It was all we could do to keep the ice cream from melting down the sides of the cones, sticking to our fingers and clothes.
It was all we could do to hang on. To anything. Resembling real life.
It was all we could do to avoid being trampled as elephants hurtled down the street followed by the keepers and the smaller beasts.
It was all we could do to save one. The others would eventually perish.
It was all we could do to find shelter in the darkest spaces when the storm clouds gathered and the bombs started to fall.
It was all we could do to fill the darkest spaces with something we thought would be important for posterity.
It was all we could to when the water parted, allowing us to pass.… ...continue reading
Isa stares at the cracked, concrete border wall separating District 87 from District 92. She hides from the drones overhead under pine trees that stand thirty feet away from the dividing line. The armed patrolling guards drove past her twenty minutes ago and will not return for another twenty. She had timed their policings many times. There are no biometric scanners nearby as this opening is half a mile from any checkpoint. Isa removes her first-time voter District 87 armband and replaces it with her deceased mother’s frayed District 92 band.
Isa scans the dirt road that separates the tree line and the border wall. She counts, “ten, nine, eight,” then sprints for the cranny just big enough for her to shimmy through. “Move, move, move,” she says to herself.… ...continue reading
Let’s all live in Bruno’s world
the Land of Mars
where uniformed bullies don’t terrorize immigrants
on behalf of cowardly charlatans
and yogic concentration on silk clothing and gold jewelry
makes all the ugliness disappear
like a magnum of strawberry champagne on ice
disbursed among a proper gang of Hooligans
who beat only on deeply groovy drums
detaining innocents with arresting dance moves
and the promise of all-night love
Maybe if we sing with all our soul
dance as though we’re sexier than our fears
place freaky funky fabulousness
above narrow definitions of belonging
we can make the thugs go back to their children
no longer ashamed at cruel moms and dads
pretending to be heroes
while destroying carefully constructed lives
built on American dreams
lacking proper papers
– MK PUNKY
… ...continue reading
Last-Night sits alone in her carved-from-the-earth bedroom deep within a hidden valley, reciting her book: Last Night at the Telegraph Club, whispering something about palms being damp and glancing over one’s shoulder. She had been assigned Malinda Lo’s novel when the newest regime demolished the final secret library that contained books banished from the government-approved curriculum. Last-Night had been six when assigned and it was explained to her that she had become the book’s guardian and that the others within the underground repository, whom she’ll minimally interact with, will only refer to her as Last-Night.
Last-Night had just turned twenty nine according to the book’s publication date, which she assumed as her birthday, eight years ago. And which the librarians and her parents had advised her to do: “You’re now Last Night at the Telegraph Club,” her mother had said, “we don’t want you to get confused.”… ...continue reading
While still fairly new to the job, Ally had been there long enough to determine that there was no “Bert.” The place was called “Bert’s Diner” because the original owner thought it clever to name the place after his dog, Bert. She stayed because the tips were pretty good, the customers were OK, and the current-owner/manager-not-named-Bert wasn’t a complete asshole.
Ally had noticed the woman camped in a booth by the window, slowly eating a sandwich and watching her as she worked. The woman, with brown shoulder-length hair and unassuming clothing, sat quietly, as if wanting to blend into the background. Ally wondered, is this a local having a light meal after work? Or perhaps she was dining alone after having been stood up on a blind date?… ...continue reading
Along the moonlit river tame
A silent vessel glides
Where maiden voices grace the night
In silvered choral tides.
All robed in white, with flowered crowns,
They lift a vesper song.
The water listens, hushed and still,
And bears the prayer along.
The gentle hymn the moon receives
From hearts unsmirched by day.
It drifts like incense o’er the stream
And keeps the dark away.
Then sudden mirth the stillness cleft
With torch and timbrel wild.
Red smoke in wavering circles swept
Above the singers mild.… ...continue reading
The path is always the same
The sequence is always the same:
The door of the school
The sidewalk
The sloping walkway down the hill
The concrete bridge over Ann’s Run
The crossing guard on Main Street
The gas station
The climb up Davis Street
The parking lot of the apartments
The empty lot with the long grass
The short stretch of Gordon Street that connects
………….the disjointed blocks of First Street
Mrs. Coffman’s house
The turn from First Street to Liberty Avenue
Home
The same pattern
The same routine
Day in
Day out
The door of the school
The concrete bridge
The crossing guard
The gas station
The parking lot
The empty lot
The disjointed blocks of First Street
Evenings spent with Mrs. Coffman in front of her coal fire
………crackling embers
………acrid smoke
………the warm sitting room
………the cold never-used living room beyond
She wasn’t my babysitter
I chose to visit her
I don’t recall our conversations
or her first name
only our connection
………The door of the school
………The concrete bridge
………The empty lot
………First Street
………Mrs.… ...continue reading