I rage
I rage against so much that I cannot handle all this pain in my body
I refuse to submit to the numbness of apathy
Of the sugar coated nihilism of easy escape plans
Halfhearted shrugs
This is the way it’s always been
And they move clockwise, another cog in this blood soaked, dying machine
I rage against it all
Scream to jumpstart the momentum
Force myself to stay standing
Move against those shoving me back
I exhale and run due north
Where change lies and a better future waits for us
– Amanda Leon
Author’s Note: I wrote this poem after a school shooting occurred in the news, and witnessed a congressman’s response to the question if there was anything lawmakers could do to pass gun control or any measures to keep children safe.…
...continue reading
The birds are singing again. Their melody wafts through the bedroom window, and a breeze soon follows, making the curtains sway, as if dancing to the rhythm of spring.
This was always your favorite time of year.
Even if the air had a bite to it, you said it was a small price to pay to listen to that song, to feel that breeze, to breathe in those wonderful scents of the season: lilacs and magnolias and freshly-cut grass.
We weren’t religious, but you always adopted a spiritual tone this time of year, pointing to its cyclical nature: with winter comes decay, yet a few months later, life springs anew. It wasn’t heady stuff, but I loved how spring made a would-be philosopher of you, my beloved accountant, your concrete world of numbers and equations briefly melting into something mystic, something beyond words’ limitations.…
...continue reading
Instead of being, so beautiful
You could photograph
The yearly
Flight-of-the-soot-faced-children
Pinocchio-esque from the mines
So eat your damn vegetables
Or maybe flip a coin
After all
A coin flipped
On the surface of the moon?
You could make a lot of wishes while its turning
– Izzy Maxson
Author’s Note: “Guilt trip” is kind of a surreal little monolog of a poem, and the title is to some extent my having fun with the idea of a poem hectoring of badgering or moralizing to the reader.…
...continue reading
This time instead of flowers lots of poison flowers
Have I spread on your pulpit in worship elements
You take those and look at me blinkingly
This time instead of an idol I have made a bumpkin
In the temple is playing on diabolic song
You stare at me while sitting
Engaged in thinking if there was any wrong
And I pinching on friends’ buttocks speak out hurrah.
– Mozid Mahmud…
...continue reading
The keypad on his door chimed that familiar tune, which he had memorized by now. The door popped open and Doctor Chin entered his cell.
“Hello Gary. How are you today?” The doctor asked.
Chin wore jeans and a button up shirt under his white doctor’s coat, and carried a tablet.
“I’m fine, Doc.” Gary said.
He hopped off his bunk and walked across the tile floor to where two chairs sat facing each other. They were soft chairs, gray in color and matched the Spartan décor of Gary’s room.
“Let’s have a seat.” The Doctor said.
Gary, wearing a one-piece baby blue jumper complied. The blue stood out against the beige color of the rest of the room. It was a very calm institutional color.…
...continue reading
Marla folded the last of the towels and slipped them inside a large plastic shopping bag she kept for her trips to the laundromat. She was happy to be leaving. The building, squat, gray cinderblock, was poorly lit, with constant noise from the machines and the smell of accumulated lint and fabric softener. Inside her car, Marla sat with her eyes closed for a moment, relishing the quiet. She really did hate the place. She looked up at the sign with half its neon winking on and off. The Suds-a-teria. What kind of stupid name was that, anyway?
On her way home, Marla stopped at the Dollar Bonanza for a couple of frozen beef pot pies and a two-liter bottle of pop. She bought the store brand. …
...continue reading
1. Acquire a flower – most preferably one with sentimental value, otherwise why are you even bothering. You need emotion to motivate writing.
2. Spread out each petal so that it lays flat on the tissue paper. Make sure the stem is gone because why on earth would you press a stem. Unless you are composing an Ode to Thorns, paired with the poetic balance of beauty and pain. Be still my heart.
3. Cover both sides of the flower with the tissue paper in order to soak up the fluid. Whilst doing so, formulate a simile about the tissue soaking up the lifeblood of the flower like the pillow soaks up your tears every night. Find other love-sick examples on the world-wide-web.
4. Place the flower in a tight vice, or for regular people, under a stack of heavy books.…
...continue reading