Blog Forum, 2:1

Welcome to Toad’s Blog Forum. Here’s where you’ll contribute to our issue-ly blog. If we love your response, we’ll ask you to send more for publication in our next forum.

This is our featured artist from last week’s Forum. Check last issue’s Forum to see his improv poem.

Jay Sizemore


These places are not permanent,
the trees you climbed

are taller, limbs broken by storms,
are picnic tables and firewood.

The creeks you waded are wider,
littered with beer cans and shopping bags,

are dry. The streets you walked
have extra lanes, different cracks

in different concrete, dingy shadows
cast from storefronts with dark windows.

The people who were there,
have stranger’s faces with similar voices,

are not there anymore.
As ice in crevices breaks

apart the surface of stone,
time builds its scars

in the mirror, of everything known.
Even now, it happens to you.


This issue we’re featuring a little poem we loved. Imitate or take it to a separate dimension. Be brave and spontaneous, or come back with tactics.

We will post your poem, essay, painting, song, anything, so long as it is creative, and talks to the works at hand.

Please be patient and take a moment to register with our blog. This will help us eliminate spammers.


Jamison Crabtree

in eden; there was a man a woman; a tgi friday’s

; with good service that your parents would be alright going to get dinner at; there was super slow-mo and fast forward; and they weren’t mutually exclusive so the hummingbird and the turtle were fine with each other; and there was background music and it set the proper tone for sleeping under a tree or jumping off the edge of a quarry and breaking your head at the bottom; there was even appropriate music for when your head was growing back together; there was a way to put your fingers to your lips that would let you talk to the birds; there was a big purple army tank and hand grenades and those other grenades with the stick coming out of them like some robotic drumstick and there were flowers; and readymades; and a few nice Picasso pieces that you could press your skin against without hurting them; and there were sculptures of most of the animals that never existed; but not all of them; and you you you; you could ride them all; without worrying about being asked to leave; and there were fruit platters; and a school where you could learn how to draw boobies and wieners or make comfortable furniture or brew up new drugs; or you could even learn to create the illusion that there was a bird in your heart and a hare in your hat and that there was never room in your sleeves for anything but arms; it was eden; like I said; so the moon didn’t yet have a face to judge us with and so our nights were still secret and eden was a miserable place to be; because consequence was impossible; because spilling juice across the floor was no different than having to bury your parents in separate holes two weeks apart from each other;

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