This week's theme was The Mind of a Poet. Think Again By Gannon Diving real pearls from a dry-docked vessel in some keyless footnote to the horror world, they look for that light-bulb (locked chest of cliché): seeing it all from a willing quill unfurled, dear reader, we present the ensuing mêlée. Shuffling the long graffiti streets of Earth, in some cloud capp'd realm of NYC feet, the poets can be that which they truly are: easy towering leaps, then cold, cold defeat in that space so near, so unattainably far. _________________________________________________________________ I Am a Poem By Justjoshinbyj I am a poem written quickly in the margin of a menu, malleable, hot, a spark, beginning sparse, a splash of color in the dark formed into awkward jutting consonants and gritty syllables. I’m primal, unrefined, repeating the mistakes of my ancestors and skirting clichés about immortality but stumbling onto subtle truths and all so suddenly breaking out into an archaic rhythm. I’m faint, quiet, but firm, out of excessive lines and silly metaphors I pull a grain of profound understanding from the depths of the past, shining between shadows of understated importance and clear crimson blades thrown skyward in plea. I’m obliquely aware of my purpose. I intend to end in a grand conclusion, linking novae to death, and solace to insanity, and all the smaller things that so quietly augment life, but really I end below in that great white silence at the bottom of the page.