Think of the power a gun-man holds
The power to kill
To intimidate
To show us all who’s boss.
Think of the pain that shoots out the barrel
The lives to end
The bottomless grief
A lost cause who causes more loss.
Think of the power a gun-maker holds
An issue that wedges
A senator bought
And militia men standing by.
Think of the struggle a voter must face
“I like little kids”
“I love my guns, though”
“That senator’s not a bad guy.”
Two pipes are filling a pool.
If the first one works two hours,
it fills a third of the pool.
The second can fill it on its own in three hours.
How many hours would it take –
for both pipes together –
to fill with verdancy
the pool of Spring.
Author: Marin Bodakov
Translator: Katerina Stoykova
Big shout, big echo.
Little shout, little echo.
Mankind cries out, God!
And gives a name, to the nameless.
No shout, no echo.
Silence and stillness, permeates all things.
The temple bell rings and awakens us.
To get out of my head,
I climb into my bed,
I’ve read that instead,
I should…
Take a walk and smell the roses,
Breathe and bend in yoga poses,
Journal out that childhood trauma,
Find a farm and pet a llama,
Perform an act that’s altruistic,
Chant Sanskrit like a mystic.
But each requires,
Either focus, pants, or map,
So I’ll just grab my cat,
And take a nap.
Write about Tragedy:
About sickness
about wars, about bullets
about what is broken
what was lost
what struggles
what (Who) is fallen
and laws.
Write about summer:
About breaths
filling
spaces within
the deck that’s held
You, in other seasons,
the Other
where you’re moving.
Remember. Consider. Dream
of years to come.
Write about Definition:
Forget vocation
become the ovation
embracing liminal space
then step
through.
Write about Wonder and Beauty:
About geese seen flying
returning, against
a sunrise
rising, against
darkness.
Imagine
Laws
and attraction
until the day
is redefined
by constellations
of freckles, each one
a mystery, a question
unanswered, a potential
that makes you forget
the laws
of
pasts or futures.
Write about:
What it means
to be alive.
me and rebecca went down past the barn
to where them pretty little purple flowers grow
we was making a bow K for momma
and was gonna give daddy one too
rebecca said pull them up from the bottom
so i got right down to the dirt, and pulled
roots and all
i said rebecca these aint gonna grow
no more if we pull up the roots
rebecca said shut your mouth emily
and grab some more
that was when i felt the bite
and looked down at my hand
i seen a black bug like
a spider, but round, like a ball
i did not mean to, but i shook it
off my hand, and smashed it with the other
goo went everywhere and the side
of my hand was black and goo
that was when i first felt the itch
so i scratched
but the more i scratched, the more
i itched until i was going crazy
me and rebecca run to momma in the kitchen
and gave her the flowers
i showed her my hand and she run it under the sink
then put a cream on it and pat it dry
momma said thank you girls for the flowers
where did you get them
rebecca said down by the barn and
emily pulled them up by the roots
momma got real mad and sent me
to my room and i stayed there till supper
thinking about that bug and how sorry i was and how i ripped
its home right out of the earth and then smushed it
rebecca come in my room at supper time
to tell me to wash up
my momma washed my hands good that morning
but i could still see little black bug legs and guts
i reckon some things don’t wash off that easy
The desk sitting little sister
checks us in
eyes smiles
& hands us headphones
Rain drizzles
through bamboo like a tale
overtold & spoken again,
the static of an AM radio
tuned just right
to a Japanese lofi freakbeat
that drowns the sorrow of the news
What makes America great
is it’s garbage & the clink
of countless shell casings
pitter-patting the floors
