For God and His Followers / Katerina Canyon
We kill each other
in attempts to prove
who loves God more.
God has a face we have never
seen, but we bet rubies, diamonds,
and emeralds
to prove his existence.
They tell me denying God
is denying the universe,
but I cannot accept the love
of someone who has never held my hand.
I am, however, grateful for the gift
of language, reason, and this planet,
and if it is from God, thank you.
I do not understand working
toward an unknown heaven
when Earth is already
alive beneath our feet.
We trade the bird in our hand
for two we cannot see
beyond the clouds.
We are provided milk and honey
and leave it in the sun to curdle
rather than share
with the hungry.
We feel the weight
of our own oppression
while standing
on another's belly.
Is this faith? The belief
that you can throw others
away because they aren't like you?
Because we believe in a
heaven somewhere beyond
the ark of the rainbow.
I believe
Earth is heaven, and I believe
humans make it hell.
At Castle Rock State Park / Sam Calhoun
High above the Rock River
trees cast their leaves like pennies
to the water, the morning cold,
the current taking wishes
so far downstream
before registering
them to the dark
the trees began
to ask again.
Low to the sky
I cast my breathe to the river
of clouds, the sun warm,
long cirrus like party streamers
catch them in passing,
so far to the horizon
I am afraid my words
have been forgotten.
I ask again.
Shark Attack / at/om
When I am asked
how I would want
to die the answer
is always simple:
Shark attack.
There is often a
laugh about how I
needed no time to
think about it.
I always remark how
it would be so cool,
how it would probably
be on the news,
how if I died in the jaws of a shark
that means two things are true:
One: I probably deserved it.
Two: I died doing something I love
The only problem with
this ideal final scenario
of mine is that I worry
about the shark.
I worry about the people
who would not know
how I have always
loved a monster.
How rows upon rows
of razor sharp teeth
are a curse I’ve known
all my life and they have
already been the death
of me a hundred times over.
How i would never
want these beautiful
beasts to be harmed
in my name and how
I know so well sharks
do not seek out
humans to hunt.
They do not like the way we taste.
I fear I will leave
this world the way I lived in it:
leaving a bad taste
in something’s mouth.
The dialogical self takes the form of a fox and boards the bus in London, requesting a transfer / Ellen Ferguson
No doubt you’ve seen photos: the fox is small and red
descending steps, disembarking multi-voiced --
A history teacher on the fifth-grade corridor said transitions are difficult because when we were little they were terrifying.
Not for the fox, bushy-tailed version of polyphonic self —
we’re saying it in our heads,
that same history teacher reminds us,
we’re saying it in our heads.
Myth / Brett Gastineau
From the deep where all began,
dark clouds laid heavy on the trees
of these home was made.
We rose.
Dark clouds were at the door.
Dark clouds, were a path along the sky smelling of snow.
Dark clouds were songs returned in old voices
we used to know, coming to us so we may learn
to let them go. We let them go so they may come again.
We were saddlebags of rain
bound to the tides.
Yet time is a vibration, calling us higher.
Out of the ancient water, into fire.
Up through the burning ash.
Higher still just before night’s rambunctious black
to stand with the jagged lightning.
We were willing to be with the dust.
We climbed the sparks.
We entered the realm of air.
We knew the quiet, that holy state
even the rain knows about.
We heard the trees speak
the words of their mystery religion.
Here let us walk in days dense with rain.
Let us walk embraced by teeming plants.
Let us walk dusted by pollen, golden by the
sun’s daily droppings.
We are hues on the skin of the earth.
We are children of the sky.
We will walk happily.
All around us home.
Healer Summit Vow / Joy Johnson
To outlive the drive thrust upon, isothermal-wise,
one and all; to overhaul the warmouth ethic,
warehouse of overtime, multiverse of hourlies:
New avowals of altruism! - - timeshare the wearisome.
The heavisome immolated in favour of mirthsome,
in favour of whatsoever springs forth, heartsome.
Right now the hoariest limewood provokes
loverwise work with lummiest hammer,
tongs, atomizers, semimetals, pencils, weapons
of better drives to cultivate communication of
what earthlies already know how. Bringing up bevies
of babies that sing, speak, pique, and underpin
our healer summit vow: down with overwhelm,
satisfy commons-drive, make-n-take per needsome.
Thank you Elisabetta / Nicoletta LaMarca-Sacco
Americans can’t pronounce it but love
to eat it. Melty telefono cord
stretches from inside arancine
you hide behind your hand to your mouth.
It's added to the inside of lasagne
even served cold in caprese
where slices layer jewel-red slices of
tomato. Basil leaves compete the flag.
mozza a bit, a piece
Torn from a mass of curds collected
stirred in warm whey, a milk water
formed into a delicious ball.
NEVER TRUST A FART OVER FORTY / H.T. Reynolds
he’ll squint at you between pillows
curled over his skull like full-face
headgear—a closed fist discovering
his artificial teeth between the gaps
he recalls the days of streetlight
ball, how Timothy found a golden coin
in the sewer drain that turned out to be
chocolate from last Easter
how it endured in spite of itself
how none of the boys could play ball
until Mary lent her purse for safekeeping
and the ball ran onto the freeway
exploding beneath an eighteen-wheeler
the coin melting into her purse’s lining
the boys stained their hands helping
but it was over—they never spoke of it
until now—
he waits for the lights to settle
for the window blinds to begin
unfolding, inviting the darkness
into the room, his periphery
its shadows dancing in play
rings with a flame in the center
a spotlight hung from the ceiling
used to investigate the strangeness
of his curled knees, the lump
on his thigh he’s ignored since turning
thirty—the scope of the horizon only
beginning to fill his lungs with shallow
sand seeps into the grooves of skin
his palm’s eroding seems stitched
dirty, broken lines still scabbed
over and forgotten
then the medical bill
and aging becomes
an inconvenience
and the youth push
him aside—burying him
in a dark room
Keeping My Hands to Yourself / Gabriel Phillips
Even a dry mind drinks its own
syntax.
Paint the glass breakfast,
in the belly of the window
there is silt.
Scroll through the book
take my undiscovery,
find what makes your hands cordial.
You’ve two hundred twenty-two times
the dampness of glass.
Am I allowed to sleep
on the path?
My palate itches.
I’ve shoved the glue
with my tongue
behind my nose.
Aren’t you remember
hungry then?
Aren’t you capture.
Aren’t you capture?
Drowned in bowls
of feathers.
Everyone I know swallows
their drinks.
Mouth isn’t stained.
I’ll even discourage sound.
Together I crash into the ordinary
salamander.
