What I Pour, I Drink
︎︎︎ Jason
︎ Dec 16, 2025
If this, my wretched form, is here to stay,
A wilting green in waterlogging clay,
That flowers still by plenty, bears no fruit:
A season, always blooming, never buds.
But I am not a plant. I cannot root.
I walk and talk and seek the scent of fumes.
My lips I press to smoke before I pray,
And sip at Coke without my daily bread.
Strange rite to pour a cola on a shrub
And watch the bubbles rise and fizzle, hiss;
They slowly sink against the mud—and pop:
Shrubs cannot tell a succor from a slight.
But I was made by God to tend the Garden;
And God was made to me, that I might drink.
A wilting green in waterlogging clay,
That flowers still by plenty, bears no fruit:
A season, always blooming, never buds.
But I am not a plant. I cannot root.
I walk and talk and seek the scent of fumes.
My lips I press to smoke before I pray,
And sip at Coke without my daily bread.
Strange rite to pour a cola on a shrub
And watch the bubbles rise and fizzle, hiss;
They slowly sink against the mud—and pop:
Shrubs cannot tell a succor from a slight.
But I was made by God to tend the Garden;
And God was made to me, that I might drink.
Jason writes about God, women, and the problem of words. He argues with the people he loves and calls it prayer. He hopes this will lead us to mercy.
Also by Jason: Eclipse of the Public Body (Given Freely)
2009
︎︎︎ Writers Life Tips
︎ Dec 13, 2025
The pain is unreal
I don’t think you get it
I can weep at the sight of a year
2009, just to see that causes an ache
Seeing tender artifacts from people’s lives long before you knew them
Long after you stopped knowing them too
I don’t think you get it
I can weep at the sight of a year
2009, just to see that causes an ache
Seeing tender artifacts from people’s lives long before you knew them
Long after you stopped knowing them too
Writers Life Tips began writing at the age of four on September 12th, 2001.
Among digital brides
︎︎︎ Naomi Leigh
︎ Dec 12, 2025
Peter tells me black tie in mid-afternoon is perverse, Eveningwear in the day mere steps from brown-shoe-black-belt.
But—customs be damned!—they present to me in spurts
Of pixelated technicolor as my eyes begin to melt
Into mobile images in my hand of a getaway car turned hearse
And old friends turned strangers and feelings so long unfelt.
Tulle and taffeta and Chantilly lace hug the bride
Who hugs an old friend, hair more receded, yet arm firm by her side.
II
It’s not the fires of envy that burn in my soul
Nor pangs of nostalgia that freeze me in my walk.
But the absence of something, the presence of a hole
Where once there was a path, and now but grass and stalk.
And unfolding before is the life I may have known
Had I stayed the charted course, had I not deviated on my walk.
Oh, tender heart, you know so many things the digital brides never will
But are you richer for the knowledge? Have you got more than your fill?
When you watch them dance to old crooners belting Earth Wind & Fire
In italicized fonts and millennial captions unearthed in red rings
Is it a sphere of youthful symphony? Is your soul alit with desire?
Or does your mind wander to like a living child to more mundane things?
Compared to the eternal bond of matrimony, what could be higher?
Than what leads men to cavort and drives women to sing.
Traveling too often leads you no home to return to
And armoires give way to the bags of mine I’ve strewn.
IV
Life is not a static thing that can be captured in a flash
Nor the bloodied toes of ballerinas who sauter from first position.
It’s the paradox of movement and the chafing of the gash
And the vibrations of the timpani echoing in Tchaikovsky’s rendition.
Oh, long diverged paths before me, so impenetrable your railings as I pass
Do my ungrateful eyes dare glance your way? Will you derail my mission?
Oh bright green light before me, oh wintry gravel road I’ve chosen
How am I to know if I’ve made it or I’m frozen?
But—customs be damned!—they present to me in spurts
Of pixelated technicolor as my eyes begin to melt
Into mobile images in my hand of a getaway car turned hearse
And old friends turned strangers and feelings so long unfelt.
Tulle and taffeta and Chantilly lace hug the bride
Who hugs an old friend, hair more receded, yet arm firm by her side.
II
It’s not the fires of envy that burn in my soul
Nor pangs of nostalgia that freeze me in my walk.
But the absence of something, the presence of a hole
Where once there was a path, and now but grass and stalk.
And unfolding before is the life I may have known
Had I stayed the charted course, had I not deviated on my walk.
Oh, tender heart, you know so many things the digital brides never will
But are you richer for the knowledge? Have you got more than your fill?
When you watch them dance to old crooners belting Earth Wind & Fire
In italicized fonts and millennial captions unearthed in red rings
Is it a sphere of youthful symphony? Is your soul alit with desire?
Or does your mind wander to like a living child to more mundane things?
Compared to the eternal bond of matrimony, what could be higher?
Than what leads men to cavort and drives women to sing.
Traveling too often leads you no home to return to
And armoires give way to the bags of mine I’ve strewn.
IV
Life is not a static thing that can be captured in a flash
Nor the bloodied toes of ballerinas who sauter from first position.
It’s the paradox of movement and the chafing of the gash
And the vibrations of the timpani echoing in Tchaikovsky’s rendition.
Oh, long diverged paths before me, so impenetrable your railings as I pass
Do my ungrateful eyes dare glance your way? Will you derail my mission?
Oh bright green light before me, oh wintry gravel road I’ve chosen
How am I to know if I’ve made it or I’m frozen?
Naomi Leigh is a writer based in NYC.
Reuven
︎︎︎ Toxic Brodude
︎ Dec 11, 2025
Replace my lips
with razor blades,
and kissing you
becomes
fun again.
with razor blades,
and kissing you
becomes
fun again.
Toxic Brodude is an English writer.
Birthday Puppy
︎︎︎ Emily K. Sipiora
︎ Dec 10, 2025
All my life to love
all the very best
And when the whole world hurts you
I will kill the rest
all the very best
And when the whole world hurts you
I will kill the rest
Emily K. Sipiora is a Mexican American poet and Creative Director of the internet literature podcast VICTIM RADIO.
Also by Emily: All Life