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Grilled Cheese is a product of Village Compute

Version devBuilt at: 2026-10-16 08:00:47 EDT

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Text of poem - Calling. The telephone is the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. We may call everyone up on it but God. To do that is to declare that he is far off. Dialling zero is nothing other than the negation of his presence. So many times I have raised the receiver, listening to that smooth sound that is technology's purring; and the temptation has come to experiment with the code which would put me through to the divine snarl at the perimeter of such tameness.
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September 2026 / September 2004 there's nothing i hate more than sitting in the dark with the sound of your voice ringing in my head. i try to write you a letter. it feels like that Collins poem coming out of my mouth. the one-ton bell. the weight of the tongue. the ring. instead i write a haiku about a guy i know who can never quite find his apartment after dark: people tell stories robert drunk and wandering not saying we too are lost from home you were there. i was here. or maybe i have that backwards. my mother would know whose fault it was if i knew how to reach her you here alone in the dark
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Two poems by Anna Samson The Room I walk along the corridor of my life. Stopping to open doors that catch my eye. I stay in some rooms for a while. I leave some rooms soon after entering. I walk down the endless hall, Where a dim but constant light beckons me. I keep walking on, Unsure of where my feet are taking me. But somehow, I know there is a door waiting for me there. It's slightly ajar with a bit of light spilling out. I feel content approaching it. I think I'm supposed to go there. I think it is the room I will never have to leave. Fade The salt in our wounds Is the kinship we cannot let go of I weave and unweave the tapestry of our friendship Using the threads of our sordid history We're both constantly hurting Reeling from the blows Of things unsaid Moments lost Missed chances And memories of a distant past Maybe we're not good for each other But I'd rather hurt every day Than have you fade away With only battered drapes come undone to remind me of our love
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Nellie Wong in a booth in her family restaurant, The Great China, in Oakland's Chinatown, circa 1950s. Photo: Courtesy Nellie Wong Archives Source: The Poetry Foundation
Fault Lines By Dawn Mclachlan In silvered tracks on papery skin the past walked carrying all that went before defining describing the way the world worked back then before time began before the Flight But decades later in startled moments the vertigo of Fault Lines still cracked like ice "Look what you made me do"
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