Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • my children,
    the days of fruition are over.
    the last of the flower children are fading,
    transfigured into cinderblock components of
    Corporate America.
    their blood, once vibrant torrents,
    now trickles in rivulets, blurring into sludge.
    they were mauled by ghouls,
    euphonious horror-shrieks
    rending the air.
    they've melted into their Mother.

    who now will blossom, watered by
    the corrosive tears of Mom and Dad when
    "I want to be an
    gurgles, irrepressible, out of red lips and pointed teeth
    like lifegiving ichor spouting from a god-struck stone in a
    vast Shiloh?
    small town big dream bohemians,
    starry-eyed idealists,
    romantic outcasts cynical, and
    even so,
    bubbling with effervescent hope.
    Omnipotent Souls beaten back
    by fear-blinded black and white standardized gridlines.
    "we are preparing you for the Real World" intone the iron-clads.
    Real World = monetary fulfillment.
    the two are synonymous in cold, analytic, computerized minds.

    withheld is the quintessential soul food rebel babes crave,
    suckling at the breast of bygone innovators.
    (un)sterile needles, tainted by culture and messy reality,
    inject colors sounds ideas into hollow veins.
    restore vitality to withered skeletal frames.

    my children, do not shrivel and die.
    flourish in cracks,
    resist pesticide societal gardeners
    pulling up weeds and vines.

    icy manacles crack in the glow of the analog sky.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.