I buried my heart on the marble floor of the moon.
The blood kept seeping out from the grave,
staining the moon’s white floor.
Heartless, I stand every night, staring above,
out in the open meadows of green,
mourning the heart that keeps bleeding still,
birthing a giant stain of faded red, even after three years.
What have I done? A celestial crime.
The glowing white moon will one day turn pink,
and every soul in the universe will curse my name.
Because the heart still keeps bleeding from its broken veins,
and for eternity, it will.
It bleeds, and lets me know:
to me, it doesn’t belong.
– Syeda Mansur
Author’s Note: “The Bleeding Moon” emerged from a moment of sudden darkness during a power outage at midnight, while I was painting beside my open window.… ...continue reading
“I don’t know why it is we are in such a hurry to get up when we fall down.”
Max Eastman, The Enjoyment of Laughter
Just lie there.
Maybe fall asleep
or roll around a bit,
hunker down under the radar,
let gravity hold you
in its arms, let the grass or floor
or sidewalk kiss your cheek.
Standing up is overrated.
As a kid, I remember lying on my back, staring
for hours at clouds tumbling in slow motion
against blue, seeing shapes like dragons or sheep,
sailboats or sharks or bearded faces.
The body needs to rest, to slow down
and wallow in what little time it has.
I’ll enjoy the view from down here and forget
about everything in this world I won’t be able
to keep.… ...continue reading
In his eighties, our neighbor
still mows his grass while
singing “Hard Hearted Hannah”
as loud as the mower. When
he stops for a break or
to wipe away sweat, he gives
Hannah a rest, then
starts mowing again,
singing as loud as ever. He
doesn’t have a great voice,
but takes pleasure in the song,
in the singing,
an early afternoon
with azure sky
and a few clouds.
– Kenneth Pobo… ...continue reading
god damn. things have changed
here. they do, and I don’t know
why I wouldn’t expect it. the crowds
packing camden like cans
in a freshly stocked fridge.
girls with tattoos and canal
birds which drift under bridges.
once I was here, and a thing
young and fresh as a beer
on a sunny afternoon on a patio.
stop at a bar I frequented
at 20. ask for a beer, read
a page from a book I just bought.
joe’s tavern is closed now
but the hawley is open. once
I would sit in this corner and see
the sky pouring like fluid
to glassware. after, I leave
and walk back toward kings cross
where my wife’s having lunch
with a friend. I’ve been 32 years old
for 6 months, which isn’t much.… ...continue reading
The god perches on a throne of bricks;
Behold a man’s body with a bull’s face.
Surrender presents to the ruler.
Outstretched arms will always reach for more.
A furnace forged of copper.
Jaw gaping, eyes radiating red,
maddening in anticipation of the meal.
Seven chambers in his chest feed air to the flames.
An archway exposes an opening into his belly;
Four stomachs are his true domain;
Rumen, reticulum, omasum, and abomasum.
Wet acidic bile traded for dry ashes and hot coals.
Greed chars the kiln.
He is never full; feed him.
He consumes all humanity,
and it still isn’t enough.
– Maxwell Bauman… ...continue reading
It was unwise to believe,
that when Colombia departed from her mother
that evidence of her existence would rot
the same way that the night fades into memory
the second the calico punctures the sun
and bleeds out onto the water.
Her charcoal braid runs into the countryside, unravelling
becomes the gravity that divorces from God
water from the oil,
sunlight from the soil.
– Amalia Danilo… ...continue reading
a hummingbird
sips from
our feeder before
flying away
returning
fifteen minutes
later an impatient
diner
she glides
tilts
finds a red
lobelia and
goes there
silently
– Kenneth Pobo… ...continue reading