Harrison Whittle







Beginnings and Edges


On nights too quiet for sleep

I look up,

to consume beginnings and edges.


When streets are littered with dreams,

and sky shows the cleanest view of “far,”

I watch Venus on her blackened-blue runway

strut slow, through blinking

paparazzi from miles and miles away,


Like her,

I was born high

in space, surrounded

by jaws of light, pressed dark lips,

dusty fingers,

and the sound between



I was born like her,

to continue

bloom, and twist in

the lethal spectrum

of passion.


Into the clearest view of far,

I look up from consumed beginnings to

edges sated high


in a fist of night. I am

born like her;

with tears, tears, and shifting shades of star

pressing in and out of me.






From what substance am I?


Am I Human twin to Phantom Art?

Wrought together

from a single brush.


Or could I be mother?

And it’s through me that Art receives

its blessings, blush, and grace to be.


Or is it folks like me

who are the drug Phantoms need?

We’re host,

they creep, perceive,



As artist, I only offer


sparks without wings


I am a current merchant, who watches

great minds of generations;

still search for angry fixes,

still swallow the street,

still graze unblinking valleys and peaks,

still grasp for another,

still burn,

and are fantastically monstrous.


I am a pusher of dreams,

dealing fresh hands

to the dealt,

and keeping hearts

beat and burn together.


I only offer seeds, to

Breathe in colors


Soak in solitary colors


Believe in color,

Our colors.






Every day at the fish market

crowds push each other

around, like silver beads

gliding over the floor.

Every day someone comes up, breathing

questions of Mercury’s poison.


These beads believe

their separate silver knowledge,

and remain

unseeking of evolution.

Unseeking of bonds

they remain separate;

in privileged, silver content. Frozen.


And, without listening, without

hearing, without allowing response,


they miss the Monger’s Message.

A message

the wing-footed internet never delivered,

or maybe the crowds just dropped.


They ignore

the message of selenium.


The message of war.

The calling of an ancient battle

for power; made of heaven’s



Selenium; the match for Herculean Mercury.


When Mercury meets Selenium,

they chat,

they solve problems,

they bond,

and listen, to

make; the unstable calm, and inert, once more.


Then, maybe

people can enjoy more


fish with this knowledge,


and appreciate

the safety a bond can make

in the flesh.













Harrison Whittle was born January, of 1990, in San Francisco, California, and grew up in the East Bay. He graduated from the San Francisco State University Creative Writing Program in the summer of 2015, and currently works at a local pizza restaurant. He first began writing poetry in High School at the encouragement of a teacher. He has been writing as a way to keep his thoughts organized ever since. In addition to writing, and to feed a rampant hunger for physical activity, Harrison does boxing, road biking, and circuit training. When he’s not writing, exercising, or working, he spends his time composing electronic music of multiple genres.

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