“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.…
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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.…
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In the way that so many of those pop punk band from that era lied to all of us about how terrible life in your hometown is, how we were meant for something bigger and the only thing holding us back was the people in this specific location because they just didn’t get it. If we could just leave, find anywhere else, we would find our people and finally be understood.
In the way that Kerouac and so many other Beat writers must have lied to previous generations, and those of us lost souls since who have read the classics to try to appear as mature as we felt, about how leaving is an answer, how if we just get on the road and start moving, we’ll find the places we belong, find our purpose, find success, find whatever we’ve been searching for.…
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Trailer park, third row from the left, second from the end of the row, lemon yellow with white trim. Looked like a packaged pastry. Little Debbie cakes from from middle school lunches. The icing like plaster.
A man in the doorway, sinewy, unshaven, sleeveless t-shirt, jeans with a tin of chewing tobacco in the back pocket, hunting camo baseball cap with the Waste Management logo. He was holding a tallboy of Yuengling.
He smiled like he’d been told a joke “You must be the kid.”
The boy in his school uniform shrugged. The blazer was too big for him. He’d lost weight over the past year.
“Just call me Tierney.” Said the man.
“Shane.” Replied the boy.
“C’mon in.”
Tierney sat on a secondhand couch whose cushions were running threadbare, festooned with pills like skin tags.…
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Something goes bump in the night. A thick band of light streams into the dark cell from the rectangular window in the door and it grounds Chris Haley as soon as he wakes. There can be no doubt as to where he is.
Unseen in the darkness he hears forceful exhalations of breath and the smack of flesh hitting concrete. Chris fumbles for his invisible reading lamp.
“Sean?” asks Chris.
He finds the lamp and turns it on. Sean Coleman is doing burpees in the middle of the small cell. His thick chest is covered in cloudy tattoos. Swastikas and lightning bolts and all the regalia of hate. The man is a true believer.
“What are you doing, man?”
Sean does not stop. He does another burpee and exhales.…
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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.…
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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…
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