to have outgrown. An unfinished story...
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Why dont we write
LOVE
letters to ourselves
READ
our bits of advice and sorrows
CONGRATULATE
our selves on taking our own advice
ADVANCING
toward deeper roots...
how
BEAUTIFUL
my plumage would be if I believed that I could
GIVE
&
RECIEVE.
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The spinning of light in dim lit places. The floating of stars in the thicketed night sky. Elements of dust, dripping down cool gusts of wind. I found you, under handfuls of ink. And laid all other regrets under rose 🥀 beds. Roses without thorns.
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