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Mitch Prax May 17
The sum of my heart
needs no addition to it-
the answer is you.

10:51 AM
I used to make this exotic Indian dish.
It combined so many spices—like cardamom,
coriander, and a hard
pulpy substance called tamarind that I
soaked in hot water and used only the juice.
It was a giant Middle Eastern stew.
It was half science and half art.
It was math at its best,
generally, I despise math.
It smelled so foreign and exotic,
it contrasted with the wife and 2.3
kids placed neatly around the dinning room
table, waiting on
the finishing touches,
sprigs of fresh
cilantro tossed atop each bowl.
An Indian bread called naan was dipped
in the stew—it was wonderful, amazing.
The wine—smiles—laughter,
I can still smell it and taste it.
And now,
on lonely winter nights,
my take-out tandoori chicken smells
like a TV dinner.
I sit at my window and look out at the
snowflakes; they fall vertically, horizontally under
the grey black sky. I watch the dog break open the
bone and lick the marrow out. I watch the
big white cat sleep, snore, maybe dreaming of
a fat sparrow in his mouth. I think of taking
a bite of the sunset, living in a cave; the way
a marimba sounds when I’m haunted,
how Hamsun took bites of his hand in hunger.
My mind drifts to Van Gogh’s potato eaters,
the ***** that rejected his ear, Lautrec’s withered
legs and beautiful heart. I think of the falcon in
the city, the stranger in the mirror, the brutality
of man and the wonder in the doe’s eyes.

Anything but algebra, I took the compass test for
college, 99% in writing, reading and 17% in math.
I have to retake the math and score a 25% or better.
I despise math, my girlfriend says, “You love math, it
gets you loans and grants.”
My brain bleeds with numbers and equations,
but she’s right,
I like loans and grants.

So I’m back at it, like a kid to
the dentist, and math does its job,
it pushes me back to
the word, the line, my dirt road
through the madness.

Dear Math,

Solve your own

I am not a

Angela Rose Apr 21
Some lines aren’t meant to be crossed
I know that
I’ve always known that
But you’re a line I want to cross 100 times over and over again

Some lines aren’t even meant cross paths  
I know that
I learned that when I was very young
But you and I were never meant to be parallel lines, we were born to intersect
And I think that’s called fate.
After a tortuous hour of
math (algebra to be exact)
I start dinner, middle Eastern stew:
Cardamom, Coriander, and turmeric.
Cooking is a little like math, but
much more like art.My mind begins
to ease as Bach pumps out
one of his symphonies from
the CD player.The stew boils, and
I want to go outside and play,
chase windmills.Where's Sancho?
Dulcinea's here, frustrated by my inept
ability in the equation game.
I ******* despise algebra.
Where's the Bluebird, the Sunflower,
Bukowski or Eugene O'Neil?
I want to smell a six week old puppy,
taste Van Gogh yellow, **** until
I can't walk, and ease my
way into old age.
Vivaldi plays his victorious song.
And I know I'll conquer the
numbers game, but probably not
before it drives me crazy;
actually, it's a short putt.
Dana Apr 17
I always feel too much, and
you never feel enough, like
two halves of the wrong circles
fighting to become whole.

So is this how it ends? Or we
could try and make a square.
I always care too much and
you care just the right amount,
so this one's on me.

You usually know what to say.
So we try sine and cosine.

They work. We're waves.
It's a throwaway sunset.
It's time.

The devil is dancing on
your shoulder. All the
angels are asleep on mine.
Ruheen Apr 19
I think I'm good at it,
And I am for a while,
But then I see a problem
And I just can't figure it out.
I don't know what to do.
So then I realize maybe
I'm not that good at it.
I'm not that smart maybe.
And then I wonder
Is it just me?
It is everyone?
Or am I just stupid?
Because I used to be good at it.
It used to be easy,
But now, I never know what to do.
It's so hard.
I hate Math.
Did I get you? I was talking about Math the entire time. :)
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