art, e-publishing, fiction, novel, series, Writing

Patron of the Arts

Hey Everyone,

As we alluded to on our post on Monday, we’ve recently created a Patreon page. For those of you who are unfamiliar – Patreon is sort of like a crowd-funding service for creators of various types; there are journalists, painters, graphic designers, writers, YouTube creators – pretty much anything. Patrons can pledge to support Patreon creators either a) by a monthly donation or b) by a donation for each creative “work” a creator creates. In return, Patrons get access to a variety of extra content produced by the creators, limited really only by what the creators elect to put out there. Continue reading

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craft, love, Memories, poem, Writing

Monday Poetry Jam

There is a box beneath boxes in my closet containing

Things scratching at what I can almost remember;

Notes she wrote to make me choke (now) all remaining

Of when I took out my heart, but only to lend her.

 

The Book: Of Love, a thick brown cover hiding its pages—

It’s too easy to claim it’s untranslatable.

It smells like the ages, heavy with the faces

Of any and all dreamers who have felt its pull.

 

There is silence in miles, chopped dividing lines of lemon

Leading drivers forever toward dawn.

Fingers on a bottle, searching for a weapon,

To leave reality—for absence makes us long.

 

The Question: she once asked me, laughing (I think) as she said it

I’ve whispered it so many times, is it the same…?

“I need to know, life—do you intend to live it?”

How have I butchered it, in what way has it changed?

 

There is a notion and wish that the Thief lives only to take;

But they say a stolen car never feels the same.

So it’s the Thief who like a harsh artist creates;

Having and then losing is what we know as pain.

 

The Lie: time heals all wounds—promulgated by hack therapists

Who listen to your spiel; how does that make you feel?

Eyes frequently to clocks, listening to minutes tick;

You are a fish baited, hooked, out of blue you’re reeled.

 

There is an exit on the freeway, but always more ahead,

The appearance of choice is present everywhere.

Regardless, it’s to the same place we’re being led,

Choice, like love, is never more than a desperate prayer.

 

The Fact: love persists when everything else is forgotten.

Stumbling organ donors, looking for lost receipts.

What is it that makes love survive the empty cotton

Of the sheets, her lack of presence, her absent heat?

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random, Uncategorized

Go Ducks!

So we’re not huge college basketball fans, but we are huge Duck fans – Congrats to the Ducks men’s basketball team for advancing to the elite-8 (and great game, Michigan fans). Also, good luck to the Ducks women’s team today! Is everyone else’s bracket as hopelessly busted as ours are?

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