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Untitled
by Kelly Charles Pardekooper
blue-haired lane drifters
slowly speeding into sleep
beware the Buick!
The Pitcher in the Rye on the Morning of Red Hats
by Bob Boston
I woke up this morning,
got dressed,
brushed my teeth,
got loaded up,
and put on
my red hat.
It's a people-shooting hat.
Today, I'm going to
shoot people
in this hat.
There's nothing
in this whole
nappy-headed
world,
like hiding my
troubles
under this sharp,
red hat.
On second
thoughts,
I'll leave the
hat here.
I want all them all
to see
my eyes.
They're black.
My eyes,
will blow all of them
away today.
It's a people-shooting day.
It's a black day,
but it's also
red.
And by the time
I'm finished
and my
rainbow
is clearly
visible
no one will even
be able to
tell
just what color
I was
to begin with.
The Consensus on Cows
by David Thornbrugh
I am walking in the country
when a cow with a clipboard
asks me if I’d mind
filling out a survey.
Do I think cow pies
are a fit subject for comedy?
Is it the pain of the calf
that makes the veal tender?
Had the cow not come home
would I still be boogying?
I find it hard to say no
to anyone conducting a survey,
even a cow. Any animal
being fattened for quarter-pounders
or plugged into electric milkers
every day deserves a bit of my time.
Divorce
by Katie Tisch
I am divorcing you.
I am pulling my heart back
Reeling it in again
I was warned not to cast out my line
At the sound of a charming splash
Hinting that something may be swimming in those murky waters.
You have baited me, instead it seems
And the worm I have swallowed has eaten holes in my stomach.
What's worse is I know this process should only occur
Six feet under, where the Earth is embracing my bones
And I, a mere vessel left empty, would not feel the turning.
Yet here I stand, not horizontal
And you, acting like I am a cold corpse.
We are through.
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Gestation
by Maddie Ruud
I reach in panic for my heart:
Yes, still there, and kicking, grown
too big to keep a secret.
Soon, the door of my rib-cage will
spring open and
the labor of letting go begins.
I almost hope it is stillborn, so that
I am the only one to ever carry it.
Homo Neomachina
by Kane X. Faucher
I am a 70-digit rebel without a clock.
Two barcode fronts,
A wireless hub
Swimming in a tank of synthetic goo.
If something needs to be found or paid,
I twitch just one muscle of the finger
And it is found and paid.
In an instant, I say less with more.
I am another security pass code without a referent.
I am another acronym lodged in a random alphabet.
Ass connects to chair,
Finger connects to mouse,
Eye connects to screen.
I am a houseplant without soil.
My thumbs know only manufactured cliterrata
So many buttons where numbers swap for letters,
And letters swap for numerical credit.
My ear attached to a satellite-imbued eolith,
Communication is measured by the dollar-minute.
Those annual bills
by Mark Twain
These annual bills! these annual bills!
How many a song their discord trills
Of truck consumed, enjoyed, forgot,
Since I was skinned by last year's lot!
Those joyous beans are passed away;
Those onions blithe, O where are they?
Once loved, lost, mourned--now vexing ILLS
Your shades troop back in annual bills!
And so 'twill be when I'm aground
These yearly duns will still go round,
While other bards, with frantic quills,
Shall damn and damn these annual bills!
O Lord our father
by Mark Twain
O Lord, our father,
Our young patriots, idols of our hearts,
Go forth to battle - be Thou near them!
With them, in spirit, we also go forth
From the sweet peace of our beloved firesides To smite the foe.
O Lord, our God,
Help us to tear their soldiers
To bloody shreds with our shells;
Help us to cover their smiling fields
With the pale forms of their patriot dead;
Help us to drown the thunder of
the guns With the shrieks of their wounded,
Writhing in pain.
Help us to lay waste their humble homes
With a hurricane of fire;
Help us to wring the hearts of their
Unoffending widows with unavailing grief;
Help us to turn them out roofless
With their little children to wander unfriended
The wastes of their desolated land
In rags and hunger and thirst,
Sports of the sun flames of summer
And the icy winds of winter,
Burdened in spirit, worn with travail,
Imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it -
For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord,
Blast their hopes,
Blight their lives,
Protract their bitter pilgrimage,
Make heavy their steps,
Water their way with their tears,
Stain the white snow with the blood
Of their wounded feet!
We ask it in the spirit of love -
Of Him who is the source of love,
And Who is the ever-faithful
Refuge and Friend of all that are sore beset
And seek His aid with humble
and contrite hearts.
Amen
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