Roommate Dave Hooker! A poet and intellectual

This man is handsome!


Roommate Dave Hooker! A poet and intellectual

This man is handsome!

19 plays

"Arms of a Thief" by Iron & Wine, from Around the Well

"The Beginning of Speech" by Adonis

That child I was came to me
a strange face.
                He said nothing—                  We walked,
each of us glancing at the other in silence, our steps
a strange river running in between

We were brought together by good manners
and these sheets now flying in the wind
then we split,
a forest written by the eart
watered by the seasons’ change.

Child who once was, come forth—
What brings us together now,
and what do we have to say?

"My, My, My, My, My" by Tara Hardy

Take that thing that happened. To you.
Open it like a concealed rose. Hold it up
to the nose of someone else. Let them
tell you that you still smell sweet. So

sweet. Let that person who loves you pluck
petals out of the gully of your wound. Let
her shave them into points and sail them
back into your heart like paper airplanes. For

that fist at the center of your pulse is of what
you have always been made, despite
your fingers being tipped in thorn. Use them
now to shred the sheets. Shred the night.

No one needs to sleep under that much
cover or on that much polite. Slit the sky.
Let the Gods fall out. The ones who could’ve
let that thing happen in the first place.

Catch them in your pockets. Catch them
in your chest. Put the God back
in your chest, God after God after God. Until
you know yourself. Again. Repeat.

Take that rose, the one your flesh wounds
around. Open it and open it and open it.
Toss bits of your scar into the air
like goddamned wedding rice. Or bird seed.

Let some of them sprout. Into so much green
green new day it makes your shins hurt
with how much you want to run. Forward.
And meet the world without all those

red whorls, those old scars, those stuck stitches
in your side. And we, we will marvel at your
silhouette. My, we’ll say. My, my, my, my, my!
Doesn’t she run like an un-flowering?

"Poem For People That Are Understandably Too Busy To Read Poetry" by Stephen Dunn

"Cathedral of Salt" by Nick Flynn

Beneath all this I’m carving a cathedral
of salt. I keep

the entrance hidden, no one seems to notice
the hours I’m missing  …    I’ll

bring you one night, it’s where
I go when I

hang up the phone  …    

                                      Neither you
nor your soul is waiting for me at

the end of this, I know that, the salt
nearly clear after I

chisel out the pews, the see-through
altar, the opaque

panes of glass that depict the stations of
our cross — Here is the day

we met, here is the day we remember we
met  …  The air down here

will kill us, some say, some wear paper
masks, some still imagine the air above the green

trees, thick with bees

building solitary nests out of petals. What’s
the name for this? Ineffable? The endless

white will blind you, some say,
but what is there to see we haven’t already

seen? Some say it’s
like poking a stick into a river — you might as well

simply write about the stick.

Or the river.

Tea with My Meme

We sit around the foldout table as your kitchen

fills with the aroma of Earl Grey and reruns

flicker on the TV, saying you only remember
an episode when certain scenes show up.

Feeling like our time is melting faster than the ice chips
bouncing inside your cup, I start showing off my hand drawn comic

where the story has us save the universe from an evil race of space slugs;
mentioning how I spent all weekend coloring inside the lines

and having dad double check my spelling before writing the words
with Sharpie. Jumping out of my seat to run circles around the table,

yelling about how awesome the suede uniforms look
while you take the Marlboro Reds from your purse,

pop one in your mouth, flick the yellow BIC, and then take a drag.
As I see you exhale, your skin begins to melt:

your glasses slide off as your ears and nose soften into ooze,
splattering the tan linoleum floor; your hands glop toward the table,

pooling as you hunch over; your face, a muck of crevasses;
your bones crack, crumble, then sandstorm out the second floor window.

A smoldering pair of lungs rest on your chair
as the TV continues to flash. Suddenly I remember this episode.

Remembering light breaking through vertical blinds,
numbers radiating from a display beside your golden hair,

your chest bopping up and down like ice chips,
a tube running out from your throat.

Suddenly dad is there. I shove my face into his red shirt,
soaking my tears before trying to hide under a table.

Suddenly family surrounds me; cousin Tommy holds my hand.
Their mouths move, but there is only silence.

Are you okay, babe? She asks,
sitting outside the Coffee Depot

as I stare at the tealeaves swirling
in my mug, You’ve been really quiet.

She rubs my knee, puffing on her cigarette.
I look up, unable to say

as I notice her make up
beginning to run.

139 plays

"Run Forever" by Emma Ruth Rundle, from Some Heavy Ocean

Rolling Over

Rolling over, wanting to hold you so;
cold in bed, want to cuddle you so,
but reaching over I find just an extra pillow.

Aren’t here to kiss my face,
waking without your hand on my face;
no green eyes to warm this empty space.

Getting up s’only easy for the sunrise; 
chest full of lead, I watch the sun rise.
Sorry hun, can’t help these tears in my eyes.

Knew we wouldn’t last at Persey’s Place,
said we’re as different as eggs styles at Persey’s Place.
Tried for sunny-side up, but scrabbled was our case.

Swapped Christmas gifts to say our goodbyes;
gave you a poem to say my goodbye,
who’d thought you’d give a fucking bow tie?

Saw you last, smiling and warm.
Wrapped in her arms, you were smiling and warm; 
hope she’ll keep that smile a norm.

Rolling over, glad I got to hold you so.
Cold, but awake, happy I cuddled you so; 
had my time to love you, now to let you go


Matte, black finish; spinning.
A thud, a pop, a hum; then everything.

"Love Poem #137" by Sarah Kay

I will wake you up early
even though I know you like to stay through the credits.

I will leave pennies in your pockets,
postage stamps of superheros
in between the pages of your books,
sugar packets on your kitchen counter.
I will Hansel and Gretel you home.

I talk through movies.
Even ones I have never seen before.

I will love you with too many commas,
but never any asterisks.

There will be more sweat than you are used to.
More skin.More words than are necessary.

My hair in the shower drain,
my smell on your sweaters,
bobby pins all over the window sills.

I make the best sandwiches you’ve ever tasted.
You’ll be in charge of napkins.

I can’t do a pull-up.
But I’m great at excuses.

I count broken umbrellas after every thunderstorm,
and I fall asleep repeating the words thank you.

I will wake you up early
with my heavy heartbeat.
You will say, Can’t we just sleep in, and I will say,
No, trust me. You don’t want to miss a thing.