Sometimes
I imagine my father, / wading through the / angry Rio Grande, knowing / this journey was a dangerous feat.
I imagine my father, / wading through the / angry Rio Grande, knowing / this journey was a dangerous feat.
Just thinking about it makes my pulse quicken. Why this lofty goal? Simply put… middle managers have it made.
Walking, always walking / Always together, always the purpose. / I imagine her a young woman / Full of life, / Brimming with the opposite of fear, whatever that may be.
My father bought me / a pastel purple pony for / my sixth birthday.
When I write, tears flood down my face, / out of the brittleness of my worn heart, / cascading into the lifeless veins in my arms, / into my fingertips;
“Jones more appropriately refers to them as artists rather than photographers; and as you thumb through this beautifully crafted tome you soon see why.”
The dark, pre-dawn hour is enveloped by silence. Overnight, a thin film of dew has glazed the accentuated lines of the sculpted body panels painted Rosso Corsa.
“On one hand, I utilize the juxtaposition of different types of images (the representative in opposition to the pure abstraction) and on the other, conflicting sensory data (the sense of ‘timefulness’ in the audio recording as opposed to the static images). Both are methods by which I attempt to jolt the viewer into a more complicated relationship with these images, and images generally.”
“Just reading poetry in class in general was like ‘Whoa, I’ve been missing out this whole time! This world of poetry is so new and wonderful and different!’ My passion has changed for sure.”
“The most important thing is to really honor your work. Honor what you write, love what you write. Honor it so that you can go back to read it and revise it over and over and not get tired of it. By honoring it, you are honoring yourself and honoring the work you’re doing.”