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Literature Text
Somewhere along the way,
I got the impression that
good poems had big words
strung together like pearls,
draped around fragile-necked statements;
an art of growing flowers
without ever bothering to cultivate
the ground beneath them.
What about the Saturday afternoons
that last so long they cling like dew
to the undersides of Wednesday mornings,
or the press of clouds against a sky
that can’t decide which color to be?
I am quickly losing interest
in poetry that doesn’t make room
for chickadees to nest between
simple similes.
I got the impression that
good poems had big words
strung together like pearls,
draped around fragile-necked statements;
an art of growing flowers
without ever bothering to cultivate
the ground beneath them.
What about the Saturday afternoons
that last so long they cling like dew
to the undersides of Wednesday mornings,
or the press of clouds against a sky
that can’t decide which color to be?
I am quickly losing interest
in poetry that doesn’t make room
for chickadees to nest between
simple similes.
Literature
oppression.
Rebellion is a funny thing; being denied the right to something
simply makes it that much more tempting;
forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest, as the saying goes.
But what of oppression? What taste would that fruit have,
riddled with hatred and malevolence?
Would thorns sprout from it's surface, would the juice taste sour?
Would eyes water as the foulness of it burned our throats, and caused us to weep?
Our world is far from perfect, lights doused
by the hopeless tears of those whose suffering
God turned a blind eye to. Wealth equals power equals the ability to have your mistakes overlooked, swept under the rug so silently.
But when a y
Literature
fabled life
i.
she talks through her wrinkles,
'i have no desire for food', she says.
i take her plate to the kitchen
noticing how the beetroot shavings bled into the skin of the chicken and brown rice.
it was blood, skin, and bone,
and the rice was a million starlike cells floating between.
this reminds me of my anatomy textbook:
we've been learning what's beneath our skin,
we learned that all cells divide. some cells often don't stop dividing.
other cells divide and stop when they should...
but not my grandmother's.
starlike, they explode, they shatter, they consume
they divide.
ii.
i want to be mad at my grandmother's cells,
but what would that do?
i
Literature
1420 MHz
He keeps a list wadded in the depths of his front, left pocket: where he holds his keys, and the forgotten/abandoned shell of a lone pistachio. The list is his biography, written in the shape of Argentine Spanish:
Yo vivo.
Trabajo.
Me gustan los tomates en verano.
Yo amo a mi novio.
Nos besamos. (Mi novio chupa mis dedos de los pies.)
Las estrellas cantan sus canciones.
Escucho.
Mi nombre no es Eduardo.
Vivo con Jacobi ahora.
His pants are wadded, now, on summer-warmed hardwood; his shirt is draped over the back of a cane-back chair, the most incongruous of antiques in Jacobi’s tech-nerd lair. Headphones clamp his ears,
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This is really really good