I used to be jealous of the rising tide, for it could never leave
Just lap at jagged teeth and spray its foam upon your sleeve
My blindness felt the seagulls flee, their mocking heard no more
Yet still the tide, it rose in time, to crash on rocky shores
I know why the kestrel races, on the hunt for freckled faces
In the beaches, ports, and harbors, raving for its saving graces
In the alleyways, for forty days, I heard them caw
In the burning trees, I heard their pleas, their throats so raw
I swore the birds, they never rest, for land and earthly law
Don’t much apply in cyan sky and clench of vulture’s jaw…
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I’ve seen her fragmented,
with pupils swollen, overfilling to black,
not mourning the absence of color.
My neck tilts—revealing
her skull to be a collection of shards.
Yet, always her mouth curls up,
the corners pointed to satisfaction.
Tonight, the moon strikes her.
Rotted prisms bark back at me.
I peel along my damaged skin,
scraping the imperfection,
hoping my blood gives her new life.…
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The moon’s gaunt and narrow.
…………..They say our corridor through life’s
…………..measured by the moon.
…………..Slim as a tunnel, I tuck my legs under my knees.
Pat scratches licks on the rosewood,
…………..strumming them in fragments of silk and nylon.
…………..Three-Part Rasguedo, Golpe,
…………..Rumbagitana.
…………..He plays.
Fire-starting calluses, fireboard,
…………..spun Mullein, none of these items
…………..are amazed by their use. In the circle dance,
…………..my back foot scratches the dust.
Farruca, the wild form, mournful Soleares,
…………..the tragic Segurias.
…………..He adjusts his segilla,
…………..demonstrates Tarrantas y Tarrantino,
…………..its dramatic turns and contemplative open rhythm.
Rising into the horizon.
…………..I hear the shuffle of leaves in the Sequoia,
…………..the rattle of rain upon the green roof.…
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It was the morning glory
wreathed around the jersey’s
horns that turned you into
a vegetarian. The beast stood
there in the green pasture
like some bovine Ophelia,
brown, beautiful and tragic,
trailing white flowers, green hearts.
How could I ever eat you? you
murmured and made a pact
with the future never to do so.
I, with my eyes on the traffic lights,
missed the scene and the promise,
being concerned with the more
immediate future by depressing
the throttle and heading down the road.
In any case, my convolvulus
was not morning glory, but
bindweed, not beautiful, being
a depressing throttle of a vine itself:
smothering, persisting, insisting
on its own survival at the expense
of everything else. Rather like
ourselves, I guess. Which is why
I hated it so much, battled with it
with a fury, pointlessly ripping its
hateful fecundity from the currant
bushes, scrabbling, tearing the fleshy
spaghetti of its white roots from
the reluctant soil only pausing
from time to time to dream of sirloin.…
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Here I am
longing for what will never be
taken apart by an unbearable discontent
happiness goes away
humankind
spending too much time on a terrible story
it’s likely going to be ugly
it’s likely too that it’s either absurd choices
or a heinous tomorrow
an increase of this accidental tragedy
blinded by the promises of heaven
easily taken in I am
despite
the rumors of the curtain calls
without being seen
after years of this
I’m not myself
as kids learn to twitch
there is no second chance
– David M. Alper…
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Paradise, you should know, is but a version
of our world where everything is
just as it should be; hereabouts
brooks flow through lush meadows
frequented by hovering hummingbirds
and butterflies flitting between flowers
as dark-eyed houris, virginal but nubile,
splendidly endowed, outstretch and sun
themselves on lawns or rove vineyards,
ready and eager to ensorcell newcomers
with their wiles and charms, with figures
sinuous and sensuous, lovely to behold.…
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The Sun tries to say hello, but
bid her farewell, she’s not welcome
here. The darkness soothes
the sound of the feral bird rapidly
flapping its wings, beating against
its bone cage. It’s exhausted and
wounded. But it aches to hurt even more.
Shaking its cage. Left. Right. Up. Down.
Trapped. It’s too much for the bones to
bear. As the Sun shines light on the
imperfections of the world. The Moon’s
wickedness caters to the feral bird’s
craters. This is what it comes down to:
always sleeping my days away. This is what
it comes down to. Trying to keep the
feral bird at bay.
– Triniti Brown
Author’s Note: “Escaping the Feral Bird” represents the internal chaos of anxiety and depression. The “feral bird” is a symbol of the frantic, relentless thoughts that cage you, leaving you exhausted and trapped.…
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