Poetry Uncategorized

Utopia Was Real

Utopia was real
At one time
It was not new
Was not unlikely 
Was deserved
At one time 
Till then, again
Endure this hell


Should Not Even Be A Word

What is not gradient?
What flow of time isn’t eventual memory loss?

What remembrance wasn’t each day feeling the real thing less and less and then transferring sensation into delusional perception—for the sake of not fading?

What isn’t gradient?
It should not even be a word.

What catatonic love wasn’t daily forgetting why anything was worth the efforts?

Who is born as man?
Who is born, skin already taught?
Flesh nearly ready to burst?
Ready to give up into deadly

nothing but still

Floating into air like interpretive dance and all muscles pulsing?
Who is born man?

What song isn’t transition from now until the end?


“A Deep & Gorgeous Thirst”

( This piece was recently published the Hawaii Pacific Review. That enough was reason to open it & I was more than pleasantly surprised❕💬 )

by Hosho McCreesh (from A Deep & Gorgeous Thirst) At the chalet and you’re guzzling down bombers of Farmer beer, and the occasional measure of …

A Deep & Gorgeous Thirst
Poetry Uncategorized

Let It Not Be

The chosen ones made idols.

Statues of gold and genies right below the present, True and Living God.

Stay far from gold.

Whatever you should decide to arrive in, let it not be gold.

Too oft does gold stimulate hungry pupils readied with greedy hearts waiting to make of you a statue and symbol of meaning in their eyes.

A symbol of something foreboding. Coated completely in matte armor.

Turning shiny in the sunlight

Then back to its lusterless base.


Fall Is…

Fall is a lanky hipster.

A lanky hipster with a Brooks seat on his bike and a fedora on his head.

A fedora on his head and an infinity scarf draped over a perfectly creased American Apparel collared shirt.

An American Apparel collared shirt not currently found on Amazon.

An original. Cared for and with pride.

Fall is that same hipster, gliding down the street made up of only bike lanes

Grateful for the social distance.

Poetry Writing

Warmest French Bread

I am the River Moldau collecting beneath crossed ankles.

I am the sideways push to get out from your path.

I am you, stained grey-air ash.

I am warmest French bread and condensation on the plate.

Me and the droplets waiting for spreadable Everything’s Better Butter.


A Thoughtful Way to Get Writing While Utilizing Your Stationery for Marketing

from “DIY. Postcards as a way to promote your literary works” —

What a lovely idea that captures the ephemeral nature and resilience of literature. Keeping this written word airy, kinetic, and also tangible!

Will give it a go!

“…literary postcards where I place abstracts from my stories.

Where do I send these literary postcards? To cafes, libraries, museums, and to my blog readers on their request.”


Sour Daze

An original prompt from GigiInRealLife on Instagram

I melt right down to sticky glaze thinking those sweet cherubs had to be consoled of me. Seeing those faces in the yearbooks past, I wonder if I’ve done my job well enough.

Old friends I’ve tormented tell me it made them stronger — made the smiles afterward longer lasting.

Over the years, these dear little snots got softer around their edges.

Posters reading “you are beautiful” and “it gets better” went up.

The board said it warmed some certain groups of students.

“Which ones?” I spat.

“Well, all of them,” they declared. Setting up undue refuge from me.

As in wartime, the sour times do not simply cancel out the daydreams. On the contrary!

They’re complementary.

I alone embedded memories in them with the tools of emotion. Pathos my only lesson plan.

My methods remain tried and true!

Those little suckers pained and stretched and waxed greater.

The biting complements the saccharine.

My old friends, they tell me, “Everything in my life comes back to my times with you. What I wouldn’t give to taste the daze again –– sour, sweet, then gone.”

Monday May 11, 2020


Proof by the Faults

In bed without solace of rest
Each sand of the day falling 
In poring over the text of ages. 
Like bed-light under comforter
Many moons ago. 
Still a similar warmth of spirit
And text of ages in hand:

A letter. 
From father to long lost love
Not mother. 
Proof of an everlasting trial. 
Secrecy by the fault lines
Which brought forth death
In the form of children. 
A text for the ages.


In Search of Specificity on Twitter After a Nine-Month Hiatus

By Gabrielle Pearson

For nine months, I attempted pressing reset on my resolve for social interaction online. When I unable to push my business any further without it, I returned not only to Instagram, but Twitter and Facebook. Both Twitter and Facebook required a true reset of my account; there was nothing to resume or refresh. I had to start from scratch. After this amount of time, Twitter is by far the hardest environment to recreate. Informally known as the “hate app,” our controversial little birdhouse is where the… let’s say “truest” essences of users are magnified.

It isn’t all bad, of course. It just is not formulated to focus purely on the positive or appealing. It’s where we go to get personal, get real, and get used to making it feel like a soundbite amongst so many identically formatted blurbs. It feels so comfortable that we almost feel cloaked. Or maybe a more accurate descriptor is “free.”

When we started our journeys, every last one of us began chronicling our lives in play-by-play format. That’s how MySpace and Facebook trained us to understand a text post. “What are you doing?” “How are you feeling?” Twitter, however asks, “What’s happening?” In the creation phase of each tweet, the interface beckons a wider perspective and in turn suggests the attention of other users isn’t so keenly focused on the I. You’re free from introspection by design.

If every kid is thinking of their own outfit on the first day of school, it means no one is looking at your outfit. That’s what Twitter whispers into our ears before we walk into class and a twit pic of said outfit garnishes 87,000 likes with the caption “What are thooooooose? SMH” But by then it is too late to turn around and we are hooked. Even when it hurts.

This effect is also a fraction of what turned the platform into a news hub. Realtime. All the time. That was and is the key.

Leaving, then, for nine months is like missing a lifetime of thought. Shortly after returning, you’d eventually find yourself unable to reconnect with suspended accounts of those you grew to love. I never felt embarrassed following anyone that others hated. I never felt afraid I’d be persecuted for what I read. I never held my tongue. I never had a split-second thought about how my content would affect my life off of the platform.

I never shared my name.

“But by then it is too late to turn around and we are hooked. Even when it hurts.”

When I got back last month, I went searching frantically and joylessly for mutual followers of my most cherished accounts. I attempted pinpointing similar accounts by combing through buzzwords and statements I thought they would publish in their own voice. I’ll save my thoughts on the the superior aspects of Twitter compared to other social platforms. For now, I will simply say the search tool is a giant in this space.

I found that long-lost account I pined for. It had been suspended with three others popping up soon-after. All ending in suspension. I should let you know an actual tear of frustration coated my eyeball and I was intent on keeping it from falling. Seriously, though! I had spent time hunting down accounts in a stage of my Twitter infancy that was supposed to suggest endless possibilities. So what drove me to this place?

Specificity drove me here and sped off with my belongings still in the car. Specificity of content I found on my feed and of the ones I followed.

What I found appalling, they’d already expressed distaste in. What I found inspiring, they’d already presented a twelve-tweet how-to guide for. Subjects that had me in stitches, I found gif reaction tweets for on their feed.

We have a difficult time making friends of others with whom we agree on nearly everything. It would be difficult finding them, quite strange and uncomfortable wanting to make them our friends based solely on that, even unlikely that they’ll automatically want to make those friendships just as much. I argue it should be difficult not only because it’s unnatural, but also because it can be dangerous seeing our reflection and wanting it to surround us in every way.

Twitter, however, is the exception. Some of us bend to the will of our preferences. The environment is toxic because we like it that way.


To Six To

Some have never counted down, only
counted up

Counting up:
what is done when teasing tolerance
and testing patience
From one and three and twenty-nine
they, desperate to be stopped
Proven wrong

Relieved are those who depend
on counting down.
Basking in surety and an end.
Promised and provided.
From twelve to six to one.


Mr. F. Ocean

The first time I got high

Mr. Ocean released an album

Someone smashed my bed and ceiling together

Just so I would be cozier

And on Pua Lane

The humidity was just right

Hugging me the way my teachers always did

At the end

When the high was over, the jokes stopped being so hilarious.

My classmates had to get back to their work; no one wanted to bring an assignment home if it could be done at their desks.


key click?

Key click and key click
And decline with surety this and the next also
“Could these pieces be any more hollow?”
“These aren’t writers. These are twenty-something-aged children”
So the poems and the flash fiction and the creative nonfiction are sophomoric
So I begin hating my job as an editor
This publication is small so
Perhaps this explains the mediocre writing
Perhaps this is the “At least I tried” publication
Although, each of these ‘writers’ have given a more honest try than I have lately.
At least they cared to write something.
Will I?


So so

I feel so very sad today
Like lakeside in a post-drowning exacerbated exhale
Today I am unwoven, unraveled, revealed, bare, raw
Sticky stuck itchy square centimeters of thick grime-coated, sweat-beading skin
Is giving up
So very sad?
I am pillow side reeking of dry salivary residue
And yet not willing to peel
To pull away
At all
At the dawning of eve,
I am still

Very sad

Confessions Inspirationals

Mood Boards: A Concrete Stress Alleviator


We’ve all been there.

We spend hours upon hours explaining our stressful days and anxieties to counsellors, professors, parents, and well-meaning friends. We spend so much time explaining how hard it is to conquer that we forget it often takes a lighter touch to alleviate. Of course, not all breakdowns or emotional weights can be solved by a few scrolls past satisfying imagery or a relaxing playlist.

But for when all else has failed, this is my go-to.

Simple images with simple color progression to remind me of minimalism, the comforting way nature returns to a basic equation of gradients, temperature, silence, and storms.

So for when all else has failed for you too–or for when you’d just like to scroll along, fade into some of my favorite Tumblr pages.

Enjoy and stay afloat.












*Feel free to share your go-to boards or pages with us as well*