LOVE LEFT HER INTIMATE ABODE SWOOPED DOWN UPON THE LOCKED UP SANCTUARIES TO RELEASE THE RITES AND LIBATIONS FOR THE PARTED SOULS     THIS AFTER THE SENTIMENT OF THE PEOPLE'S CONCERN AFTER THE CHURCH LOCKED UP THE INTER PASSAGE TO ALL SOULS GONE ON STARTING IN THE EUROPEAN CENTER KEEPING THE CONNECTION WITH ANCESTORS AND THE SOULS IN THE LAND OF THE LIVING CLOUDY, CLOGGED UP AND IN DISARRAY   LOVE HAD TO INTERVENE, Y'ALL BECAUSE LOVE KNEW THAT; RIP VAN WINKLE SLEPT FOR TWENTY YEARS AND THE WORLD HAD PASSED HIM BY   BUT THE CHURCH BEEN A-SLEEPING UNDER IT'S BEREAVEMENT FOR TWENTY CENTURIES AND EVEN WHEN EARTH SHOOK THEM THEY HAVE NOT RESPONDED TO THE CALL THEY JUST GO DEEPER AND DEEPER INTO THEIR DOG-MATIC INSENSITIVE CANNONS   LIBATIONS LIBATIONS RELEASE THE LIBATIONS AND RITES UNCHAIN THEM IN ORDER FOR THE CHILDREN TO POUR LIBATIONS AND THE ELDERS TO RECEDE THE RITUALS PASS   BUT LET'S CALL ON THE CHURCH PLEAD-REASON WITH THE CORPORATE CHURCHES: DIDN'T YOU HEAR; C

  Dreams can be friendly, but they can also be pretty fucking mean. I often have those nightmares of situations that have happened, but they always tend to be a thousand times worse. One moment I’m gleefully slicing through zombies with double-wielding axes like I’m a character in one of the many video games I play, then suddenly I turn around and my family is behind me, thinking maybe they’re my adventuring party and they’re here to help. One moment, a zombie is about to swing at me with its rotten, claw-like fingernails and then my dad jumps in the way to beat it down. Then, he turns around and magically the cemetery battlefield we were in turns into my childhood living room.   What was once a happy moment of my superhero, the one I trust with all my being, has rapidly turned into him screaming at me and I’m doing everything in my power to hold back tears and my own anger, surging through me like an electrical current trying to find it’s open circuit. The circuit is fou

  "You're Not One Of Us," she said "But You Chose To Be Anyways." liminal no escaping the tightrope liminal we stand between the worlds liminal you're neither here nor there! was the bridge ever consulted about whether or not it wanted to be a bridge? what if you could be only one thing clearly defined, without blurred edges tok tok tok head bangs against the wall please make it stop i don't want to hold the world together anymore

 

 

 

 

 J. Michael Norris will be our Featured Writer on Mots de Louisiane (motsdeouisiane.com) this September 2022! He has been participating in Louisiana Words since 2019. J. Michael has submitted very strong pieces making him the most viewed writer of 2022, nearing 1,000 views. He is from Baton Rouge, but he now resides in New Orleans soon to be Mandeville. Look for the complete works of J. Michael as well as a ranking of his pieces! Plus, we will share past radio interviews and a new interview coming! You can catch J. Michael at the next live show: Louisiana Words Live: Halloween on October 2nd at The Allways Lounge & Cabaret in New Orleans. We can't wait!

 

Oh the nights of lazily drifting gazes, as my fingernails gently scrape your back. Those lulling whispers of comings and goings. Oh how sweet it is to be with you! In the dusk of treasured thoughts with no remorse or withered sight, nor distractions of the days worries, we lucidly dream. Oh how soft, fresh, and wet like dew your kisses. How precious it feels to be with you! In the wake of the night beneath shadows and stars, our smooth ageless skin blending together. And the sparkling beads of love sweat as we move. Oh how enchanting it is to be with you! Oh yes, to be with you, to be forever tied and always kissed with frolicking faith. To be your trusting, loving, eternal partner. Oh yes to be with you, to be with you is true.

  I feel like I was taught really early how I was supposed to feel when I did something “wrong.” I mean, I don’t think it was just me. How many movies have you seen where the heroine makes a mistake and grapples with her guilt? The consequences of poor decision making seemed like the foundation of every story I’d heard since I was a child. So, when Steve's lips pressed against mine that night in June, I knew how I was supposed to feel. I had kissed another boy who wasn’t my boyfriend. I knew this should make me feel, at least a little bit, guilty. So, when I didn’t feel like I had done anything wrong I was worried. Why didn’t I feel the things that twenty years of storytelling told me I was supposed to feel? Maybe another person would have just let that go, but for some reason I couldn’t. I started to think there was something wrong with me. I started to ask myself how far would I have to go for this to feel wrong?                It took less convincing than I thought to get Steve

 

  “See ya later aviator,” Lies the sign over the door to Hell Where every flight you want to take it delayed. In hell, the only destinations are ones with Long lines, ones with screaming children, Or Florida.   You need an outlet? You can’t have an outlet Everybody’s using all the outlets to charge the phone They’ll use to hold loud, familiar conversations over FaceTime. You’ll get to learn about Aunt Carol’s rash, and David’s foreign girlfriend, And “why can’t you just date somebody normal for once?” And “why can’t you just put out when I get home for once?” And “Hello? Can you hear me? Turn up your volume, mom.” “You don’t need to hold the phone so close to your face, dad.” “You don’t need to be such a dick, man.”   You think you’ll find a seat? You might find a seat. It won’t be a comfortable seat. It’ll be bleak and it’ll be plastic, like the life you led that sent you here And it’ll be wedged between two people whose idea of personal space

 

               This bed was once a garden where his skin smelled of jasmine. The first time we laid in this garden, his scent reminded me of New Orleans in spring, where I could easily come across a blooming growth of jasmine covering a wrought iron fence and lose myself in the ecstasy of breathing my favorite flower.  Tonight was not a night for having him bloom. After the argument, the same one we’ve come back to again and again, we went to bed without the familiar acceptance of non-resolution. We both turned our backs to each other, pulling tight the bedding that covered our bodies and the distance between us. I clutched the blanket until my own clinging reminded me of his. I let go, and I let him greedily pull the cover to him. He curled his body tight like a seed buried under the covers. The sickly-sweet smell of rejection and blame came up from the bed of dead leaves like the smell of compost. Each tainted breath was a reminder of all he had said. I laid there curled on my side