Chris Whitenack, Writer
Recognize

So, I have been busy. Writing, submitting, publishing, physical therapy, and all around enjoying my life away from the Tumblrverse more and more.
I know, startling, right?
Our very own Jen(jayarrarr) even wrote a clever piece about a guy that was so jacked up on Tumblr that directly after being run over, or some such, he was using his nose to key in his predicament on his phone to update, bleeding out on the pavement without use of his arms. You’ll have to ask Jen the name of it. Heh, you’re welcome Miss, I’m sure you have all the time in the world to answer those inquiries. :-) The point being is some of us have a life away from the blue field, and that’s a good thing.

But I digress.

It occurred to me, because it truly isn’t something I think to look for, to scroll through and see if I have received any blue tags in the last couple of months. Simply to see if I needed to give up a word of thanks and praise to any of our editors. Hey, they deserve the recognition even more than we do, as far as I’m concerned. They’re like grocery and restaurant people working on Christmas, only they do it 24/7. Perhaps not the best metaphor, but I think you get my point. If you don’t, then ask around and find out what they have to do to serve you, you’ll be quite surprised and hopefully lose expectation and gain some appreciation.
So, I noticed two way cool things. One of them was no, not a single tag since a prose tag I got a while back(which means a lot more to me than poetry tags, because so rare and my fiction is where my heart lay) and the large amount of work I’ve posted.
Both of these made me smile. Huge. Face breaking huge.
See, the thing is this. I have gotten to the place where I *know* my writing is good. The kind of knowing that breeds more than confidence, but a quiet self-assurance that I am good at what I do, and have something to offer. Please don’t get me wrong, those blue tags from those hardworking editors have saved my creative ass on more than one occasion. I remember four years ago what a nervous mess I was posting up my poems. So self critical, so worried that people would laugh, or worse, ignore what I do. Yeah, recognition is important to me. So when I got those tags that saved my ass, I mean I was ready to give up. And anyone that knows me, knows I don’t give up. Ergo, those tags were a bigger deal than anyone would have known.

And that is the beauty of what I noticed this morning. It made me way happy to know I can write the way I do, as much as I do, and finally receive the recognition that matters most to me.

My very own.

Thank you community, I have reached the other side. Peace.

Love Of Form

chriswwriter:

Wherein love fails
there is touch
Wherein touch fails
there is voice
Wherein voice fails
there is attention.
and
Wherein attention fails
there is quiet comfort in being each.

.

All are loves form, so love never fails.

.

See, wherein quiet comfort lasts
attention returns
Wherein attention lasts
voice returns
Wherein voice lasts
then touch returns
and we need not worry 
wherein touch lasts, for….

.

all are loves form, and love always lasts.

whiteysplace:

Parler à café
Days and nights have no meaning now;
we blend as do they, timeless yet…
Maintes et maintes fois.
.
Take my hand as we journey forth
from this lively little liason café,
car c’est ainsi que nous aimons.
.
This book we write, this movie we direct,
this dance we dance on lips soft
on a soif de l’autre.
.
And in the other we are solace. 
Je t’aime, Je t’aime, Je t’aime
A million more times, Je t’aime
.
One more espresso et crème, peut-être?

whiteysplace:

Parler à café

Days and nights have no meaning now;

we blend as do they, timeless yet…

Maintes et maintes fois.

.

Take my hand as we journey forth

from this lively little liason café,

car c’est ainsi que nous aimons.

.

This book we write, this movie we direct,

this dance we dance on lips soft

on a soif de l’autre.

.

And in the other we are solace. 

Je t’aime, Je t’aime, Je t’aime

A million more times, Je t’aime

.

One more espresso et crème, peut-être?

Reasonable Turpitude

I have this gift. The ability to laugh at myself when viewing myself important.

When I look around at so many bleeding, wounded hearts upon bruised knee and puffed up alliances in camera obscura, I duck into lighter avenues lest splattered. Black raised pain is like that. I would obligate myself to say nobody needs that, yet appearances tell otherwise.
Not I.

Once crossed this poets lips in earnest the respect garnered in a community best forgotten. I shudder embarrassment to this very day, for I am but yet another cog, another flower in a vast field. Nothing more, and in true honesty to myself, nothing less. Simply put, elitism is a lie I refuse to partake. It’s a sweet cake that merely adds calories, not content. My character reaches transcendent beyond only my character. Yours is every bit as relevant and irrelevant as mine.

I have a greater value in happy living, love beyond my own current reaches, and an ideal that just won’t quit, as truth never does. My best tool for giving of this gift is my ability to laugh at my quirks, my not-so-subtle nuances, and above all, my ego transparent. Though in all serious my undertakings I do take, in and of my lesser self….

I have this gift. I see myself how I really am.

Poetry Isn’t Vandalism

Spray painting black primer verse
on someone else’s character
to build up the crusty illusion
of yours

Makes for debatable poetry.

A slam is a slam but at what cost to you?
Tearing down others dreams for
justification of your poor, hurt
questionable feelings?

Honor is something a man gives himself.

I’m not the poetry police, but fuck already try exercising your right to remain silent
Being a man consists of owning
your end of the sword;

Power lies in restraint of killing stroke.

Every time you cut and slash, another flower
on your cold, ignored grave of
desires not given, of love sacrificed
for the sake of vanity.

Or maybe that’s the point.

Have you noticed you don’t feel any better after beating your ripped open chest
that doesn’t allow for healing
in your vindictive, dust filled heart.

Or is it just too damn easy to forgive yourself
and move the fuck on?

AUTHORS NOTE: This is the edited version.

Love Of Form

Wherein love fails
there is touch
Wherein touch fails
there is voice
Wherein voice fails
there is attention.
and
Wherein attention fails
there is quiet comfort in being each.

.

All are loves form, so love never fails.

.

See, wherein quiet comfort lasts
attention returns
Wherein attention lasts
voice returns
Wherein voice lasts
then touch returns
and we need not worry 
wherein touch lasts, for….

.

all are loves form, and love always lasts.

Thanks To Tommy

When doors close, doors open

in a mixed time of a driving beat

toes tapped and heads rocked doppin’

or not, but forgeddaboudit, out of your seat.

.

Blue snake belly tires on silver steel mags

eight-track boom box making ramp jumps

rhythm, yeah, drinkin’ malt liquor outta bags

Rockaway Beach kickin’ our heads, takin’ our lumps…

.

If you haven’t chewed it to The Ramones, you ain’t livin’.

.

Pixie Stix and Pepsi mouth volcano’s and smokes

twelve was badass except for stupid drunk parent vibes

 not much made the thirty-eight in my mouth okie-dokes

but somethin’ ‘bout Tommy’s hard line beat made wrongs right.

.

So thanks, fuckin’ Tommy with your fuck you shades 

for getting us all through a time where puberty sucked

the not-so-moral majority didn’t like us punks in a daze

'cause without you brothers, we were all fucked.

.

Rock on large, Tommy, smack Joey a fresh one for me!

Keeping Wistful Light

Stretching into old stars in the night passed, letting tendons realign and mind,
I am here and there.
Relaxing mind into day.

Turning off the fan whilst chicken bakes, lest we do in July’s phantom burn,
I made the coffee and eggs on
The fancy of we like.

Keeping wistful light, and spirits buoyant, pasts and futures meld and, hey;
Arlo Guthrie is a nice day’s start.

There’s a quiet joy in me that holds hands sure and strong, and my works brim
Anticipation, for here and there….

Is the only place I need to be.

Inclusion Is Touch Waiting

Rain isn’t necessary for where I’m going.

Baby bats and college coffee shops fly,

and so do I.

.

There’s this place that’s ours and ours alone,

and no, you can’t be there. Because

it’s ours alone. 

.

When fortune telling the future is only

speculative and THAT’s sexy as fuck.

We like not knowing, yet.

.

Slow burning kisses that happen later and soon

I have a Goddess with a haircut and a cat.

who has shown me inclusion is touch waiting.

.

We are in each other, worth every aching second

that passes into next and new like water and fall.

We are touch waiting.

This Way Passing

Knowing myself, these places uncertain come 

stinging clear. I retreat high up to take in 

the view chosen…

But on the ground is where I return.

.

I know what I know, and what I don’t, 

control is an applied science when

I decide I need to participate

on forest floor unleashed.

.

I choose content when it is a choice. Not a luxury.

.

I need not fool myself about values, what means

something to me is not for the feint of

heart and weak of mind.

I am difficult because that’s what I live.

.

There is nothing more here being said than

I am aware of many ways to live, and

in this way passing I have found joy

and I have found respect for change.

.

This life chosen is fluid, so can I.