By: Cedric McClester, .

How many funerals must we attend
Before the genocide is brought to an end
How many families must be left behind
Before we regain our presence of mind
How many times must it all be repeated
Before the enemy is finally defeated
When will self-love become our sacred trust
See I’ve seen the enemy and the enemy is us

What good are the candles or the cardboard shrines
When it’s apparent that we’ve lost our minds
What good is a painting of the deceased
When the violence is steadily being increased
When will self-love become our sacred trust
See I’ve seen the enemy and the enemy is us

This ain’t a lecture I’m not here to preach
So let’s call this a form of social outreach
The message is urgent I’ll try to be brief
While sharing insight as to my belief
We are the problem and we are the cure
So we can’t go on blaming others anymore
When will self-love become our sacred trust
See I’ve seen the enemy and the enemy is us

How did we get here is open to debate
But I think you’ll agree the root cause is self-hate
Before another brother or sister is harmed
To be forewarned is to be forearmed
We need to return to our original state
Where we loved one another before the hate
I’ve seen the enemy and the enemy is us
I’ve seen the enemy and the enemy is us



Cedric McClester Copyright © 2015.  All Rights Reserved

She could feel her heart racing
The euphoric moment as she landed between death and life
Her hair tangled across her sweat beat face
Her limbs getting weaker with each breath
She began to shut her eyes
As she let the multiple abysses welcome her senses
She coughed
Again and again
Until all she could taste was the metallic taste of blood in her mouth
She clasped her hands as though she could save her escaping soul
She couldn't

A moonlit dance beneathe constellations
      not Taurus or Gemini, Delphinus or Orion
                 but stars we named together
                   linking lines from star to star
       hands pointing in air so cold
a tear falls and
                           another
  leaving a roadmap on my cheeks
            that you
                            chase
                           ­            chase
                                                  chase
   ­         lifting the palm of your hand
                 so cold to the touch I shiver
            feeling the beauty of my tears
         that glisten like Venus in the midnight sky
             of this cold Parisian night
  you smile in jest and
     I misplace the space
  between you and I and that sky
  whispering "do you love me?"
    how could I resist the beauty of
                 our second to last kiss.

© Sia Jane

I know zilch about car engines,
So I don't write about them.

I know squanto about medicine -
-more about drugs,
but for personal reasons
like kids and such I seldom
allude to them;
you understand -
And you'll not read much on that,
Except for an occasional image.

I know extraordinarily nothing
About cricket, or how rockets can propel
In a vacuum, or dimensions,
Six through ten.
Ordinary, usual stuff for many.
But not my comfort zone,
So I won't waste our time
Feigning string theory imagery.
So,
Here's the thing.
I write about death, often,
And I know just about nothing
That there is to know,
Except for what we know,
Hardly worth mentioning,
It's common knowledge,
Not necessary to even cite,
Like the capital of Canada,
Or The Lord's Prayer.
At least I could use an image
Of a scar or a cog wheel,
But I know nothing
About death,
But the certainty.
So, what's up with that?
Did I do it again?

The drops
as black as her soul.
Blurred vision
by the salty streaks
rolling madly down
a face left scorned.
Swells of air
pulled inside lungs
that might as well be crushed.
Numbness spreads
like a disease from the knees
then to shaky legs.
After body separates from soul,
these lips will be last to go.
She'll never know
how her darkened soul
brightened my dreary day.

I didn’t know what I was doing,
But I left three buttons undone so I still blame myself,
Because I thought having somebody touch me for more than
one night,
Would surely follow from letting them touch me at all,
Slap naive on my head,
And send me home.