You Never Could Help Me With Math

Kindra M. Austin

160328_ED_andrew-hacker.jpg.CROP.promo-xlarge2

Something happens, and I am reminded that

all of the good words have been taken by the 80s.

I can’t write you a heavy synth song, penned in black kohl;

can’t dip my heart into inderivative hair dye—

there’s no such thing, really.

***

Something happens, and I am reminded that

I can’t call you.

***

Something happens, and I am reminded that

I can’t hug you.

***

Something happens, and I remember that

I’d forgotten to miss you for 5 whole fucking minutes.

***

There are 300 seconds in 5 fucking minutes, and 3,600 seconds in 1 hour, which means there are 86,400 seconds in 24 hours, or 1,440 fucking minutes in a goddamned day, which means there’s a lot of fucking time spent forgetting to remember that you’re dead.

***

And I can’t even manage to write you a love song.

(image: slate.com)

View original post

Petitions (A Collaborative Piece)…

Christine Ray, Sarah Doughty, A.G. Diedericks, Aurora Phoenix, Lois Linkens, 1Wise-Woman, Kindra Austin and others petition the night.

My Sword and Shield....

I am so pleased to present this work of art and I am lucky to have been a part of this collaborative effort.  To be in the presence of such wonderful poets is a true honor.

I encourage you to follow the links attached to their names and visit their own pages. Wonderful wonders to be found there…

Eric:

By night’s dark embrace
I light these candles of petition
and speak unto my heart
on my knees in the moonlight

Hear me
oh crimson guardian in my breast
engine of my life
ever the drum beat that underlies
the story of my days
I beseech thee,
do not fall for such a cause as this
you know I have no choice in these matters
but to plunge headlong
hand in hand
together to our end

and I grow so weary of falling

Christine:

By night’s dark embrace
I light these…

View original post 1,037 more words

this

Matthew Eayre

unevenstreetstudiosdotcom


My first year in high school was my last year in high school and I swear on my life it wasn’t my fault that I was the epitome of unreadable literature. I was raised like a weed in a rose garden, I was taught to be the stone which will not erode, I was trained to stand against a hurricane without fear or concerns for my own safety.
My first year in college was not my last but I fought the system the whole time. I was a spark plug in a water pump, I was a boyfriend in a lesbian marriage, I was a cup of coffee inside a box of frozen pizza. I argued my point of view and my professors would tell me, this won’t help you, and I replied, how small can I make my thoughts, how far from my home can I go, how am…

View original post 89 more words

Deontological Doubts – Aurora Phoenix

a1cf8e49b5dfca41ae035e3b414e7734--silent-film-stars-vintage-romance

Deontological Doubts

I run barefoot
past the bronzed statues
idols of deontological divination.
I am a rule-following rebel
tracking muddied toes
between the pews
in which I have long since
refused to kneel.
I gave up self-flagellation
for Lent
the year I was sixteen
though those reflexes
to don needless
sackcloth and ashes
twitch, regenerative,
and the hair shirt
constricts
my free spirited
flights of fancy.
I labor
toward fictional salvation
yoked under twined heritage:
an inexhaustible work ethic
protesting
my non- Protestant roots
while I lug the chiseled tablets
writ with my Catholic guilt.

I have walked the straight and narrow
heel just beyond toe
slow and steady
concentrating
hands held just so
contriving delicate
equilibrium
quivering –
the fallen branch is wobbly
surging water below
frigid, if not deep.
that limb I went out on
felt a mission
no lark nor miscreation.
there was vine-shrouded rot
a shattering fracture
my immersion
was fire and ice
and long cold days in hell.

my moira is yet spinning
in threads of silken sterling
burlap intertwined
shimmering as it scrapes
defenses from my skin.
invisibly tethered
to the spindle and its webbing
I meander on my way.
there is play in the line
so I run barefoot
past the patinaed busts
effigies of deontological deities
laughing with windswept hair
trailing violet petaled poems.

[Aurora Phoenix is a wordsmithing oxymoron. Staid suburbanite cloaks a badass warrior wielding weapon grade phrases. Read more of her confabulations at “Insights from Inside.”]

 

 

 

An Existential Exposé – A.G. Diedericks

Pardon my self-aggrandizement
in the existential exposé of my life
for what i have to offer you today
is naught
but melancholy which percolates
my spirit with a constant test of my stoic resolve

I thought that i had given up emotion
buried the empath in me
5 feet under
until poetry reared it’s ugly head
and exposed me

As a mage of words
filling my glass up
till i couldn’t see how empty it was
on the inside

I had grown too comfortable in this specious skin
that i added layers to draw
a truth that resonated with you
in ways it never will with me

And now i stand here
as a pseudo-intellectual
undressed in public by simplicity;
chained to my reality
for once i am bereft of pretty answers

 


 

A.G. Diedericks: “‘write what you know’ are the four most soporific
words I’ve ever heard. I am a divergent writer who couldn’t give 2
fucks about striving to be the best. To write only what you know, is
to play it safe. Art is imaginative rebellion. I am engaged with the
versatile risk takers, the ones who are not afraid to take their shoes
off & get dirty. I write & curate at Morality Park.”]

Multicultural Sushi – David Lohrey

What Europe needs is more Asians.
England will never be the same and dear
Katie can’t wait. She wants Liverpool
to look like Calcutta. Her dream
is a world of heterogeneity. Her idea
of bliss is Los Angeles everywhere.
Kuala Lumpur in Germany. Italy
without Italians, brimming with
Somalis; that’s the ticket. Germany
without whites.

Syrians will build Mercedes, according to sweet Katie. The
Algerians can bake the Stollen. Refugees from
Afghanistan will make the watches.
The Iraqis want to design Cuckoo Clocks;
get rid of the Swiss, the Germans, Swedes,
and the Danes. What do they know? They’ll be fine
in downtown Nairobi.

But Katie also likes Tokyo. She loves
the buzz and the sushi. What she likes above all else
is how safe it is for women. She can walk the streets
after midnight. But, here too, she celebrates
diversity. Bring in more Asians, Katie declares.
Welcome Filipinos and Chinese by the millions.
Why wouldn’t you? But she doesn’t wait for an answer.
She rushes to fling open the gates. Let’s erase the borders.

Yes, nothing less than 30 million will do.
If the US can take 1, 000, 000 Mexicans – and we know it can –
Japan can easily handle half of China. Throw in Manila.
Why ever not? If you dare to argue, you’re a racist.
If you express a doubt, you’re a Nazi. The more the merrier.
What is there to lose?

I ask…

If Merkel can’t get the Greeks to work 60-hour weeks,
how is she going to convince refugees from Sierra Leone to do overtime?
Is it true that economics is color blind?
Do Moroccans read Max Weber?
Do Ugandans have a work ethic?
Do Filipinos commit suicide when they’re wrong?
Do Americans have a sense of shame?

What of honor?

Japan without Japanese is China.
America is an airport with an annex.
It’s less a culture than a location, a living space.
Do we really want more and more of Houston?
A Dallas that stretches from sea to sea is bad enough.
Must it now be exported to the rest of the world?
The Japanese give up Kyoto but get Colorado?
A sea of homeless people. Mexicans without Spanish?

And the streets will remain safe?
Why ever not? Katie laughs. I wouldn’t try it in New Delhi.
Only a fool would in most of Chicago, not to mention Tijuana.
She doesn’t believe it. She knows better.
“If you’re nice to them,” she sings, “they’ll be nice to you.”
Diversity is marvelous, I’ll agree to that,
but I can’t see how a diverse Japan remains Japan.
Japan without Japanese isn’t Japan; that’s all I’m saying.
What it becomes might be great, perhaps even better, I won’t deny it.

You’ll get a better world perhaps, but you’ll sacrifice the sushi.
Have you tried the tacos in Los Angeles made with kimchi?
Many find them delicious – it’s a fair point – but remember this:
The Japanese don’t drink their tea with sugar.
When you add peach flavoring to green tea,
it ceases being Japanese and becomes garbage.
So, open the gates and cry welcome but don’t tell me
you love Kyoto. Tell me you want to live at Kennedy Airport,
in Terminal 9; the sushi there is marvelous. Try it with salsa.


[ David Lohrey was born on the Hudson River but grew up on the Mississippi in Memphis. He currently teaches in Tokyo. He has reviewed books for The Los Angeles Times and The Orange County Register, has been a member of the Dramatists Guild in New York, and he is currently writing a memoir of his years living on the Persian Gulf. His latest book, The Other Is Oneself: Postcolonial Identity in a Century of War: 20th Century African and American Writers Respond to Survival and Genocide, is available on Amazon.com. He is also the author of Machiavelli’s Backyard from Sudden Denouement Publishing.]

New Year

RamJet Poetry

newyear

I do not live

last day of the year

it is like a little death

rough brush, burlesque

settles in my bones

old spectre dropping dreams

in spite of my screaming

I do not like the end of the year

it’s too heavy, flaunting the blues

in cursive

graffiti on my center that don’t come off

nether wind crawling

outside the view

is the same one

as last year

I fear, my dear, my tears

do not want the savage

drop-down slap-back kissing

strangers

the champagne wet dream

on my face and chest

recall the last to fall

uptown diamond souled

hustle with a 10 million dollar ball

I do not want

the finish of the year

for an end to me

an ends to be

the mirror is never more clear

spent truisms corrode

bent love shoulder

quake to the time of harvest

slate-colored fornicators

afflicting my ambitions

for…

View original post 56 more words