Lungs huff morning. Sun drips in pores—honey in tea—reeks of rum. Backs warped—pink Solo cups floating in bins—wasted. Eyes raw—coins thumbed by scholars who can’t let go of bottles—trip over papers strewn across crumbs on sheets on bodies on beds, and then—thesis: the cure is—
Non-believer, your lashes fashion mystery—stories of thorny eyes, silk wine, blood spraying stone. Non-believer, you are the anchor in God’s ruby sea. Your arms are pillars, your mouth a cross, your skin scripture. Non-believer, you bleed Truth. The Gospel’s in your hips and fists, under chewed nails, traced fingerprints. You are the incarnate Unknown—something you hate so much—what I love most.
This morning I am fog, Glistening with the illusion That you’re the bog I snooze in. The view’s nice, but it’s not The same as playing hide and seek With the fish in your cheeks. I could be the pond In your belly, the puddle on Your tongue, the lake linking Your legs, the mud in Your eyes that splatters When you smile, If only The fish in your mouth Played fair.
I may not be a political science major, but I have a decent grasp of United States politics, and right now we're a mess. Anyone in the world can see it, since our political revels and defeats are always being splayed across news and social media. What's more: instead of trying to unite over common issues, we're pitching our causes at each other like weapons for war. The problem, in my opinion, isn't the mess; it's our reactions. Everyone has morals. Everyone has beliefs. Everyone thinks they're right. But what happens when there isn't only one answer? What happens when diverse groups of people are tossed together like a salad? Do they listen to each other before speaking or do they sit and scream accusations? At what point does the fence fall? In today's society, we're plagued by the illusion of binary systems. "Liberal" and "conservative" have become terms we use to describe our personalities rather than political standing. This d…
And if you get cut, it hurts like hell, unless hell is inside you, buried beneath the folds of your skin, and then, I suppose, you’re akin to stinging bones and words you don’t know, helicopters circling a phoenix. You were born here, but you never thought you’d die here. Never thought you’d become a pile of overplayed strings on linoleum floor. Never knew you’d turn blue like cracked circuits yearning for fire. No, you thought “grander” things: a cut on the king’s toe, a politician’s used towels, a celebrity’s rubber body slipping between sheets. You wished yourself a plastic boat and floated toward death. You forgot about the farmers, the doctors, the hat that was warmer than the hand, how it felt to kiss your best friend, the feather that fell to earth like sperm spiraling toward an egg.