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September 27th
6 notes
10:36 pm
Prose Garden on KCPR

**ATTENTION ALL WRITERS - Want your work to be on the radio? READ THIS**

"Prose Garden" is KCPR’s new talk show that showcases creative writing. From Slam Poetry to Science Fiction, you’ll be immersed in great literature weekly.

Do you love reading? Are you a writer? Tune into “Prose Garden” Tuesday nights at 7pm pacific time, on KCPR 91.3 fm. Stream the show live at www.kcpr.org. We’ll be listening to a variety of poetry and prose, discussing great works, and interviewing young authors and creatives. 

**CALLING ALL WRITERS!** Want to be heard? Submit your work to Prose Garden and it could be featured on the show! You can also share any pieces of writing or clips of performances that you love, or that deserve more attention. 

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES: 
Poetry - Submit up to 3 poems weekly. Limit 30 lines each.
Short Story - Submit only 1 short story weekly. Limit 3 pages. 
Fiction / Novel - Submit 1 excerpt per week. Limit 3 pages.
Submissions must be radio appropriate. No profanity please.

Now accepting submissions to be aired on Tuesday (Sept. 30th). “LIKE” the page to show support! Reblog to spread the word to any writers you may know!

July 8th
6 notes
11:41 pm

Road kill

I spread myself thin
I’m on a first name basis
with most people
I keep no one close


I cut out the close ones
Because they can see me


I cut out the close ones
Because they know me at my worst
And every time I see them
I see me
ugly
wretched
weasel that I am


So I spread myself thin
And when the shivers come
When the bruises and blows come,
the thoughts of ending myself, come
I am thinly spread
Looking around
With no one
Within arms reach


I will die an acquaintance to all
And companion to no one
Thinly spread
Like road kill

July 8th
4 notes
11:28 pm

07/08/14

I wish I could hear your breath
Through the phone again
And pour my insides
My tears and shit and guts
Into the receiver


Knowing you heard me
Knowing you were listening
Knowing you cared


Knowing anyone cared
God, I’m so scared

June 29th
4 notes
10:32 pm

06/29/14 - drunk in dolores park II

.

oblivious to the chill

I run my fingers through the leaves

that dangle overhead

I want to sense everything

all things here

every way

.

rows and rows of symmetrical beauties

tall and white

stare down at me

filling my heart and my head

with a fantastic longing

for the life I never had

June 29th
7 notes
10:29 pm

06/29/14 - drunk in dolores park I

.

I’m stumbling back to the train

through the night

as the city is is howling

and skyline is bright

.

behind me, a cable car

roars through the park

the tracks I have missed

by an inch, in the dark

.

clutching my bag

I  hustle past rows 

of Victorian giants

with windows aglow

June 23rd
2 notes
11:20 pm

6/23/14

alone in my room

I open my chest

and spill out the contents 

examining and appraising each artifact

that I’ve carried inside

.

which things do I keep

what should I lose

I am so open

so vulnerable

I could change drastically 

if I wanted to

.

these artifacts are unfamiliar

they don’t look like mine

I am a stranger to myself

January 16th
4 notes
8:30 pm

1/12/14

At the base of the hill

my bicycle waits for me

I realize that I will always

always

want more

more

until I die

more beauty

more beauty

all the beauty I can find

in the world

I want to find it

before I die

January 15th
2 notes
8:30 pm

I told you about the trees

I told you about the trees,

about how they make me feel.

their slender white bodies peeling away

stretching, tapering

topped with pungent, faded leaves

I said that they are lovely,

that they make me want to cry and paint

not caring that my tears smear the colours

Why? Because look at them!

and you agreed.

Later you made love to me

and after, turned away.

Now I look at the trees

and feel nothing.

January 14th
5 notes
8:30 pm

If I die on this mountain

My thoughts would only be:

how pointed the trees all look from above

how cold I am despite my layers

how my bubblegum has lost its flavor

I do not think of my lover

I do not think of my mother

I do not think of school, an expense my job will never cover

I do not think of songs I’ve written, never to be sung or heard by another

No I’m not thinking of these things

Only that, before I died,

I would have very much liked

to travel.

January 13th
20 notes
8:30 pm

Petrichor - 88 Words

Elise was much smarter than me. She was always teaching me new words. “Petrichor,” she said one day as we were walking home from school. “It’s the smell of the ground just after the rain.” Kicking a fallen pine cone, I whispered it to myself. The words felt foreign and clumsy, tumbling out of my mouth while hers flowed perfectly from between her small puckered lips. The sounded silver, and still do, even through the telephone.

I ache for the words I never got to learn.

s.t.