Origami Around
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Doug Jones
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Cookie Run:Kingdom Official!
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One Nice Bug Per Day
EXPECTATIONS
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The Bowery Presents
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@jeremiahtrent
Single Birds
That moment of morning when a single birdsinging becomes birdsongs and all the birds become one. Trees wake up whistling before the sun. Their work is done. While mine/ours has only just begun. To believe is to incarnate desire. Like stickingyour hand in the fire. Do you believe it would burn? The towering tube of braided strands of fiber showno fear, no remorse, the day they sleep in when the…
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On Account of Rain
Weather finger-drums the canopy, rainbowing rivers slither over asphalt poured in the 1950’s, a flash in our periphery chased seven even seconds after by electricity’s booming laughter. What’s good for the farmer isn’t always for the market. Mark that. Keeping a calendar is the most socially acceptable form of gambling. Pick a square, any square, ignore the forecast, commit the affair. Knock the…
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Casting Call - Virtual Audition
Dear Liberty Mountain, What’s with all the shotguns and shouting?Bodies all about the stage trying not to breathe. Lips closed. Remember to keep your feet still.Brave boys. With or without honor for a few dollars. As it ever was. Thought I do prefer these actor-soldiers. From one wing and wig to another.Not across real fields of battlebut ancient ones won by wild flowers.I have seen crowds of…
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Liberty Mountain Hosts Local Auditions at the Joy Theatre - Article
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The True Human Being
Professional Mouth Trumpeteer. Can lick my own elbow. Sound Irish. Scottish. Not skittish. Not in any way. Bam goes eight fingertips against keys on a piano igniting a short-wicked, dynamite mezzo-soprano and if we could see sound waves we’d make her our God. Every corner of the room. Shaking every molecule from here to doom. More waves than a parade, an ocean, more waves than there are…
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Mark Twain Sighting!
Mark Twain sighting in the area – be on alert! We have learned from trusted sources that there will soon be a performance of The Diaries of Adam and Eve, a play based on some of Mark Twain’s most personal writing. We have also learned that whenever a fortunate community puts on stage a representation of this powerful albeit hilarious script, it somehow conjures that lingering spirit back to walk…
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This Peculiar Work - Published by The Bluebird Word
This peculiar work
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The Joy
The rain. The mist.The shots we missed.The strike. The set.Each show born in debt.We angle. We gamble.We speech. They ramble.No dance. A rabble.The whole play unravelslike a ball of yarn returns to string.Vowels we sing. And consonantslike continents in-betweenoceans of melodic happenings.The joy we wringis better thanthe kill-joy we receive.Our task: to deceive.Life’s boredom, we relieve.And…
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Morning poem
Sincerely seven AM. Hard to lie once you’re up in the morning.The animals make noise. The kid climbs into bed, again.Sporadic drips tap the rain gutter on the bottom.A little blue-gray daylight weakly fingers the blinds.The mind’s eye only opens wide. Until two lackeyson the front of your face pop the lid.There’s a smile on the face of the kid,though his eyes are still closed behind blonde…
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All-Questions
All the thoughts in my head are formattedwith question marks chasing after them.I would know nothing if not for confusion..Questions made me who I am. Like who am I?What is I. Eyes can’t see. Ice on the grass.For the first time since seven months ago.Seems so long. So any questions answered since.Makes my head spin. Questions turn the earth.For many reasons. For at least four seasons.
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The Voice
Take away the noise. The voice. The rippled ocean in the air. So that we are all ears. So that no one can hear. Except through the soles of their feet. Don’t pray with fingers intertwined but toes touching. Take a seat. Flee the heat. Fleet week. Anarchists in sailor’s uniforms. Soldiers by day, villains on the web. Spiders say thank you for your service while thinking damn I’m glad I’m not you,…
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Sticky Note Poem
How is this man my teacher, stretched out and lost meaning reacher, his mind fell out through the bleachers, lost all his thought-blood to leechers. I’ve reached the end of my rhyme but I still have time and lines left to write and slowly down to icky sticky stuck on itchy notary poetry. Wow. I see how he is a teacher. Now. But I think he’d prefer to play the preacher.
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Oh you life
Oh you life, pompous and loud, loopy yet proud. Lightning crashing parties in heaven.At the entrance telling lies that barrel down deep like thunder, a second too late, truth debates shaking ground from sound, flustered, rippled air. The clouds hoisted rain withheld,dangled, above head, just out of reach, beyond, water in aerated ascended pondscasting shade and crooked lines so thin you can see…
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Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the horn that was blowing?
Who are you warning, this misty morning?A day in rough labor attempting to birth its sun.We asked the rooster. The hen said he abused her.He’ll call us all to dinner a little sooner than he thought. Tree frogs croak like night. Daylight whispers,you should see the other guy. Slow start to say the least,a strength where I was always weakest.Last night we passed through tempests. This morning is…
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The what-ifs have It.
The what-ifs have It.
Indistinguishable…
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