Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

The author put his characters' guns away. He could almost hear the sounds of disarmament: the click of a revolver being opened, cold bullets falling into his hand. A sniper rifle taken apart, its components placed in their case. An old shotgun that stuck in wet weather, opened against his knee, so t...

If we could sit by the river and watch the alders age. They're leaning against a backdraft and the fire of my anxious thoughts. One saying says we should enter life without fear, without caution, without doubts. But it seems whenever we listen to plaques we end up wrecking some possible paths. I kno...

The collection agency that was trying to collect on me just filed for bankruptcy. The neighbors up the street, on an adjustable mortage rate, have not yet been threatened with foreclosure. But their smiles seem strained when they entertain. When they slump outside to bring in the bill, the sun seems...

Dude, yes. Amen! The images you string together are charged with amazing colors and movement! I'm just reading and rereading and loving it! Thanks, joel. I've been reading some of your stuff, and think it's great. When I have time I'll have to go back to your poems and post some of my thoughts.

doreen peri wrote:You, sir, have a way with slinging a phrase. Good writing here. Love the images. Welcome to the Studio!

Thanks, Doreen.

Little birdie told me I might know you from another board but I don't think so.... or do I? Hmmmm.....

Think about squirrels.

I can taste this one's sting.

Pushing with their noses,
solar fish nudge craters open.

This song marks the beginnings of a bridge
rising over the roadway. Pink hail
freezing in a rainpipe.

Words sharing one bed, a spangle of bracelets
broken. (the muscles in her arms roll;

her paste jewelry comes down in pieces)

Dylan:

I might be that cool. And then again, I might not.


Jack:

I wonder if Lubbock's own Buddy Holly thought that before his plane crashed. Rock and roll, baby.

I'm shed off the amoeba known as PIP. I haven't been on poetry sites in years, but a friend convinced me to join up here.

That sounds like a pretty cool collage.

Did that actually happen? I'll let you draw your own conclusions. However, I'll just say, sometimes poetry meshes well with fiction.

Spiked with a sense of the inevitable, he masturbated off the 15th floor of the Westin Diplomat hotel. Tumescent no longer. White strings frothed. The ocean close, the surf distending. His body swaying in the sun-scattered sky. He follows the ocean's rhythmic dancing. Like crumbling sand, cities of ...

:) I understand, and appreciate that.

Thanks, tj (not tijuana). This one came out after seeing a really cool, really sexy photo of someone I will never meet.

click. arch. click. living heat done artist-ice, a border of gold leaf, a hammering beat, a tv without need, a signal, a pulse, a click-arch- CLICK! her hair, a sculpture of air, is there a there to augment the here. the shore is behind the glaze. i can't see her face. glass. her waist. her silhouet...