#writeuntilyouaredead

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A POUND OF HISTORY By Stevi-Lee Alver

iv. PENALITY

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A POUND OF HISTORY By Stevi-Lee Alver

iii. STORM

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Finding Old Poetry

Like bumping into someone you used to know who happens to be yourself. 

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Six Word Story

he destroyed himself, this I understand.

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A Sundog Dirtbag Enterprise

I watched her dropsaw briefcase snap open releasing

papergun necklaces, which rattled the branches of trees.

Where had the paints gone? the ones lost in the freezer.

           She is a good deal, blonde.

         Red fading turns to brown, and the

         heat is forgotten as skyward bubbles fill slender necks.

  A cat hashtagged cries all night and sleeps all day, as

a star-picket prosthesis steadies a scabby table in an unshaded yard.

A petite female frame planes plywood from a Sasquatch footprint.

           A teacup pig snorts

         from the businessman’s car, full

         of surfboards and clinking empty glass

  almost full, always leaving room for more. Lacquer drying

in toxic waves of heat, bending McDonalds splintering

in sunburn, and drying spray-painted collages, fifty shades of hot-pink.

           She is a Sundog Dirtbag, her

         dream is an enterprise. I heart

         her art, which can be found online. 

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Lentils

Lentils, 

you never cease 

to amaze me.

Lentils, 

you complete me,

i love you.  

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Crisp Valleys

Louise Crisp says: she grew up in hard country meaning, she was free to wander. I say: I grew up in soft country meaning, I was free to wonder. The rainforest mountains sheltered me in nurturing undulation. A tanned kelpie followed my scent upstream. We ate from tropical fruit trees with abundant exoticness. Swollen rivers often left gullies full of water. The music was as consistent as the rain. Even the cicadas had rhythmic purpose. In creek corners we hunted crystals. The canopy was my home, and it was anything but silent. With nothing but harmonies, even in the pitch black dark, I never felt alone. How else can I explain rainforest-dwelling?