170/365

Alyn Carlson

I found quiet in the shade of a drift wood root. The shoreline easing toward, back these days, I'm never really sure what it means to relax. To settle. Is this what obtaining a library card feels like? Grit, sand in the crook of my toes? In one place long enough to show it. Spotted rocks more revealing than tired eyes. Where did all this stuff come from anyway? Do you ever think of something and not have time to write it down? I cannot tell the difference between a bald eagle and a plane other than by sound. 

 

[Image: Alyn Carlson]

169/365

Time told through a ferry horn letting everything know it’s leaving. This is your last opportunity to let a breeze blow. It’s stuffy in here. I stepped outside to take a phone call. The window is not mine. I see that now. If anyone ever tells you words words words, remember to respond. Spacial relation, depth perception and hallway glow. I flipped the switch of an old house and let it grow. 

[Image: Unknown]

164/365

Marie Burke

[Image: Marie Burke]

I'd rather study the context

of your face. Eat strawberries
in fields made of spit. Wrap my
collection of necklaces around words
made of the currency you swallow. Sweat

other wisdom. Instinct save extinction.
Where would you
like to? When would you be mouthed
and forgotten? This is all
in order to share a meal between point A and
point B.

Print out the directions and fold them
along seamlelessly, pocketside.
Windshield fate and fire
and fate.

163/365

Codi Ann Thomsen

Let's consider this movement
a harvesting a good night in the West
-ern regress.

Songs desire
pretty moons thinking
of my mother. It is easily ready to! 

Land of
flowers reflect definitions of body
not spring.

The Puget sound, former future
midnight croon. I last traveled a lullaby
for infinite ghost
like bridges over the Delta. 

There is decision in breathing, whoever they are telling you to do so. 

 

[Image: Codi Ann Thomsen]

162/365

Adams Carvalho

We all had dreams over night. Waking with ideas feeling too loose for our own grown skeletal formations. There is a need to remind moments: all that exists is water. Paper and pen is only a Matter, made up meaning, as one step forward, we have complete control over our art. 

so write,
wear purple shorts! Dance to the silence! 
 

 

[Image: Adams Carvalho]

161/365

Trini Schultz

 

I woke up this morning with the harbor still below my lungs. No one ever told me I would not be able to think. The wind is my only friend. Nights fall regardless of what you own. Sometimes I steal the light from a window sill, and wear it around my neck like it's the only thing I could make a decision on. Do you ever reach for the handle of a car door that is not yours, and let go just as quickly out of regret? I will be the first person in the room to admit that I have a hard time letting go. So much so, I don't answer a phone call while wearing my bathrobe. 

 

[Image: Trini Schultz]

 

160/365

Simon Prades

Window glass blues.
I have seen all I know.

The golden hour dusts
painted limbs. All the faint hairs
on my arms stand when a Madrona tree
shakes its skin. And finds the floor, the one
I am standing on. 

 

[Image: Simón Prades]

159/365

Thank god for the person who invented public transportation and the other person who coined the phrase public transportation, and the other person who donates a quarter for every passenger, and to the person who says “If I had a dollar every time I heard…” I give my left heart to the wind, the planet spinning so that I could watch the full moon rise towards tomorrow. You move me, coffee, bread yeast and water.  

Oscar Lett

[Image: Oscar Lett]

158/365

http://www.liekeland.nl/shop-oud/postkaartboot/

Can you talk a little bit about what it means
to not remember something? What is the art
on the wall? I feel stronger than I did a year ago,
but in ways I will never know. I was once told,
palm in palm of another stranger, I would become

a child
again. She said I would forget why I am sad-
dened by the landscape passing by tree-lines
closer. My perspective cuts through the truth,
and I begin again every time I open my eyes. 

[Image]

157/365

Janis Goodman

The library does not
own a couch. Everyone would take a nap

reading a book if the sun was the afternoon and leaves danced through. In which

libraries all across the earth smell like
cookies are in the oven and they're
almost ready. I think about home often
and it feels like it was never really there.

When I look up here are rows and rows
and rows of books someone once touched
and an oar moved us back in time
and I forgot my watch this morning.
It was left on the dresser
I no longer own but finds a window
at the end of a river I once called my
mother. Water
color this, lick that

stamp, and send me to her land,
the one with a rose engraved into stone. 

 

[Image: Janis Goodman]

156/365

Laura Berger

I did the ol' laundry without soap
thing. Microwaves, being a strange test
of cockroach strength. There are few
days when I have time to filter my water. 

I ran to the coffee shop to use the internet,
breaking off a piece of a two day old muffin
to pay for it. There are ten gallons of milk
sitting on the counter. Like when an elephant
uses its trunk to give itself a bath.

This is more a note to myself than anything else:
I will not work in an environment where
a uniform kicks my ass. 
 

 

[Image: Laura Berger