Mexican Federal Highway 182

On Wednesday I will publish a poem based off the writing prompt of a random Wikipedia article

Mexican Federal Highway 182

dirt in the treads
gravel crackle knocks into
the undercarriage– exhaust
even though I am unused– vapor
dream– monoxide dances
the carbon is coming home again

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Paul Lake

On Wednesday I will publish a poem based off the writing prompt of a random Wikipedia article

Paul Lake

For one summer we shared the sunrises,
the light rising past the sands of the Atlantic
through the lowland and into the Piedmont Plateau.

I stayed away from the city that summer,
away from the waves of people
constantly rising through the parks.

We couldn’t have closed the distance of time:
writing here in the future
of man in the past that I didn’t know.

Poems I’ve Lost

I tossed a notebook in the Chattahoochee River:
hardbound and green.

It was time, I was broken,
sitting on a limb reaching

for inspiration. I was
waiting. I attempted to.

I committed nothing to memory.

Next by fire. At night.
In the Blue Ridge Mountains.

This was with purpose.
A cardboard box that held.

The immaturity of lines
written on the backs.

of Six flag coupons. on whatever
scraps of paper that were at hand.

whatever visible pen handy.
The release and the weight.

of moving. I fed the flame
for hours watching the ink evaporate.

World worst open mic.

Helen Schamroth

On Wednesday I will publish a poem based off the writing prompt of a random Wikipedia article



Helen Schamroth

The difficulties of imagination
not from what goes beyond the page
but rather what is in the skin
and the paths of leaving.

The past is a mantra
where old memories loop and crest.

Present day presents in the curl
of a wave and the future froths
towards land.

I Dream of Fortitude

The white board dilemma
of never being fully clear
without the alcohol.

This is how we/you dream:
pushing against the wall,
waiting on the thread count,
cotton in our ears.

I could see my hand
in the rusted numbers–
a foundation of chrome
built by finger smudges
and hastily wiped sleeves.

My hand lifts from the cradle
as I pay for the pleasures of waiting:
timber and tone,
waiting:
timber and tone.

Yair, Scottish Borders

On Wednesday I will publish a poem based off the writing prompt of a random Wikipedia article

Yair, Scottish Borders

Today I might know
what I am talking about.

I find myself
considering the math
of the mouth of a river.

Of ancient kings
in modern leisure:

A row boat in the
middle of a lake;

of robes covered
in green jigs and blue spinners.

Where the vestments are a vest
with pockets full of crowns.