Poetry

Poetry: Welcome

Bombard

A word singed into the parchment of history's middle chapters, born

of black powder during a time of Black Death, confined

by misery, imprisoned by slaughter and war.

A word baptized in the fire of 14th century cannon, witness to

siege and plunder, bystander to falling empires, trapped

in a maze of political and social shambles.

Is it possible for words to break free from bondage, to unfurl sails

unseen and let them billow in gusts and gales, to slide across

oceans of meaning and arrive at calmer ports?

Is there hope of a future where this word, formed of hostility and hate,

can transform into something new, something that elevates rather

than demoralizes, that brightens rather than blackens?

As in: assail someone persistently, as with kindness, mercy, or love.

Poetry: Text

After the Fire

After the fire

crawls slowly

into the playground,

surrounds each steel pole

holding the whole works

in the air,

after the

vivid yellows and blues

blister and blacken,

after the plastic slides

drip, then drizzle,

the swings melt

and drop into the flames,

and the merry-go-round collapses

and tilts unnaturally

to the scorched ground,

after this creeping horror

gently decimates

all in its inching path,

it disappears like smoke

dissipates, seemingly out of

existence, and later,

when the children

come out for recess,

little do they know

that right now, as they

stand around the structure and

stare with blank faces,

this will be the most honest

and seminal lesson

they will learn at this school,

or any other.

Poetry: Text

Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle Blues

When I focus

in, when I delve

beneath the layers,

I become more confused.

Where were we

when the momentum

of our desire cooled to a

state of rest, empty of even

the most minute single vibration?

Through sleepless nights

I measure the ghostly remains

of remembrances that haunt sub-

atomic regions of a mind that is withering.

Heisenberg discovered that

trying to determine one part of a

whole will increasingly blur the rest,

leaving the verity of the entire operation hazy.

How much did

we love, really? My

calculations have resulted

in no solution. I look up at the crest of every

wavelength. I have shrunken into obscurity and loss.

I am a down quark

trapped inside

a neutron.

My electron clouds

are full of

rain.

Poetry: Text

Jug Wine

soft and silly

thoughts

unraveling

our heads

filling

with dry

crisp

apple

overtones

sinking into

oblivion

with you

guys I

wouldn't

want it

any other

way I

love

you guys

are my

best

fiends

friends

where are

we how

are we

here

Poetry: Text

Message Received

Dear Writer,

Thank you so much for sending in your poem—reading it was truly a pleasure. This was clearly an earnest attempt at artistic expression. Unfortunately, we are unable to accept your submission. We feel that your poem needs work. Although we rarely do this, we have included some suggestions:

Consider replacing every word in your poem with a different word. Try not to use synonyms. We feel that it is important to change the structure, tone, rhythm, and meaning of your poem. Replacing every word will expedite this process. We think that making this minor change will result in a better poem and possible publication (although not in this publication).

Honestly, though, publication for a writer of your "talents" is a bit of a longshot. Have you considered other lines of work? Based on your submission, we feel that writing may not be a hallmark of your current abilities. Although, again, we rarely do this, we have assembled a list of possible, more reasonable occupations that you may find more suitable to your talents:

-Restroom attendant

-Chicken sexer

-Body part model

-Self-storage unit manager

-Elf assistant to a mall Santa

-Toll booth operator

-Exorcist

-Test subject in clinical trials

-United States Senator

We at this publication fervently believe that by submitting your poem, perhaps as a "cry for help," you are putting yourself on the right track toward self-improvement and, hopefully, some primitive form of happiness. Ideally, you will take this advice and bury your artistic dreams deep, deep underground and become a useful member of our crumbling society. Good luck!

Sincerely,

The Editors

Poetry: Text

Half-Staffed American Flags

Americans
forget
Americans
ignore
Americans
dismiss
Americans
turn out
Americans
shut out
Americans
gun down
Americans.
In the recent past American flags were lowered rarely—to honor the
passing of dignitaries or signify a resonant national tragedy—not
eulogize weekly gunshot casualties who lay bleeding and dying in
schools and churches and public squares, victims of psychologically
distraught Americans lacking any real human connection or ancillary
support for serious mental afflictions, packing semiautomatic pistols
and bump-stocked assault rifles that spray bullets like drizzles of rain;
shooters unable to cope with an unending barrage of sensationalized
media voices in their heads, grasping at any relevance available from
a mention on the 24-hour TV news, swathing other Americans with
bullets and leaving a windrow of dead to winnow in the draft of
talking heads howling and pointing fingers without a single significant
intimation to help stop the bleeding and the killing and the dying of
Americans
disparage
Americans
antagonize
Americans
outrage
Americans
shout at
Americans
scream at
Americans
gun down
Americans.

Poetry: Text