‘Twas a duel between friends, under no friendly pretense
Though over before I put up my first defense
Our friendship our masks, our benevolence the foils
And both of us richer from knowing the spoils
Your blade was a razor, mine merely a toy
Your skill of a master, and mine of a boy
This challenge I issued, I had no right to make
Forgive me of this foolish mistake.

In my black dress I meet Mac in his tux;
he stops and says, Man,
what a fox.
Up the stairs is the crush
of noise, rushing, thumping,
shaking the walls and the ground.
We don’t count our glasses from the big
champagne fountain,
we cant count anymore anyhow.
They’re shoving the couch to the side
to make room, the music wailing, huge.
We kick off our shoes
dancing, we are
gasping for air out the window, shouting
hellos to the drunks two floors down.

He pulls me away from the hot loud downstairs
up the steps to the deck on the roof, where
under the clouds the sky rises like proof
of god.

                           We’re so close to it here.
The city’s lights a carpet of stars
down below. I start to dance in slow circles alone
and Mac smokes, the wisps thinning out on the wind.
beneath us, the city is singing.

---

And thanks to Bakari for the image of rooftops and breathing.

From the highest rooftop, take a breath

Feel the deep space in your chest

Scream to the city, to the world, then to the sky

And know that everyone hears your cry

A shrug of the shoulders, they go on their way

Nothing to do, even less to say

As the breath leaves your lungs, you go back down below

The echoes of your voice heard by you alone

Hey guys, krickenbacher43 and I have been working on a This Right Now community forum for the past week. We are happy to announce that everything is up and running at http://thisrightnow.darkbb.com. We may have a few kinks to work out, but we will resolve them when they come up. Feel free to register if you'd like to get to know your fellow blog contributors.

Note, you will not be allowed access to the forum until an administrator has confirmed your registration. Be patient. This process should take no longer than 12 hours. 24, if we're sleeping.

If you have any questions, feel free to catch me (sombreaulait) or krickenbacher43 (icepsyco) on AIM.

I hope to see everyone posting soon. :)

There aren’t many cars around on a Sunday. Up here, its still a day of rest. A few lazy sedans drive the speed limit along a street lined with buildings, and occasional trees that have lost their leaves to the late November chill. An import store has a sign out front that reads “out of business.” A man walks briskly through the late day air, one arm waving as he walks, the other holding onto some unknown bundle of a package. The sun sets bright yellow, coming through the lines of clouds, coming all the way from Mt. Washington to cover the sky here, by the bay, with parallel lines, like indents on a sky’s notebook page, which the sun must peak out from under as it glows brightly, its one last gasp before being silenced for the coming night. Still not used to the sky going dark so early. The clocks turn back, but little else seems to. The wind beats against the window, creaking it, pushing, threatening to break through, to bring people back to a time without reinforced windows, without windows at all, to when there was just the wind, the sun, and the elements. From this height, many more homes are visible through the skeleton trees that inhabit the suburbs, like any dark Halloween story, there are no leaves, just ghouls. No one walks through the moonwalk, and the natural goodness of Maine is still, guarded by a phalanx of trucks bearing its name. Roman sentries, they guard from the uncultured mass of sedans as a high-end Plymouth rolls up to them. Welcome, general.
Inside, beside the chair, a large collection of hardcovers. The history of the world, filed, put away, gathering dust. Waiting to be read. In vain. The Birth of the Modern Era: World Society 1815-1830…when is that going to be read? Next to it, the diaries of a man called Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. Here, in this same wind, clouds, trees as anyone, diaries. Here, published. Gathering dust. Whose thoughts will be worth the most? Copywriten, 1921, by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt…a picture, the man himself, seated, robed, his great cloths draping over a witness’s chair. His grim, white, clean shaven face stares into the camera. Caption says 1861, he was looking into that camera for a long time. On the computer: a web cam. Click, click, click, click. Four pictures, three seconds. No robes in this one, but the same face, albeit unshaven. Who has read Wilfrid Scawen Blunt’s diaries? Who will read mine?
The wind bangs again against the window. Threatening Neanderthal, cave life, without light as the sun finally gives in and collapses over the horizon: the darkness coming from the west begins to creep over the bay as the man now walking with a hood and mittens over his black coat begins to disappear from view.

I stopped feeling poetry
and(…)
the sea doesn’t part
you don’t jump start my heart
my throat is seized and i don’t know
where to begin
or how to end

may i jump in and say
that my heart was in the right spot
but i cant stop thinking
about never having the chance
to let my heart dance
are we here forever
and is this it?

I’m imperfect
and(…)
you deserve better
so why are you still here
sitting by and waiting
and nothing ever happens
and we repeat the same old game
over and over again

i’m broken
and(…)
22 is not forever.

Welcome to This Right Now!

I know a lot of people. That's what this is really about. Most of them wouldn't be called artists - or rather, society might not call them artists. Mostly, they're receptionists, pizza guys, telemarketers, waitresses, lab technicians, nurse's aides, or students. They don't make art for a living. They work shit jobs and go to class and do their laundry and make mac 'n' cheese for dinner and maybe, if they have a minute, they make a little art. If there's time. There usually isn't time.
Most of these people are happiest when they are making things. Whether it's photography, sewing, or sketching, art is an important part of who they are, even if they can't subsist on it. But it gets pushed to the wayside to make room for more important or more pressing things like feeding the cat or washing the dishes.
What we really wanted was a way to provide an audience, share what we've made, and encourage one another. We wanted to come together and push each other. Forget the laundry or your favorite TV show; it can wait. Come here, make something, show us.
Hopefully this blog will do exactly that.


On that note, I'll leave you with a poem I've been working on.

---

on the playground: the patter
of little feet
their tiny shrieks,
singing a song from the Lion King
and walking by,
I’m remembering what we said in third grade
that no matter what our age,
we’d be sisters and bridesmaids
and help raise each other’s kids

but when we were sixteen you had a daughter
and I’ve never seen her
or even met her father
but she’s the same age that you were
on the first day of kindergarten,
when you were wearing polka dots
and sneakers.

it’s been five years
two thousand miles
and I’ve still never seen your baby girl smile

baby girl
why’d you do this to yourself?
shelf your whole life
for some dude and his dick
when we both knew in a pinch
you could get rubbers for free at the Indian clinic

but all you ever wanted
was a ring on your finger
your man coming back from a long day at work
a nursery painted pink
or blue
four walls
curtains drawn
no view

I’d call
if I could find your number
or remember your mother’s
maybe one day I will.
I'll dial and wait for some bravery
to make its way through me,
and finally say,
hey,
how are you?

---

And once again: welcome to this right now.

Under construction.