I despise those meetings.
And it’s not that the room smells like vegetables or those stupid chairs. Or the, you know, topics on the agenda.
No, I know what it is.
Nice, nice, nice. Can’t wait to be nice.
It’s an epidemic.
Not everywhere. Here it is. Click here to finish John’s story.
Nominally, I would say,
How I wasted this past July.
But eating and drinking
three times a day
counts for something.
And I did sleep
at least eight hours
though not in a row.
I did lay around a lot
in the shade and read,
though I doubt
anyone can make a case
for a better world
out of this physical inaction
that owned the sole purpose
of transporting me
Mostly I changed
an oxygen nitrogen atmosphere
into one containing
a bit more carbon dioxide,
which gave the trees
reason to smile
or whatever it is they do
that equates to a smile.
standing behind her, as she sat
on a stool in the shower stall
of her nursing home bathroom,
tile floor catching silver snippets
I cut from her statue-still head.
What could I do with the comb
when I had to wield scissors
with one hand, clasp her locks
with the other, Mother’s tangled
brain not letting her grasp that
she could ease my task, she could
turn her head when asked, hold the comb
and look in the mirror when I finished,
see what a fine job I did? Every month
for seven years, I stood at the sink
in that bathroom, rinsing her traces
out of my mouth, the sadness.
He, who once had been the Norwegian Earl Rognvald of More, now King of Orkney, is about to send a message to King Harald Harfagre, King of Norway. The message is of the most urgent nature, since Orkney is again to be taken by pirates, as it had already been in the past, before Rognvald and his men wiped out the outlaws, who had established a base from where to raid the coast of Norway during the summers. Press here to finish M.M.’s story
He is a well of deep, dark punk-chew-ation
Licks his lips and sings another verse
About a nation
That died, now lies inside a hearse.
They play the funeral march with sink-cow-pation
No need to rehearse
Live radio station
Jazz echoes, final verse.
I promised myself that I was done
that poetry was for the birds and that
the magic was in the short story.
That same afternoon
I saw a dark skinned girl
wearing a blue dress, sitting on a park bench
waiting for the bus.
—after Jason Moran’s Feedback Pt. 2
hushed by hushing verbs
curtailed synonyms with
perforated lags of
many of the how many longing bodies
whose persuading motives
hide amid sorrow’s