recluse. by sara khayat.

recluse

for j.d. salinger

i am guilty.

i am part of the world that
you yourself were constantly
trying to run from.

i am guilty of wanting more
upon googling quotes by you
to get a little more to have
something more to hold on
to

a headline read
“revealed—j.d. salinger
was born with one testicle.”

and i understood the need
to withdraw

i understood why
this unsolicited flesh
this human skin
these breakable
crumbling bones
are nothing to be
proud of.

Sara

Sara Khayat was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. She is editor-in-chief of Paper Plane Pilot Publishing (thepaperplanepilots.com). She graduated from California State University, Northridge with a BA in English/Creative Writing and a minor in Psychology. Her mind is full of wildflowers, ladybugs and grey matters. Give her a shout and she’ll give you a whisper.

three poems by steve shultz.

three poems.

Tues. Blues

I feel good
as I should
don’t want to be
down
on your paper tears

your clumsy crown

your folded fortune
teller

telling me
what I do not
want to hear

as my convictions
flutter in the wind
like the pages
of your journal

dog-eared
& X’ed out
unrecognizable

I feel on the edge
as if I may disappear
on any given Tuesday

I feel impossible
light as a feather
from a stolen angel’s wing

I feel invisible
a speck of dust
in the corner
of your tear duct

I feel disregard
recklessly
careening
down life’s road

don’t want to be
down
on your powdered clown

your upside down

soapbox depravity

your folded paper crown
& flimsy stars

I feel good
far too good for a Tuesday


Watered Down

 

My expectations
are disillusioned,
tricked into believing
what you want from me
is the same as
what I want from me.
my fire has been
extinguished
and I have no time
for phoenix metaphors.
do you burn bright?
do you burn brighter than
the shadows in your mind.
there are hands on my throat,
I’m not even sure if they’re mine.
my passion is
the ice in my glass,
rapidly melting.
I’m left watered down.
I’m left with my own crumbs.

I’m not sure what to make of me.

Little Bits of Things Left Unsaid

 

I am unused quotations
from sprawling notebooks
scribbled ink smudges
I am palm print, stained
red roadmap folded over
and over and over
I am the creases
upon morgue tiled floor
I am spilled
and wide awake
I am stutter
speck of spit on lover’s lips
I am deleted scene
spliced from director’s cut
bookended platitudes
I am weightless
and inherently grave
I am the backs of those
we talk behind
at dreary happy hours
I am dream’s misinterpretation
pillow drenched with sweat
I am the fulgent sun
and every black hole
swallowing its light
unknown equations
on blank whiteboard
canvas muddied with too much thought
I am crumpled piece of paper
tossed at trash bin, I missed the basket
I am the piece of almost-perfect art
the joke, the song, the book, the film
that goes on for far too long

I am these things we wish would never end


Steve Shultz

Steve Shultz is the author of two full-length books of poetry, FM Ghost and 3: Poems for My Wife and Kids. He is a Colorado native who’s never been skiing and has lived his entire life in and around the Mile High City. His poetry has been published in print in a handful of anthologies and magazines, including Signal from Static and Red Kitty, and online in various publications. He’s an editor and designer with The Denver Post and reviews concerts for the newspaper’s online music section. Read more of his poems at https://fmghost.wordpress.com/.

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