Stop motion animation has never looked finer. Laika Entertainment LLC, whose filmography includes 2012’s ParaNorman and 2014’s The Boxtrolls, have brought to life yet another solid feature, this time set in ancient Japan. Kubo and the Two Strings follows the narrative structure of a Japanese legend, complete with proverbs, supernatural plot devices, and other conventions of the form, which works both to the film’s advantage and disadvantage. The film follows Kubo (Art Parkins
His fingers across the clay ridges
Of my valleys, because he
Likes the way it sounds.
I’ve been showing him where I hide
My pockets of time, in the cavities
Of my back molars.
I’ve been painting my ribs
Blue to match the spokes of
The tires on the bike
He learned to ride as a boy.
I’ve been tying ribbons
From my eyelashes, to cover wallpaper
Roses that do not wilt.
I’ve been picking pieces of
Old flowers from my teeth
And throwing them in a jar
We see, therefore, how the modern modes of production and of exchange. by An oppressed class ████████ historically, has played a most revolutionary part. ████████ wherever it has got the upper hand, ████████ has stripped of its halo every occupation ████████ has torn away from the family ████████ has disclosed how it came to pass ████████ cannot exist without constantly revolutionizing the instruments of production We the People, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establi
I don’t want to forget.
I want it to linger. To make a nest in my body
And burrow in the depths of my being. Until it nibbles its way to the trigger,
And rage thrusts me forward;
Until my suffering heals the broken,
And moves the motionless: My pain will be felt
By everyone I touch. And by you,
Who touched the most precious parts of me. Without
Asking #ReaganSmith #Poetry #20162017
A man without a job
Parades around with a rusty old car key
And judgements far too abrasive to be helpful.
His pockets full of scratch tickets,
A beer belly that never dissipates for his
Fridge is filled but lacking food.
A spotless house with not a spec of dirt.
And a perfectly manicured lawn,
Spoiled by a broken down Pathfinder. He’s drained his wallet and the last sip in the bottle
And you’re constantly crying
Imagining a world without him.
Never does it cross h
I. Whiskey Ship There is a frozen piss stain in the snow
Beneath his hips and betwixt his haunches.
Just a bum, who succumbed to the butt
Of some cosmic joke. His fifth of bourbon beats in his fist as his
Handle of crimson life juice shatters
Against the pavement of his ribs.
Like the stars,
Reflecting off of the empty vessel on the sidewalk. It lays beside his starboard foot, lacking a
Boot with a toe protruding from a hole in woolen socks,
Nibbled on like a bit of
He who wants honey
must abide the bees.
But, the bees are going—
Our glazed eyes avert. I am the speakeasy,
I will tremble against the
amaranthine snows forever.
My brittle bones crumble, I crumble. You will encounter one million
different people in your whole life. As part of a world more meaningful. You read a gently worn book on dog fighting
and the dogs never win. This,
this is our history.
Intersectional, but indifferent. #JonHoel #Poetry #20162017
You wanted so badly to show me
All of your brain tissue on that couch
Sticky with tears on the television as
It moved in the wind in front of us
You spoke quietly and softly I watched
It and you with no words the leaves
Were carried away by the wind leaving
The gray asphalt gray like your brain
Now in front of me like your tears
I thought it was beautiful and I sat
Silently I knew you were trying so hard
And it kept dancing in front of us
Through the screen that r
Sybil waits for answers with one hand raised high and the other
pressed firmly against her neck. Her pulse gasps in time
with internal symphonies, but it is not life she strives toward.
Her soul rests where her head connects to her spine.
The lines of her vertebrae crisscross like an untranslatable vapor
or dusk, H-formation of grey matter filling the conclusions of her brain.
Sybil moves like a sleepwalker with words unsaid, she tilts
to one side where her eyes plead
a pattern emerges:
I flatten myself, turn
sharp corners—make edges
out of elbows, knees, ankles, wrists.
Fingers crack with a tap.
I fold my head to my chest, chest to my waist,
waist to my knees, knees to ankles, and ankles to feet—
A collapsing woman,
gossamer skin stretched
over dead eyes searching,
and starving for reclusion. #JuliaDaly #Poetry #20162017