(For the death of Enlightenment)
by Liam Woodworth-Cook
I missed the memo, where to sign
to be under the body of Christ:
We the holy people, shall be governed.
This contract is an insect,
a spelling of parasite which we disguise
in global firms hailing innovation.
Three-hundred years or so too late,
a witness to democracy asunder
a bludgeoned sacrament of divinity.
A keepsake in a closet or lockbox,
under a pillow of all
our sleep. These kings
United Centuries of Big Dick.
These men now glisten
in gold suits and private streets.
We are on the big screen now! A full time ad,
morsels collected on the stretching reel. Sell
me a prayer. Call it anything other than sex.
Thirst me to a prayer. Like the wild
calls of Pan, I will not see the sight
that is still over the horizon.
Those morals of misfits
romping to the laughter of election circus
as it’s strangled in a loop. Stripped
fields having stripped mountains, wasting
factories, strip that Iron Lady! It was the thought
that counts. That’s the tune played over whiskey
in the parlor and mansion. In the House frightfully
Leviathan’s beastial eye collects unsaid offerings.
These gifts shake rotting hands, rub oil crowns,
build a better fence and greater tower while
we the people swim in our sweat.
Like a bullhorn in the fog I am at the traffic
stop better understanding intersections:
These particular green lights. A simplification
of history’s mathematics. How much is one grass
times three grass? Who’s grass is this grass? What is
the lawn if prescribed by law?
We are in the pantheon of muchness. Ka-ching!
Given bleeding ballots to renew this contract
as if we read the terms and conditions.
As if now we knew how to get past them.
I did not want this apple pie.
Watch what I do with the fork.
Three Candles at 11:11
by Liam Woodworth-Cook
Window lit staircase, crooked steps of
empty homes, echoes of belonging.
Our blinds fallen, the hazed bulb left there
in fluorescent retreat, where to now
as we have whisked ourselves off the streets.
Nearing death the hanging portrait tells
grim reminders. Yes, the bricks will break
under sun or cloud. Our sleepless shapes
depart for the unknown spring. Go then,
clamber to bed or raid the bookshelf
thawing to remember touch, as is.
Sing me these night steps away from light.
Let the bells dance uninhibited
as wind coils the graces of spruce and pine.
Recall hours of yesterday as they
become tomorrow. Let them ring on
as we pour the bottle into glasses.
Beneath this night blanket we are only
creators of ballads, you and I,
sing us as holy stepping into light.
It is here, by my lonesome I am
filled with the sugar of Port and sweet
smoke. Here, listening to neighbors cackles.
Eager at my content to be with
the muses’ cauldron. Sipping a moon
-less night. Spoonful of cherry flushes face,
apricot chest gleans a willful self
angelic. Here in a waxpool weave
of undressed tongue I feel myself be.
by Celina Simmons
paint me what you will.
in my white tee
and dirty jeans,
color me the rainbow
or paint it black.
what you see.
so drench me
in the color of your choosing.
Categories: Arts & Culture