Saturday, February 18, 2012

Telling Time

by P.B.

Inch by inch does the minute hand move. 
Tick by tick and tock by tock. 
The sound doing nothing to sooth. 
The anxious fidget in my nerves.

 Clock, dear clock, abide by time or humor my whim.
 But dare not to toy and play what game you do.
 Such frivolous hours should be a sin. 
I fear your father would have your hands. 

If I do not reach them first. 

Monday, February 6, 2012


by Kat White

I like the word adobe. It rolls easily in my mouth, sounding full and round. I like that the word itself is over 4,000 years old, it has sustaining power—it lasts. Adobe structures are sensible: they hoard heat in cold New Mexico nights and buffer from 120-degree July days. The cool clay slabs of earthy mud inherently know what to do, and when. The houses appear soft, almost spongy, but they aren’t at all. The façade is just that, a façade; adobe is deceptively strong. The dusty apricot of the sun-baked clay seems velvety to me, easy on the eyes, like the houses sprung up organically from the arid desert sands. Like they just belong there, naturally. Adobe.
I’m a wanderer, but I’m drawn toward that which isn’t and drawn towards those who aren’t. Kasey. The woman who makes me want to stay, anywhere, with her. We talk about moving to New Mexico, Taos mostly, putting down roots in those arid desert sands. Individually, we’ve drifted all over the country, but we’re ready to stay put now—together. We think we’re ready for adobe.