in the land of the white
live too the black men
apparently with equal right
but with covert disdain.

why couldn't the world be one place
when we are all from common gene
where humanity is the only race
across the color of skin.

in the land of the black
live too the white men
apparently of the same pack
but on a different plane.

why couldn't the world be one landmass
when we rose from one origin
where being humane is the only class
across the color of skin.

in the land of the white
live the white men
among them aren't equal right
exist disparity and disdain.

why couldn't the world be one unit
when together we all once had been
where brotherhood is boldly writ
across the color of skin.

in the land of the black
live the black men
among them oneness they lack
the inequalities still remain.*

why couldn't the world be one creed
where mankind lives as one kin
the white and the black can only read
love across the color of skin.

I am Persephone;
queen of the cursed and the ******,
bogged down by chains made of
greed and desperation.
My value lies on a stained mattress;
my worth measured by the broken fingernails
left on the skin of my paychecks,
fragments of myself given for an hour of their pleasure.
I know nothing but chapped lips and blissful vacancy,
outstretched hands met with violence.
I am no longer a spring flower;
wilted beyond recognition,
I am better suited for examination under glass than
I ever was for life in damp alleys.
But for all my inadequacies,
there are three things for which I'm certain:
there's a price to pay for naivety,
innocence is a lie,
and we're not all created equal.
A pretty face is worth its weight in gold;
sold to the highest bidder,
there's no room for integrity
when wolves are nipping at your heels.
hard years have taught me this:
silver spoons nourish the undeserving
and even the virtuous come with a price tag.
We are all marred by what we do to get by, and ideas mean nothing
if wrapped in the skin of a *****.
And it makes me wonder;
which one weighs more,
a pound of flesh,
or a pound of promise.

- K.M.

i remember taking morning impulse beach trips with william
to the white sand on the right hand coast of old florida
wearing sunglasses on our eyes
and our hearts in our front shirt pockets
jesus, must have been twenty ten because
i was too young to drink in bars
and he couldn't drive
the windows were down and we were catching
intense sun on the opposite sides of our faces
listening to a playlist of songs we wanted played at our funerals
swore we'd be there for each other forever
as we choked down stolen purple vitamin waters
trying to smoke a divine bowl while discussing
the advantages of miller high lifes over
pabst blue ribbons for light beach drinking with
two tabs each on our tongues or buried in our cheek-meat
as we crossed that lion's bridge
dreaming we'd drift off into that cloudless blue sea-sky

i remember falling in love
for what must have been the first time
half drunk on champagne and ojay
blasted out and overdosing on sunlight
sitting pretty on the carpet floor with jennifer
with our legs tangled together
whispering secrets playing with shiny trinkets
and small meaningful totems
while the other boys laughed
and smoked on the balcony

i'm suppposed to be writing the world's greatest poem
but i get distracted by fractal ocean memories
because i'm already twenty-five and nowhere special
we've both sobered up by now i guess but i
saw ol' bill just the other day and we still
find time to laugh and sing to each other over tacos
he'll be married soon and i've learned finally that it takes
more than ******* someone to keep my bones warm
we've gotten our **** together so to speak but seperately
i'm still getting used to revealing myself to myself
figuring out how to be honest with the little boy in the mirror
how to be in love with my big nose
and that i'm really only twenty four

Everyone's a poet
Some simply have no clue,
But answer me one question;
What is a poet to you?

For me a Poet is a person,
a place, or thing;
To bring out such emotion
To make you cry or sing.

I know it may seem crazy,
But Darling look around;
A picture tells a story
Without a single sound.

A flower whispers truth
So softly in the ear
Of every child to close their eyes
So their hearts can hear.

A simple stone; grey and new
Could bring a proud man to his knees.
From his fathers name engraved;
Each letter tangled in his grief.

An unused baby blanket
Folded neatly in a woman's lap
Whispers what could've been
Of her child who will 'ever nap.

A sunrise over water
Rushing quickly past a bridge;
'Ever sings the tender stories
Of a young couple's marriage.

A man who neither speaks nor hears
Sits at home 'ever lonely,
But in a book upon his desk
He's etched vibrant sounds into his story.

You see, everyone's a poet
Some simply have no clue,
But answer me one question;
What is a poet to you?

-ARI

I taught her how to handle a
Pellet gun tonight.
Now her eye is black from the
Scope, her fake fingernails chipped
From loading,
And the pine tree nearly stripped from
Cones outside my
Livingroom window, where our
Jägermeister
Cups made little rings on my
Brother's Longfellow hardback
Copy.

The night sky is bright blue this
Time of year in Norway.
Sun never really sets.
I looked up at the brightests spots
Beyond the moon, as she took aim
And fired with a subtle
Psstkh.

"So close," she whispered at the
Unwounded summer evening,
And I smelled her lavender hair
And all the warm outsides
As I thought of satellites and
Discoveries, and how moments
Such as this one would
Always matter
More.

After I had walked the earth
touched what things I could touch
The totality
sharing no blood with the sun
Every alarm imaginable
Every engine dedicated to murdering peace
Driven from my homes
None are awake to this
Even I feign sleep
Clearing my mind
until I feel nothing
no reverberation of air
Vacuum

the old cannot erase
the shadow of their setting sun
bled across their threshold, staining
the abandoned chair by the fire.

You drag me
deep into a drowning pool of silence
where a cold wet death awaits,
where no answers ever come,
where you hide all the old familiar nightmares
where every protestation is ignored,
where peace of mind goes to die,
you let your thoughts constrict,
and with scalpel and skin
you abort all pure creations,
in your drowning pool of silence.

when I was five and life was a song of
excitement and innocence
the world was full of mystery
and I had never felt
the pain of hurt or loss of
any kind    and then
one day
a playmate pushed me right off the swing
you picked me up   brushed me off
   told me not to cry
‘mommy,’ I said,
‘it hurts’

when I was sixteen and in love for the  first time
to a young Cuban girl I felt like
    an adult doing adult things
dates and kissing and groping
and late-night phone calls with the
cord stretched and twisted through the house
and under my door    and then
one day
she left me for another teenage crush
and I felt world-ending
anguish  burning, hot, consuming
as only a teenager can feel them
you held me close
   told me I’d be ok
‘but mom,’ said I,
‘it hurts.’

when I was thirty-five at the end of my marriage
holding on to it with desperate and futile hands
trying to be a good father to my sons
who put me on a pedestal high enough
to rival the gods
I fought depression
and anger
even as I felt co-dependent longing
for the woman who was
  breaking my heart
there at the end of that marriage
one day
you held your grandchildren
and me
   and told us we’d be ok
‘mom,’ I said
   ‘it hurts.’
  
when I was thirty-eight and dying
from the cancer eating  my body
  repulsed by
the very sight of my
shriveled and sunken body with
chemotherapy eyes set deep
deep inside my skull
and scars on my body finally
making me as ugly in life as I felt inside
I despaired and I grieved
the loss of innocence
in my children and the burden
on my new girlfriend
one day
you sat by my bedside
and held my hand,
  told me the kids
and I
were stronger than I knew
‘but mom’ I said, looking
at their pictures,
‘it hurts.’

when I was forty and strong again,
recovered from cancer
and from divorce
my scars a badge of character and honor
with a beautiful new bride by my side
a new life to live
and a new daughter to love
that day
  you lay in a hospital bed
clinging desperately to life
     machines to monitor
tubes to breath
nurses to care and
doctors to treat
I held your hand, like you always held mine,
  alongside
your daughter (my sister) and
your other son (my brother)
as you breathed your last
even as I
   sobbed at your passing
and fell into the arms of my wife and siblings
I wondered
  selfishly
who now will hold me like you did
like only you could
because oh god, mom
it hurts.

I refuse to dream again
It only leads to pain
There is no truth therein
Whatever some may say
It's all tricks of the mind
And then in the light of day
Whenever I open my eyes
Reality is still grey

                             By Phil Roberts

I chanced to meet a ghostwriter at my door,
her transportation failed just down the road
A sojourning doppelgänger of sorts
…an elusive reflection in need of a tow

Transmuting words to wine,
We both sip time to time,
‘Til they foment catharsis
And melt to sublime.

Breathless in afterglow,
From insouciance and hubris,
Words weather to sediment
That we’ll climb to the precipice

And once at the summit
We’ll cast words adrift,
Toast our glasses to flying
And then leap from the cliff.

I read your words by day,
to skirt the wiles of your will
but I know your heart by night.
Leave me, charlatan, to my waking hours,
I know whose ghost you are
why haunt my spirit in its sanctum by the light.

I contravene with tears
in the corners of your eyes,
Guide them back, and kiss their lids
And send them off to hide.
In dark whispers,
calling you and calling you
To join them by their side.

Why must you take me with you,
is this protest not enough?
My importune to tender ears,
“I’ve things to do, I must!”

Still you wrap yourself around my world,
My overflowing chalice
And turn the wine to liquid gold,
oh, ever clever alchemist.