Author: Libby King

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September Poetry Slam

September is the collision of old and new. Of summer ending and a new year in school beginning. Indian summer wears on for some and the air gets abruptly crisp out of no where. Doodling when we get distracted or writing memos on our wrists or back of our hands. It’s a time when you can forget and remember. You enter a basement door thats propped up on the side of the street. You double take, check the address and make sure it’s the right place. It is. You descend down dimly lit steps into a room that feels like red velvet. Glowing ruby lights and plush couches rimming the walls. Whiskey and jasmine tea are both being served in an assortment of antique tea cups. Some are straightening up pieces of paper and other have dog eared journals. The first person enters the heart center of the room and takes a breath. I didn’t think it was possible to be this tangled, Twisted by torsion force to the point where I’m just about to …