Arts & Culture

Poetic License

(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 

or presidents,

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.

i am 


what you see.

so drench me 

in the color of your choosing.

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Categories: Arts & Culture

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