http://betsynclark.blogspot.com/

I am on a seven day tour of living rooms where I read poetry, and people feed me spaghetti.  Today was day two. In the blog linked above is a follow along and descriptions. If you are creepy enough there are some older posts about my experience in national slam. Poster design by Sarah Schmidt.
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snealiv:

The single greatest picture ever taken in my life. We threw Yu-gi-oh cards at the ceiling fan to watch them scatter, and just happened to take a picture right at this exact moment. To this day, this is the only time I’ve ever heard of anyone breaking a ceiling fan blade with cards.

snealiv:

The single greatest picture ever taken in my life. We threw Yu-gi-oh cards at the ceiling fan to watch them scatter, and just happened to take a picture right at this exact moment. To this day, this is the only time I’ve ever heard of anyone breaking a ceiling fan blade with cards.

(via colbonius)


A Turbulent Dream (1996), John DugdaleCyanotype photograph, 10 x 8 inches

A Turbulent Dream (1996), John Dugdale
Cyanotype photograph, 10 x 8 inches

(via petalsofblazon)

if you pray long enough you will forget why you came here
why the brass of your cuff links feels heavier today
why the white of your shirt seemed brighter at home
here is it washed rust

if you pray long enough you will remember what your wife smells like
how the leather interior of your car feels on your drive home from bars with adjectives for names
how long the pauses between lies measure
ticking on your expensive watch

if you pray long enough you will learn no one will forgive you
and mean it
until you stop making excuses to walk in doors you blew open so long ago
until you remember someone’s smile has it’s corners pulled
just faking it’s way through loving you
here it is so hard to pretend you enjoy the pain of destruction
it is easy to
when you forget you are alive

maybe 
if you pray long enough
it will be worth it to talk to God 

the year my oma was born
Hungarian Jews were being placed in Auschwitz for the first time
the eyes were still made of glass
still empty and full of a hunger for anything teeth can hold on to

my oma was born in Paris
didn’t have to have a passport
her German was a little gray body, that never screamed
only cried in silent fits / so cracked open

the year  my oma was born France gained liberty
in a way she was born
if only for a moment, into freedom

the year my oma was born, her true home, Mannheim,
was bombed 144 times
the home her mother built all splinters

this is from my 30/30 for NaPoWriMo.  I am doing a series about growing up in a rust belt town. I miss Tumblrlites
Marathons Of Missed Needles
 these boys are all made of oil
from laying too long under their mother’s cars
from letting their ankles lay too close to the engine of their motor bikes
my best friend from those years, broken between puberty and running away,
had teeth that cut open the way the smoke stacks
left empty shadows on the back drop of this town 
his smile always felt void of potential
he made the girl he liked necklaces by running a drill bit through nickles and hanging them from cheap chains
the kind that left a green circle around your neck
he was sweet yet full of all things unlady like
he would stand below our windows at night
catching our feet in clasped hands, hoisting us out and into nights of cinnamon whiskey
and stolen bicycles
the last time he knocked I swore it was a ghost
it was an August day that left your sweat begging for mercy
who knocks on a window in the heat of the day?
I had not seen him in this town in years
he stood from me, arms crossed behind his back
smiled something awful innocent
an anger welled up inside of me like, where the hell you been?
 ”prison”
he holds an arm out in an attempt to explain
the soft inside is knotted something ugly
is a mine field of already broken open
track mark does no justice to the marathons of missed needles
collecting muscle pockets against his skin
I stand all tears and empty window panes
Don’t dare to tell him how I put myself through school
he says he started dealing
I don’t say I bought my first car
he says he stole one
a mini van
trying to travel 45 packets to the other side of town
the chief of police, we always knew by first name, chased him
he drove on the sidewalk, plowed a mail box
all 45 packets and him spilling oil as thick as tar in the streets
I smile
all broken up like the smoke stacks
I laugh at the idea of thinking he was a ghost at the door
some times the truth is funny

the middle west swallow us all kind a full
how any sign of sun shine shames us
shows too much of our rust bitten ankles
puts too much light on our empty buildings
our ghost town factories 
we can all afford to window shop here
when our windows are abandoned dreams
are low standards for education
or showing the inside of the neighbor’s Del Sol

playing ac/dc until our stomachs hurt
and we pour and pour and pour
amber through our lungs
the reason we dont get any sun here
is only because we can not stand to see
how tired we all have become

I left your eyes there
like chain mail
I pray you don’t try to figure out

it breaks in our window
in no attempts to be repaired
it stretches it’s gray less than black but still gray
into our moon light
it always looks like fog
we prayed for sun every night
until our feet hurt, until every movement was a reverse rain dance
beating the sound of shakers backwards



it breaks in our window
this morning we decide to leave

make sure you leave the door unlocked

the car still running
the grass stains still streaking in an endless mud slide pattern

make sure you leave the flashlight fallen at my feet

the hunger still harrowing your bones
still making something big out of a whole lot of nothing

make sure they have something you left unfinished
to remember you by
when they remember

you’re gone