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Schuyler May 18
They ask me, “Do you have a plan?”
I say, “I did my plan.”
They ask me, “Do you have another?”
My IV drips the same monotonous drip
And the catfish swim in it, releasing
Bubbles to my heart to fill me with
Some form of full I never feel
And I think of the Mississippi
I think of my mother's warning
Of the alligators, gar, and whirlpools
And I think that’s where my body belongs
Down in the mighty Mississippi
The great river my father played pirate on
The one whose call took him from his love
The river my grandfather built monuments to
To tame, to quell, because that’s what a man does
Stolen land and water, polluted by him
I think of how soft the mud must be
A cushioned pillow for my bones to rest
Crowned with cattails and pondweed
How the water might fill me like the bubbles
From my IV drip, drip, dripping
And the catfish smiles at me, his whiskers
Gleaming in the artificial fluorescence
Of the suicide watch room lights
They say, “Drowning is the worst way to go”
But I smile, and I say to them and the catfish
“I think that’s where my body belongs”
In my mind,
I am in the deep south,
Dancing with Cowboys,
Singing folk songs.
Herding cattle,
Chasing outlaws.

In my mind,
I am in Paris, France,
Waking up with you beside me,
Strolling in the lazy streets.
Chatting with the News-Man,
Drinking coffee at the Cafe.

In my mind,
I'm where I want to be,
I'm with all my buddies.
Time never seems to pass,
How can I get all of that?
Sometimes it feels as if I'm writing to her
evangeline Mar 19
For you,
I feel an ancient yearning
Baked into my bones
A cosmic ache-
A prehistoric hunger-
A primitive pining

Yes,
It’s a supernatural connection—
Mine and yours—
A rest-the-vessel,
Let-the-tides-guide,
Sacred sort of love

Because betwixt us,
There is a longing
Only the moon
No — only god, herself  
And all her sapphic sovereignty
Could resist

There is a glowing desire
So fervent within us
That I wish I could reach into your Heavenly Body
And pull out your stars  
And thread them into the nest of my womb

An immortal, galactic romance—
Ours is—
Fit for gallery halls and poetry readings
And woven with all the glittery things  
But it’s Roommates, they’ll call us
Roommates, reads our plaque

Roommates—
Not lovers, nor sweethearts
Not partners, nor darlings
No lust
No lore
The saga of us, enduring no more

Celestial stains and divine shame
Roommates, we’ll remain
So we’ll guard this holy matrimony,
We’ll let our lovers’ anthem die
We know the truth is in the stars
We know who lives a lie
Ethan P Jones Oct 2024
Miss hoodoo mother bake me a pecan pie
I’ve been gone for too many Christmases
Blood soaked magnolias splayed before white linens
Smell of a fire just stifled out, stifled out by blood
Cheeks still glistening when I came in the kitchen
“Are you searching for something or running from it?”
Fields crowned in white, soil fertilized with sweat
With heartbreak
You’re fertile, the warmth envelopes me
The birthplace of something blue, something used
I can’t say when I’ll be back again, the road is long
I’ll keep your song with me, chords of pain and comfort
Your scars are visible at the supermarket, whispered about
Billboards of turmoil everyone drives by
Lips ache for a taste of your lemonade nonetheless
I think about my time in that home, in my home
If I should have boarded that casino boat
What number would those dice land on
The one thing that I did wrong
Àŧùl Sep 2024
He was on a training mission down south,
There, his landlady told him to get married.

He hesitantly agreed to flash a matrimonial,
He anyway did so in a local newspaper.

She responded to his call in the newspaper,
She was attracted by his description.

They got married in a minimalist manner,
Saving money for a combined future.

The first demand she had surprised him,
She asked him to maintain a moustache.

With time, when he grew that mouser,
She was impressed with his manliness,

"I've seen denser moustaches,
None looks as elegant as yours."

Then they went to his home in North,
For the honeymoon, they went to Kashmir.
My HP Poem #1993
©Atul Kaushal
David P Carroll Aug 2024
In the heart of
South America lies a gem
Suriname beautiful and bright and Suriname is the place to be
In life and the sun shines
Brightly upon me

And Suriname
Is full of history
And culture and the
People are very sweet and
Very kind and the food
Tastes just so great and

Suriname a land of beauty and mystery

And Suriname is the place to be and Suriname the land of magical dreams
And a land of beauty and diversity

And the Suriname people
Stand tall and proud
And are hard working
Men and women all year round
And Suriname a
Magical beauty always shining bright
And Suriname is the shining star in the Caribbean day and night.
Suriname
B Mar 2024
Texas is as hot as hell
and looks like it sometimes too
but I can't leave, it's paralyzing,
I love it like I'm dazed and confused.
Know I'd miss the flat green land
and always knowing what comes next
yearning for the shade of the soft, dark pine
crackled leather growing on my neck.
Here, you cannot hide from the sun
it chases you like a bird of prey
yet I have learned to live with it
I rise and I kiss it, never stray.
And I can sit and drink
like I am baptized from the inside out
this is the easy way
to taste freedom in the South.

It takes forever just to get out of this state
stretched as wide as the chasm of my mind
so long a journey from ear to ear
what am I supposed to find?
Left alone with no friend but my thoughts
what terrible company they are.
At least the skies are open here
I can find familiarity with my lone star.

Sometimes people leave,
in a chase of meaning, and perhaps some hope
but they will always come back
unforgivingly pulled by the invisible rope.
I'll let my curiosity wander
but not for too long
Rough cowboy reminds me
where I belong.
ky Jul 2023
The winds blew north
for hundreds of days,
but one day,
the winds changed.

They started blowing south.
And everything in their path
started going south as well.
monique ezeh Jun 2023
days crawl by
and humidity stills the air.
the black flies are late this season,
though around here, most things are.
below the gnat line, girls like me
seldom get to die easily,
perfumed powders
masking the scent of illness,
flushed cheeks and damp foreheads donned
as our feeble bodies recline on fainting couches
to delicately languish away. we know that
there’s a certain beauty to decomposition,
to fungus gnats invading potted soil,
to fruit flies nesting in sink drains. we know that
rotting is a clock that never stops,
tallying each unflinching, humid second while the
days crawl by.
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