An Open Letter to Really Important People
                     The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement
           A Manifesto Made Manifest in Manifesting Manifestingness

We post this serious looking document
Bloated with long vocabulary words
Sodden with weak dependent clauses
Marshaled in numbered ranks, down, down they go

To the GossipNet all serious like
And everyone has to pay attention to us
Because it’s AN OPEN LETTER, y’know -
You may sign it if you’ve got letters behind your name

Signatories:

Apostle-Disciple Magic Dawn, DD., Non-Binary, Author of Green Polar Bears I Am, Co-Equal-Director of the Anti-Oppressionist Theatre Against the Occupation, Agent of the Revolution, Auteur, Guest on The Wheel of Fortune and Parent of Two AMAZING children of indeterminate Gender with Their AWESOME and AMAZING Life-Partner Sven-Marie.

Massive Ferguson, M.Ed., Poet, Rector of Admissions, The University of Where the Old Circuit City Use to Be

Poncy Tworbst, M.A., PUBLISHED Author, Seeker, Inspirational Singer-Songwriter, PUBLISHED

Heather-Mistee La’ Thwitte-Tworbst, Ph.D., Director of Library Resources at Saint Margaret ****** Homeschool Resource Authority Collective, Inc., Certified Ordained Consecrated Priest in The Worldwide Church of Me-ness and Pastor of the World-Famous Weddings ‘R’ Us Chapel of Rainbow Dreams in Magdalena, New Mexico

Lawrence Hall, HSG, Thinker of Thinky-Ness and, Like, Stuff, Endowed Chair he found at Goodwill, His Mark: X

(Sean Ian Johann Johnson, MBA, J.D., Chief Photocopier Operator at Donald Trump University and Fashion Editor at Gun, God, and Guts Magazine, was not able to sign today; he is sharing a cell with other White House staff and patiently awaiting The Day of Greatness.)

We can have our Pushkin, all thinky and sad
And our poker-playing pups, cheating at cards
Ruslan and Ludmylla dancing on ice
At the Houston Airport Holiday Inn

Did Pushkin paint the poker-playing pups
Or carve tetrameters while in his cups?
That green baize poker table, a samovar
And the Big Giant Head, who needs an ace

We can have our Pushkin, all thinky and sad
And too those kitschy dogs, being real bad!

Alexander Pushkin and the Poker-Playing Dogs

We can have our Pushkin, all thinky and sad
And our poker-playing pups, cheating at cards
Ruslan and Ludmylla dancing on ice
At the Houston airport Holiday Inn

Did Pushkin paint the poker-playing pups
Or carve tetrameters while in his cups?
That green baize poker table, a samovar
And the Big Giant Head, who needs an ace

We can have our Pushkin, all thinky and sad
And too those kitschy dogs, being real bad!

what to do.
where to go.
how to

get
there.

icy whitened teeth gleam earthy chartreuse canine slant glyph
is, really,
the only possession that

i have
on my person,
in my backpack.

---- well, err that, and
this flat slab of lit stone,
thought up by small gods,
and made by smaller people that live in
far far away binary lands that eat the sky
with rolling saturated ebony clouds,
which help smelt those inner beings of light,
and force them inside these tablets -
which I, then, use
to inscribe my

scream-of-conscience
wrought into thinky pixel arc
across the once blank page.

all is not well. sure. i get that.
but the visible spectrum
still bows forth colorings
in the hurt skies above,
over metro rush and mirth cursed.

but we still
can rewrite it.

this
is
why
i sit.

alone.

this monkish
quietude
i exist in:

living room consumed.
it's where, under a relatively nice high ceiling,
i do my

pirouettes,
yogic forays,
and taekwondo kicks

on the apt. faux hardwood floor; or

i am laid out in unmade bed
with a small boring hole 10 microns across,
drilling into my slurring skull -once removed-
it's lonely dome
grasped by two trusty amputated hands
of mine. my two floating seers roam free,
searching out a truer scene.

i mean, what im trying to say is:

the road
calls
me;

long languid abyss strip cruising
blurring lights through
spaceytime-ish. it's silly,

really, how i always
get ants inside my bones. home is not
a concept i know; nor wish to.

i have
resting glitch
syndrome.

new glyphs always are calling me,
like **** Sirens licking my every sense,
filling all my holes with fallen lily petals.

come
save me,
my poet.

ride me
into your
own. fix me into
your hip bones, protruding
toward it.

be
mine.
mover
too.
us
pushpulling
flux.

this is how the imagination is made:

your tiny origami world gets torn;
then, yer mememe death comes by way of small paper cuts;
from the periphery of this rip, you swim upstream, again,
till you see the fēniks wing glinting like a finger ring careening off the sun.

hmm's and err's now populate yer thinky time
like never before, here in Cleverly Folded Paper World.

t h e r e you are;
mmm, you feel the feels even more,
and the refresh bubbles up from the torn.

but still the big cut creeps back ---
x out old you; new document, anew anew, stares, blinking, waiting.

edits forever bloom steely wutabtme? iridium spiels around edges
of tattooed white petals, elegant writs fell; wilting; seeding...

this world, too, must be cut to fit:
if you wish to have a home for the iNGkē worm
that sillily dreams of one day winning its wings.

Hey you with your thinky pain,
your existential crises,
your broken bleeding heart beating in vain.
Hey you!
I say, hey!

Stop being a ****.

close your eyes

right
now.

space
the **** out.

watch and

wait

for those
****** thoughts
to surface. and when they do,
describe them.

give them crazy long fangs.
give them a mane made of fury.
let them summon that buried hatchet.

let it
do its
worst.

then
watch that ****
dissipate
into the forest
of thinky thoughts.

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About Clever Us, the Magazine of Poetry and Thinky-ness

We print free verse about revolution
And deconstructing colonialism
The power and urgency of the story
Post-masculine dystopia redeemed

Visit our online submission system
Against the occupation resistance
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