The world is overflowing with art. I started GLITCHWORDS to provide a home for some of it. Short poems. Words that can be digested in a world built on status updates.
The poems collected here stand alone. They also belong together – they are a holding of breath, an explosion of suffering, an acceptance of movement. I hope they move you as they have moved me.
Kris Hiles, EIC
It’s so quiet
you can hear a pin
from a hand grenade.
Lilia Marie Ellis
Have you ever loved cruelty
held before your face—
its softness, eyes, its facade
lovely under the sun—
have you ever weaved
its gentle fingers in your own,
have you ever thought,
it is human beings
who are capable of this.
of black and white blurred
playing connect the dots
until an image returns
The Costly Mistake
Christine M. Estel
My new-for-seventh grade, gold-rimmed Calvin Kleins are resting
comfortably in the soft cloth, lining the case
I made for them was weak, my mother said
because “they’re too much money” we don’t even have
to get name brand things to fit in
the old pair I had to live, and
See, the CKs were gone —
into the pile of clothes under my bed? the trash? some kind vortex?
or the lost and found
during the last week of school.
spectral like the wind could scatter the atoms of me out
where the light touches it hits back off of nothing
through unvibrating space
I watch from every emptiness in the room,
we can’t, I know how to, time to, watch me, if it won’t
anew, from the heart, before, from the beginning, I’ll make it;
here I am, the, I can’t believe we’re,
again, line, from the top, out, to believe;
where were we when it, it all, you
out, pure, as a sign, long ago, with so much feeling, to dream, to fall, pulling away
The Kill Fee
Kara Lynn Amiot
Sometimes I think that I will gladly
pay with small quakes,
with the shudder that trembles through
between those brief kisses.
But this time I feel the tremors –
deeply unsettled, almost the eruption.
Your nails are like half-moons
that bite, raising goose bumps –
I see the red and imagine a hot, fiery fury
spilling out on my skin,
stinging inside of my mouth,
painting the side of your face
when spit flies.
missing the mark
after years being her paramour, I became
shoes where she cannot wiggle her toes
sweaters with sleeves too short
drive-through meals with no condiments
red lines from spell check when she types one wrong letter
french fries without salt
lipstick a shade too pink.
it’s quiet in midtown.
my train ride—quick and uneventful.
I rush up the stairs,
and the savory, greasy smell of sabrett
hits my nose—immediately.
despite being vegetarian,
I had no choice
but to enjoy a hotdog.
The shoreline burns with
each touch of blood fog
to the quartered velvet sea—
the heart of the world
reduced to cindery uncertainty.
to feel as if
it could start
through the fog, incandescent
The moss, dew honeyed
Our limbs, lukewarm
negotiations of mint, forgiveness vetiver, demands and recourse
Tangents align in rabid
geometry from start
to goodbye, unceasing bow-wave
to the future, a cresting mountain