Monthly Poem

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Mid-point Epiphany; Inaudible Oration by Tiara Jackson

Clarity for a moment.

All at once I was suspended in beauty, cradled in the arms of summer, with a soft wind crooning lullabies of the promise of fall.
I quit my job yesterday. That gracious rage I have been speaking of has been the only thing on my mind. Gracious Rage became my alias. Gracious rage became not an adjective, but my living wage. It became 150 pounds of muscle that slithers through the fractured crust of the Earth leaving a stream of molten rock to slowly burn all I once believed was in place for me.
The first time I sat in a rainforest 15 kilometers North of Squamish, British Columbia, I locked eyes with the sweetest someone who with an easy glance and smirk soothes the bone-stinging breeze of teenage pop song dreams that spark the surface of skin.

The first time I sat in a rainforest 15 kilometers North of Squamish, British Columbia, and shyly averted my eyes from the sweetest someone and focused attention on the lessons of the land, I learned that the Douglas Fir tree must be burned down in order to regenerate.

The second time I sat in a rainforest 15 kilometers North of Squamish, British Columbia, I felt a low-pitched resonance smoldering in a catacomb behind brown bosoms. Wax dripping in synchronization with a heartbeat. Waning stalactites seeping from a convex tip of a blistering heart forming mighty castles at the pit of the stomach. I was in the midst of a slow burn. I was exhausted and soft spoken. I didn’t know what I needed, but I knew there was alchemic redesigning. A slow burn making room for an excellent renaissance.

And here I stand, between soliloquy and silence. Admiring the cliffs edge from mid air
balanced in an aria of a soft howling wind
saturated in the dearth of disregard
before I hit the water.

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Chronic Beauty by Sari Rachel Forshner

I still remember perching there – a bright little bookworm of a girl –
as you used a round brush to blow-dry my hair into a shape.
“ow! you’re hurting me!” I yelped, and recoiled from that porcupine on a stick.

…“It hurts to be beautiful, Sari”
Is what you answered, as you took my book out of my hands,
so that it did not distract from this vigorous process of adornment.

It hurts to be beautiful –
not as if that was a hurt to protect me from,
so many silly sharpnesses that might someday be hurled against me,
not as a warning that so-called beauty can come
at too high a cost –
but rather,
as a motto to live by.

Can I blame you for thinking
it would hurt more,
not to be beautiful? It is what you were taught, by sneers and silences,
for all the years of your life.

When I was a child, you took me to the diet doctor
so I could be cured of the fatness
that I did not even yet possess, but so frightened you.

that curséd size medium – how more hideous than small I was becoming!

and, horror of horrors, that genetic disease
that could never kill me
and unlike beauty, did not hurt,

but whose symptom was ugliness of the skin.

Oh, how to eradicate the incurable and autoimmune?
Psoriasis: my greatest failing.

Ointments and foams and oily creams,
oatmeal baths and imported salts,
steroids and ultraviolet lights –
sunburnt armpits on snowy Tuesdays.

A paper towel, tucked under goggles to protect my face
always damp and disintegrating
by the time I emerged from that stifling booth,

a weeping child clad only in vaseline, thickly coating her nipples.

I had been drafted into a battle against my own DNA;
how dare it remain unaltered for all the days of my life!
Ugliness, stitched directly into the fabric of my being.

How disappointing I was, I who broke no rules, got no Bs,
but could not control the uncontrollable with any substance in the world.

I wanted to scream THIS DISEASE HAS NO CURE.
I understood so early that I was doomed to fail,
but you would not let me stop fighting.

How terrible for you, to have a daughter with blemishes.

So many moons later, it is not Beauty
who I recall as my childhood inflictor of pain.
She, a mere concept, encompassing everything
when considered across time and space –
could not hurt me,

but you could.

It does not have to hurt
to be beautiful, when you
define beauty for yourself –
as yourself!

Open your goddamn eyes and look at me.

Many people have hurt me, Mother,
but my beauty is not one of them.

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Current Events by Betina Monteiro

Sometimes I wish my country
Was in a military dictatorship again
So then I could
Call my spontaneous migration
For its right name
Exile

But what a selfish cunt
That makes out of me
Wanting to be praised
By my foresight
Want to be listened to

Why do I keep having this feeling
That the only way to be welcomed
Is if I tell you
I’m running away from something
When the truth is I never had anywhere to go back to
What language do you speak in when you speak of love?
What language do you speak in when you speak to your mother?

Are they the same?

What is home if not a collection of sad memories of places I don’t visit anymore
What is love that doesn’t hurt?
What is memory?

Can you remember a day when you didn’t feel alone?

I see the ruin of everything I left behind
On the news
My friends are powerless
Decaying into apathy
My parents are old
And will probably
Overwork themselves to death
Or disease
Or violence
Whichever comes first to collect the debt

And I’m a bad daughter
Because who am I
If not just
Mistakes and disappointment
How can I expect
That speaking the truth
Might ever accomplish
Something
It seems like I have never learned anything in this life really
And look to where the lies could take you

But I can’t even handle
To face my mother in the mirror
When she asks me
What am I doing here

I am so scared

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BUILDUP/LETDOWN by Victoria Elizabeth

Coffee cannot wake me as much as the sojourn of your fingertips

down my spine from nape to hip.

Patience, our most plentiful virtue.

My body begging for more, concedes to my mind’s resignation.

“How long can I carry this out?” secretly we ask.

Tip-toeing up the steepest grade of intimacy – only to pause longingly at each vista.

I am the fragrance that flowers give off when they are crushed.

—————————————————————————————————————————————–

You left no words, only a satiated silence lingering.

It follows me home to the obnoxious rose shag you never stepped on –

a bed in which we never slept.

Lost wisps of your hair float down on my every artifice,

the faintest reminders of a brief sense of belonging.

You read like a verbose monolithic bestseller,

which professed so fiercely and affirmed so faintly.

13592406_1042572739129774_8242439354265884721_n.jpgInsult Sonnet #1 by Ryan Kelly

With the author’s compliments to Mr. Donald Trump, who inspired most, if not all of the following.

To even think the shit you choose to say—
You’re monstrous, you’re despicable, you’re heinous.
Your insipid drivel stings my ears the way
A spicy meal and time will scald my anus.

The lies you swill will curdle and congeal
Until your brain is plugged with bloody clots,
And then your rotten, spongy corpse will
Devalue nearby cemetery plots.

If someone smeared a petri dish across
The unwashed armpit of society,
The fungus that would grow would be like you—
An unfair challenge to sobriety.

You must surely realize you are, alas,
The frothy discharge of creation’s ass.

lexie Three Poems for Orlando by Lexie Helgerson
I.
There are many birds today
They’re all in a way
Because they heard the news
from Florida.

II.
Paralyzed, stilted
I run my finger over dust
We must take action
Action, we must.
III.
Quietly we sit
There is nothing to say
In Florida there were gunshots.

EP 1994-2001 by LinaCarol

 EP 1994-2001 by LinaCarol

Back back in the day
In Echo Park with Frito Lays
Reading Spanish porno comics
At the rest stop that were thrown away
Stow away all responsibility
Just a child dreaming of a career in artistry
My drawings put my in gifted classes
Rewarded with Barbie dolls
And Macy’s fashion
By my father
But now we don’t even say Hi
Wish I could go back into time
Before we said goodbye
While we were dancing Macarena
And wearing flannel shirts
I had shoe boxes buried with dead pet mice
In the dirt and
A cat gave birth every day of the week
Stray dogs in heat were fucking up and down our streets
Destroy All Music was my favorite record shop
I got caught watching Faces of Death in the dark
So to this day my favorite film genre is horror
Blood and guts galore
Macabre flesh and gore

 SYSTEM PREFERENCES

System Preferences by Dylan Doren

excuse yourself out of self-obsession
leave the four unadorned walls
leave through the front door

the sun paints a grin on the recluse

fresh air hits
you now know
the feelings were embellished
they overwhelmed and were blinding
the confusion ran wild all the while

the sophistry you heard
almost discouraged your good intent
manipulation from the unaware third party
was stuffed in transparent plastic bag
you carried it around
till your arm was tired

you walked freely

you looked up
you saw the open sky
for the first time
in a long time

this poem is dedicated to Steve Baratta & Anais Borck

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49 5/8″ x 87 3/4″by Jack Rabbitt

I do not what I want,
but the very thing I need.”

– Corinthians

parting,
pairing,
arrivals,
departures.

the familiar,
the familial.

sometimes,
somethings,
are best kept at a distance.

there’s something
you ought to be able
to take from limbo.

inert
inertia.

time to kick up dust
and start the slow roll.

everyone here
is hanging on the edge,
but has no idea
what they’re clinching onto.

by the skin of your teeth,
jumping the cracks
that are shifting underneath–

you can know
who you are,
but who knows
what will become of you?

49 5/8″ x 87 3/4″

the king of freedom
In a patriotic dick spitting contest.

shooting down the rescue chopper
sent to rescue
the shot down bombers.

a white suspect
in a silver mustang.

they filed for divorce
just a week shy
of there 60th anniversary.

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That You Can by Chris Camargo

that you can

put your pain

your anxiety

your burst of nihilism

out of your mind and

do – and keep doing –

such as gravidness compels

that thing you started

is an all around

beautiful thing –

proof that human

being can sometimes

get it right-

and will make being

alive momentous again.

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Nudey Books by Barrie Rose
I was 5 years old and my mother was an artist
she sculpted, she welded , she made statues out of marble, she painted

she had art books with naked men and woman in very non glamourous poses
The poses were “natural”, not the least bit sexual

Leaning on one leg, an arm on one hip, head veering to one side.
A plain white sheet background, nothing cinematic,
very basic.

The human form and its perfectly organic curves
the shapes a body could make , the angles artists see

I became obsessed.
I thought I was being bad girl because these were naughty books
Every day I’d peruse what seemed to be pornography

Why did I love naked people so much?

A day after I wrote this I sent it to my mom to see what her response was.
people always remember things differently
this is interesting
perspectives.
Here are some emails back and forth between my mom and I.

Mom:
Why did you think that they were naughty books? Did I ever say you couldn’t look at them? Or tell you they were naughty?

my reply:
I don’t think you ever said anything about them….i don’t know if you know i looked at them even… I guess I just had a feeling that I was doing something wrong

Mom: That’s what I don’t understand – The why you thought it was naughty – interesting

my reply: well did you ever explain them ? until I was in my late teens I was very uncomfortable with nudity. now i love and embrace it hahhhhh

 

 

annie hotel

Driving my Black Benz By Annie Motel

One
Driving my black Benz
Through the morning mist
In the road ahead, furry, tan as a cattail
Is a palm leaf fanned out, flattened, mangled
Like road-kill.

Two
I ate cherries and spit the seeds out my Benz window on the drive to work,
Listening to Tanya Tucker.
The air was humid.
For dinner I ate three tacos from the taco stand on Temple.
I wanted a donut, I went inside the shop to wait, but the line was too long so I left.

Three
He said he used to hate driving on the freeway down the 10 towards the ocean, but now he loves it.
He said he plays his music loud- I said I did too.
“I know you went to Venice,” he said, “I watched your snap.”
“Oh, you watched my snap?” I asked.
Yeah. He said he’s been snapping some girl.

Four
As I drove my black Benz down Alvarado late last night, after tattooing, there was a pile of objects by a lamppost.
At first I thought it was a memorial for someone who crossed over to the other side. But it was just garbage.
I kept driving.

charlie latan

glad by Charlie Latan

i saw

a girl

i loved

in love

with someone else

and i was

glad

DOV

Rhythm of the Dead by Dov Ayinde

I am safe from silver, clothed in worm’s silk
hidden for now, watching fireflies wilt
save the glow of the moon awakened in full
for the heavy hearted in which she will allow
to bathe and to swim through
It’s past due time once again
to shed some red
to rush in like that of an ocean
that comes forth with a wave of promises once said
So I wait and wonder
and I’ll fade into shadows surfing under
stare at life and its process on stale bread
tap the air with each finger
at the rhythm of the dead.

kirk

Eulogy for A Goldfish

Today in church
I am reduced to nylon and cotton,
and my stepdad, a narrow necked urn,
the best he’s looked in years. Some time ago,
my mother dunk herself into holy water
believing Mormonism would save her.
I told her drowning is being saved
and today the pews are brimming with politeness,
people trying not to drown.

The morning my stepdad died
I told my grandma I got rear-ended
and later sobbed in the shower. Now
I can’t help but imagine him
trembling on the bathroom floor
like cabin doors on take off, buckling himself in,
surrendering his own fate, breathing out slow.
That’s drowning.

My mother asked me to write his eulogy
and I didn’t know which words to use. We
sat on bus benches and ate donuts, watched football
and killed angelfish. We went to Vegas once,
came home with a ferret, and abandoned it
by our third apartment. I told her I couldn’t write
a eulogy for a man who died
before I met him.

My sister, in her black dress,
is nine years old and thinking
of her goldfish. If only I didn’t understand
the way she doesn’t understand,
the way fish don’t understand. And what I like
about fish is that they are not fish
in need of affection or the time of day.
Fish swim along, marooned in foul water,
and think each next moment to be a dandy one.

We all wrote eulogies for a different man
today. I wrote one for the man
who chased dragons in motel rooms, let his daughter
microwave foil, and found his happy place
in the bend of his arm. My sister wrote
one for her carnival prize, asked me why her father died
and cried when I told her
fish aren’t meant to live in fish bowls.
art

Bar Frenzy by Art Currim

Glints turn into gleams
And gleams to rails of light
Day livers disappear
Giving way to denizens of night
Stalking commences it’s only in play
mostly
Here in the reservation
wild game are always fed
Even the gameless
Yes even the fodder

Hooving storied carpets
and wine-stained shag
Earning right of entry
Doling cash to valets and service birds
They are in at last
Cool air hot air merge the same
In this gray and black sameness
The lion, the fox, and the antelope
merge the same
into the background that is their habitat

Shadows advance
Textures sharper than the decor
Intent writhes alive in deepest recesses
It’s not for them to be alert to their surroundings
They with shimmery faces
Clothing designed to show yet reveal
Curiosity peeks through the dead look in her eyes
as she steps aside unwillingly in the narrow hallway that leads to the unisex facilities

Yes, somewhere there
around the corner, shared chapsticks and rolled bills and a stack of hand towels
lip-lock incoherents and pilgrims to Aphrodite
Where giraffe and tousle-headed chick were causing a fuss
Indiscreetly grappling for the sweet flesh
inside her blouse
Only one will emerge the victor
Weep drying tears for the lamb
Shall I order another round, sir

Outside
Making aped gestures of alpha largesse
Pin-stripe is going on about
Marking time measured in shot glasses
About the sandbagman that dropped the beat on some unsuspecting pliables;

The gaggle of B-school graduates pump and holler anyhow
Too naive to know when to stop dancing and start reeling
Celebrating the many nights of elective indulgence which lie ahead

Indelicate masters and lords measure second-hands
rack up points to be spent over the next decade
In stark contrast I
The aching minimalist
Leper
tightlipped to the tight-fisted
counting my debt from left hand to right
counting the debt of us all
Yes even the young old
smart heroic weak desperate.

You have a few plays yet to venture
You with your tight suit and cocky locked face
Your fresh-cheeked inability to cede to your limitations

That comes after
by way of close-out tabs
close-down lights
By way of too many rounds raised
too many frenzied fights
Stumbling, discovering
all the way to the valet or the taxi
Fumbling for wallets and groping for a finger-hold on morning
All the while the night watches
Revealing neither judgement nor warning

dani

First Warm-Blooded Fish Identified
(Or, Moonfish) by Dani Oliver

First warm-blooded fish identified.
It’s called the opah, and the moonfish.
They are high-performance predators
That move with agility and speed
To catch their prey – even, I’m told,
Squid, which is a pretty difficult get
When you’re a fish.

The scientists are rather stumped.
At first, they said, it was assumed
That the warmth was a product
Of special layers of gill tissue,
Blood vessels transforming cold
Into something much more useful
At low depths.

But it seems to be something else.
We think the opah has found a way
To metabolize love, says a scientist.
We call it the counter-current
Heat exchange, and believe that this
Particular ichthys can be classified as
Affection-feeding.

The way it works is that sometimes
There are two moonfish
Who love each other very much,
And come to the conclusion that
Swimming is just not living anymore
Without the other; I’ve heard it’s like
They can hardly breathe.

It’s infatuation that fuels these fish.
They’ve got a mechanism for
Heat transfer, like a car radiator,
That pumps them full of blood
Like ours. Says one scientist
Of the discovery: Nature is full
Of clever strategy.

With this find, local piscatologists
Predict that further evolution of
The species will result in elevated
Risk-taking and overall audacity,
As well as behavioral characteristics
Such as joy-displays and excessive
Acts of bravado.

However, several experts warn
That warm-bloodedness may be
A setback to genetic advancement;
That these fish may experience
An irrational aversion to autonomy.
One scientist anticipates a surge in
Overall weepiness.

All of this research has been issued
With the following footnote:
Moonfish must rely heavily on
The happenstance of finding a partner
For which its love is aptly suited;
These fish do not settle, they cannot
Elevate from lackluster.

ben Sheets by Ben Umstead

It’s laundry day
But we don’t have any laundry
So we sit on top of the dryer for a while, tossing our quarters into a cup across the room
A neighbor comes by and peeks in, wondering what we’re up to
The quizzical look on the dude’s face is priceless
We look at each other, eyes bulging
Our cheeks puff up
We both hold back snorts of laughter
Hold
It
In
The dude raises his eyebrows and leaves
We burst

The sand at the beach is rougher than usual
She’s not a fan of rough sand
Flip-flops were not a good idea
I offer to carry her across… If only I could
I’m about as skinny as she is
You’d think it’d even out somehow, but no
My sister once said to me I have the body most girls want

We’re off the beach and at the ice cream stand
Sunsets are always nice.
Sunsets on a windy September day at the pier
Where you cling to each other are better
We’re not eating ice cream or clinging to each other
The stand is closed

Reality strikes every now and then
I look at her, sitting across from me at the table
I think how did this happen?
She’s laughing
With friends
With people I know but rarely say anything to
One of her friends is a vegan
He smokes a lot and drinks even more
How does that work?
He’s one of those guys that goes against the system
But falls into this city’s hippest crowds.
He grew up as one of those privileged kids
On the coast
But says he’s an outsider
Then there is the money
He acts as if it’s bad to have it
But he has it
Why am I thinking about this?
Why am I wasting my time on this?
Because, I realize…
It is her
All of it.
On tour: What did she have to eat one day?
Vodka and cheese sandwiches.

I’m sitting there, an oddball
Surrounded by happy, shiny people
And I’m shrinking
Staying away from her
Good God, what am I doing here?
Lights Flash
Blink
Bass
Drink
Dance
Sweat, sweat, sweat.
Swoosh.
This is not me…
I realize why I feel sick nearly every time I go out with her
Let’s just go with it and feel good
That is what they say
I let her dance with someone else

In the morning
She nearly falls off the bed like she almost always does
I grab her around the waist and pull her back
It’s one thing I can still do for her
As she is in that deep just before dawn sleep.
I don’t sleep well with someone else in the bed

“We’re talking,” she says
Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail
Something I don’t think I’ve ever seen her do
“We’re going to talk.”
I shuffle and nod, looking away
Timid
Like her cat
“Why is your hair pulled back?”
Eyes glaring
Frowning
I give in
Traps are easy
“We’re going to talk.”

As hard as I struggle to close the door
As my might wears thin
As shafts of light become jagged blades cutting my skull
She is there
Now up on stage, singing karaoke.
Some ridiculous song in some ridiculous bar
Her bandmates chose seemingly classic material
But she gets up there and sings this piece of crap song
And it makes me shiver with delight

It’s laundry day
But we don’t have any laundry
Except for some dirty sheets
Cat throw up is not nice
I’ve never owned a cat, but I guess I kinda do now
“Here’s an extra quarter,” she says, handing it to me.
I smirk, and toss it in the air
High
“Heads or tails?” I ask
She laughs out her answer.
“Tails!”
It falls. Ting.
The big moment
I reach down
She’s giddy or at least giggling.
I look up at her with one of those smug, game show host looks
Raised eyebrow and all
“And it’s…”
I pick it up.
“Heads!”
She was about to clap.
“Better luck next time then,” I say, and hand the quarter back to her
She’s smiling.

carmenThe Blender by Carmen Vega

I want to turn on the blender as I make my smoothies and stick my finger in it. I sense the pain or the numbness as I watch. The tiny blades spin, whizz at great speed to grate whatever’s put in the clear receptacle. I see it, as I lower my index through the frothy mix of soymilk and banana. I feel the steel blades hit the side of my finger just once and the mixture turns redish-pink. I scream, but I cringe from such a vicious thought. Is this unnatural, to think these things? It is taking function to its conclusion.

Like when I walk past an overhang, a bridge, if I’m on a roof, or I look down from a tall building, I wonder how it would be to jump off. What would I feel taking a step on to nothingness? What sensation would I sense as my mind overwhelmed with falling knowing that the drop is fatal.

At the end concrete awaits to crush my body from the weight my mass produced gaining speed from the height of the fall. I may let myself land face down, horizontal to feign a rest mode as if I were about to land in bed. But reality is a concrete ground of rock, pavement or a rushing river of cars. I wouldn’t want to be hit by a car. Are these suicidal thoughts? They are thoughts and I have them. I acknowledge they are there. I wonder if I think like this when I’m getting hungry? Is this my curious state? Do other people imagine death this clearly, as filled with pain?

Theory time. I think before dying, we suffer pain the more when we are less willing to accept death as a natural course of living. When we refuse death we are subject to undergo more pain so that by the time we die we are ready, because, if the pain is so severe, than certainly death is the better alternative.

We choose the moment of our death. It comes when we call upon it, when we’ve lived our term. Or one may say, death comes when we’ve fulfilled our mission here or have done what we are here to experience or learn. Life has a purpose if you search for it and if you live with such an aim. We choose to live life purposefully or in vain.

My Angel once said to me “you are already a chosen one, you made it over all those millions that didn’t.”
“What do you mean?”, I asked, surprised stunned that this twenty- year-old should have such insight into something I couldn’t see at all. I had no idea what he meant. What millions did I leave behind?
“The millions of sperm that didn’t hit the egg.”

Simple, isn’t it! Millions tried and one created over millions of possibilities. I and I came to “above all of them.” He wasn’t being religious, because he’s all science. Though what’s the difference? He believes in some “God” culturally. He believes in living to the fullest and to experience what comes naturally. The purpose is living.

My smoothie, banana and strawberry in soymilk. Delicious.

richard Bored of Ourselves By Richard Andres

Flea markets and farmers’ market side by side meant: carrots, freshly cut flowers,
vases, old grandma paintings, eggplants, frames, books, eggs, cilantro, beets, utensils,
cups, tools, sometimes appliances (nothing ever worked for longer than a month), oranges,
more books, toys, appliances, seasonal strawberries–
we had no space for none of these as our apartment could only house a few.

Like many previous Sundays we had argued over silly shit that did not matter
but somehow mattered in the moment
then fucked afterwards out of frustration,
to ‘call in the referee’ is what we said to one another later.  Time out.
We were bored of ourselves.
The slow pace of that day telling you, me, our cats, that old goldfish we still haven’t named,
our mothers over the phone, siblings coming by, old friends coming by,
‘I Love You, I Love You’
were pennies added to the seconds trying to tick tock time backwards.
How many more memories do we have before that’s it?

Then we were bored of ourselves.  We walked Sundays like we always did,
her left arm held a set of freshly bought flowers, one bag of fruits,
and the other free shoulder a bag of vegetables.
The rest was pushed in a portable shopping cart
carrying with it all our hopes and dreams we wish to be.

brenna

Superscript & Subscript: The Artists Formerly Known As Nothing by Brenna Cheyney 

No matter how many times you walk away from me,
No matter how many times your moooooooood swings,
No matter how many women you got hangin from your tree,
These striiiiiiiiiiiiiings will never be cut, between you and me.

(You still sad about that one girl?
Yeah, your ex-girlfriend.)

Superscript wanted to shout her love from on high, a Volcano of Passion exploding before the eyes of only one man who mattered: Subscript.

Subscript looked pail that night, and it’s all her fault. No, we aren’t talking about the her that is Superscript, but instead, that one girl.

“Her power over him is waning, but still maintains a mild grip,” Superscript thought after saying goodbye with a hug and a look of concern. Concerned was she, but express she did not, and it’s the thought that counts.

Oh and how many thoughts there were when it came to Subscript! He was the reason she answered, “they come and go these days,” when he asked where her man was that night. They come and go because no one could compare (and no one can compare and no one will compare.)

But how to tell him, how to tell Subscript that she had been falling in love with him from the moment they met, and it was only growing exponentially over time, nearing eruption and full.

How the Volcano of Passion can only remain dormant for a mild or medium length of time! They call it doomsday, they call it lift off, they call it the epicenter: where it all begins.

And it will be so great and he will be there and she will be there and they will meld more than minds and the symphony will play.

Oh, and the symphony will play on.

poem by Sarah Gail Armstrong

I refuse to let you judge me,

to tell me who I am

when I’ve done just that.

Its endearing that you think enough about me

to develop an idea of who you think I am,

but I couldn’t be more earnest in saying

I couldn’t care less.

gaminthugging for america by Maestro Gamin

saluting cowards with guns who treat everyone like criminals first is just thuggin for America

poor isn’t allowed to fail.

poor and black isn’t allowed to fail. Johnny drove his daddy’s car into an old lady last week. he’ll be fined and marked as a bad case of affluenza but …

Jemerius body is still on the ground 4 and a half hours after he got shot holding stolen cigarillos and candy

many americans will have the chance to learn from their mistakes

boys will be boys and we’ll have fun till daddy takes the t-bird away

but some won’t make it till next summer.

some will be left to stew in this melting pot of free land

predestined to know their place

for private institution

to stay state owned

to keep the grey bar budget inflated

or the courts breast pockets lined full of fees

but as long as it ain’t you you’ll sleep tight.

many americans will have the chance to learn from their mistakes but some won’t make the learning curve

but like I said, as long as it ain’t you you’ll sleep tight.

I’m writing this at 615 in the mother fucking morning. I’ve heard stories from Mexico Missouri and Hannibal. white children chasing my daddy through the streets. He told me about how he hid them sticks in the neighbors bush rows. Walked over to them calm. Then plucked one up and took a stance. Invited them over for a dance. Cowards have to rearrange the play after that. Where is your stick brother? You know you will need to keep them hid out of sight. Return them to their original place for the next man

jury duty is a bitch and most don’t wanna go. Do I want my life to end as a shit eating ceremony for the working man? Listen to 3 sides of the story about how large and intimidating I am? Ask how american am I allowed to be. When can my mama go home and start putting her life back together?

Saluting cowards with guns who treat everyone like criminals first is just thuggin for america.

did you ever think in 3rd grade with your hand over your heart that you might be afraid while being questioned for something you weren’t aware of or never knew? When we played at recess were we prepared for cross examination, due process, and profile? who’s right it was to shoot or who’s standing ground be protected?

when you took your SAT’s did one of the questions ask “who’s ground is it?”

at graduation they shouldve handed out legal counsel in those diplomas

and a plaque that says

you might be killed in the middle of being questioned left to bleed as they investigate procedure

have your character Y stitched belly to chest after autopsied publicly unanswered politically pandered and placated and posthumously slandered

do not think they slap wrists the same

do not think this country will mourn you when you go

the end of your life may be a pat on the back for somebody else

do not think they slap wrists the same

I like to think mine figured out how to break through this bullshit cause

some days I hurt so much the pain gives me strength

I’m too strong I think now

and that has to worry the ones that hate me and the ones that love me

freeze

you have the right to never fail, make a false move, or live from your mistakes.

anything you say can and will be disregarded

might as well disregard this too

you’ll sleep just fine

protected from me

protected from them

protected from us

throwing up your sign

thuggin for america

********************************************************

2 thoughts on “Monthly Poem

  1. Pingback: thugging for america by Maestro Gamin | the WOMEN group

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