This week featuring Kate Cuellar!
by Kate Cuellar
After lengthy months of internal review, Management has handed down a short document, detailing its position on issues relating to the bed. Management acknowledges past failures in this area but feels that the formalization of policy will benefit all parties–Management included–moving forward.
MANIFESTO OF MY BED
The bed is the single most vulnerable place in the home of a human person. The bed is eminently respectable and defenseless. It is ancient and quiveringly exposed.
The bed is a designated piece of furniture in the private room of the human person. It is most often where she sleeps. Sometimes however, in travel or disaster, she must carry her bed around inside her. The absence of the physical bed makes no change as to its essential character. It is only that sometimes, she must be the bed. And, that is to say, without her, the bed is quite empty.
The bed is where she goes to rehearse for Death.
The bed is where she thinks and plans and hates herself for that stupid thing she said when she was twelve.
The bed is where she lies awake in fear and in happiness.
The bed is where she prays for love and, sometimes still, for protection from love.
The bed is, she finds, the best place to speak to the dead.
The bed is where the unfortunate human person succumbs to the biological need for sleep even at the risk of being devoured by predators, set upon by brigands, or missing out on something really interesting.
As it is a necessary haven of emotional and physical security, the bed is an almost hysterically dangerous place in the life of a modern human person.
It is therefore necessary for Management to codify a number of best-practice policies into official
LAWS OF MY BED
which every guest is subject to.
Guests include all friends, lovers, and passing travellers; all are welcome only on invitation.
-The bed is for loving in.
-The bed is for sleeping in.
-The bed is a place for kindness, always.
-The bed is a place for enthusiastic consent, only.
-The bed is a place where the pragmatism and sense of the standing world may be joyfully abandoned. You must dream in the bed.
-And you must never, yes never, tell a lie.
-The bed is not a place to hold an argument. If you must argue, you must get up.
-Confidences made in the bed are sacred.
-All bedtime stories, lullabies, chants, and sundry magic spells of protection are at the discretion of the giver and must be accepted.
-Management will adhere to these laws. The bed is not a garden for growing tyrants.
-In case of predators or brigands, always wish goodnight sweetly.
-And be kind and sincere when speaking the first words of the new day.
Thank you for your attention.
You, a Eulogy
by Alexander Gudding
It has taken me an ocean;
to now decide to write to you
with the curtains lit from outside,
and send my body back through to
that wealth replete and golden hue,
the marks worn in and scrapes retained.
The blush it brings, a tensing jaw,
the things you thought you’d live to lose.
Memory doesn’t sever itself.
So I’d begin to spell in snow,
these are things you could have done right,
and these are ways you should have grown.
But those things drip deep, faced with light;
the lake, it’s surface now leaps round
and might of water in its weight,
squeezes out all I thought I’d known.
For months my lungs, amphibian,
with anger, learned to breathe again.
Forcing liquid into hot air;
or engines left on in the heat.
This was a wrestling incarnate,
I came to find, without a cause.
A flight through timeless fear and force
enough to loosen want, and worse,
obey a loneliness that lives,
in every part of every day,
and can commit itself to you,
though I pass it still on my way.
I might laugh and somehow find you,
as though a book in some old drawer.
Eventually pages yellow,
and mine are now invisible.
To pretend the rock still quivers,
I cannot say I feel the same.
The alley brings a certain night
that no one feels along the way,
places once fraught with many lines,
tread over and over again;
now glisten and bleed their true sight.
We touched these stones more than we know.
Follow my voice, I hear them say,
remember your fear, once laid here.
But with the passing cloud I know,
the past will yet remain alone.
Tossing through that smoke long ago
with an old an’ bent cigarette,
we inhale out back in the cold.
Our bodies a shiver, out late.
Can we tell yet, no clarity
will grace this time of living night.
Stars are meant for long ago, but;
a hand can stretch, and keep the time.
There’s no set path for such a loss,
and no one seems to yell or rail,
though closure can be such a thrill;
no such luxury as a line.
Initially, they’re a stranger
initially, it’s just the spark.
Eventually, a new static
eventually, a harmony.