Or acting in space

What made her sweat was never exertion anymore. She forgot what exertion, real exertion, was like living in an anti-gravity space. Working at the terminal sounded ‘cool’ as it would have been called in the past, like some new age shopping center when new age was new. Now it was just any other age, even with boundless advances in technology life was still complicated and she would still sweat. Always her sweat would be generated by the pounding of her heart, the anxieties of lateness, lacking and looking imperfect.

Most of the time, she wore a helmet all day so…

never stopped working

accessing my own amazement

able to adapt to less

finding new freedom

in creative restraints

shrugging off the circumstances

always less than ideal

in variety and scope

accelerating out of this old way

suddenly I am so alive in silence

when before I needed

a Marshall stack a mile high

to even feel a pinprick.

the astronomical reaction

once was virtue

now quelled

providing a system of questions

to support or suppress

that lingering panic

after every snap decision

Case in point:

Should I have left the voicemail?

Should I have deleted the number?

Should I have thrown out the calculator?

Should I have let my sum be none

and let life fly with that?

And here I do not spring into action, here I close my eyes, and smile knowing where ever they arrive upon opening will amaze me.

My life is all dish soap and mismatched lids,

no one sees.

They think I’m ready for kids.

I’m getting on in years

I live in a world that no one knows

surrounded by people, but always alone.

Just by luck I guess,

I’d get into this mess.

I’m drawing faces on objects

that are pronouncing me King.

Personified and so alive,

locked in with all my things.

I wish I was as honest

as my yardstick was with me.

There’s something wrong with how I get along.

It’s ripe with agony.

What a blessing it is to be darkened by the sun and lived to tell it.

“What a gift it is to bring a boy into this world and give him what he wishes, even if it’s the fireworks.” Grandma has no boys, and I see in her smile she’s like ‘good fucking luck’…

My mother in my house and on my good side.

My brother eating well, but far away.

I have enough for tonight

to eat and this month we’ve settled out well.

The air is clear summer is here and the fire has a beautiful smell.


Apparently ‘organic’ creates fear among consumers

about the safety of our food supply.

Are we making too much trash with our poisoned middle existence?

You never know until you know

Point is, you don’t really know anyone you don’t know if your ex-boyfriend is a rape apologist or if your roommate has morals

let alone how much trash they’re making

and if it’s really trash.

Apparently, I’m not allowed to be myself trash anymore trash so I’ll just trash

analyze everyone’s captions on Instagram trash.

I’ll talk to his booking agent,

I’ll talk to his picture,

I’ll talk to his trash,

but I’m giving up trash talk and that’s final.

Here on my island I bring all the best people, but I usually don’t think “ah, the best people!” I see them as the most of what they are, whatever that is. The last person I brought on, I met in the cafeteria sitting at table number 3, sitting alone, drawing wolves, but not like the kind I draw or the ones in the badly printed bio text books.

The pen is an extension of her hand, her hair is so long and rich it must be fertilized with ideas but the thing that convinces me she should know about…

A non-movie-review review, from a person who has not experienced sex work first hand

Hustlers rocketed me into the sick battle that sexiness can be and the great joy that comes with being empowered in the company of other women to be truly sexy, whatever that means to you. I think of all the countless ways women have been pitted against each…

The afterglow of the bulb overhead stains the fresh darkness. My eyes are glued open to witness it all.

Mr. Dylan, I finally understand why you had to step away. Goodwill and the poetry of observation from a young misfits experience are too easily dismissed or misconstrued. I am 24 rapidly approaching 25 looking for my motorcycle accident, my reinvention. The prejudgements of my peers and elders, their constant analysis and questioning my intentions makes me recoil at best and lash out at worst. It drives home a paranoia I have never experienced before.

Those who love me comfort me…

The shadow of the adjacent building severed her window from the sunlight. It made her feel like a cave dweller from below. When she was in the sun, an impossible wave f courage seeped into her being, things didn’t feel so hard. Things seemed trivial when an enormous ball of gas hovered close by. Money, messages, to do’s seemed of little consequence.

Money was one thing in particular that made her remember her window was just below the shadow line, even when she was out and about. She didn’t feel like it was something really to worry about, though she…

I was not yet alive when Do The Right Thing came to theaters across America. I grew up on the opposite coast from my parents who raised me in separate homes in and outside of Charlottesville, Virginia. The first time I watched Do the Right Thing, I borrowed my fathers university of Viriginia ID to check it out of the media library there. The movie changed the way I think about cinema, storytelling and neighbors. The neighborhood where I went to school was primarily African American. …

Sophia Valera

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