W.H. Auden (To JS/07 M 378 This Marble Monument Is Erected by the State) He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be One against whom there was no official complaint, And all the reports on his conduct agree That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint, For in everything he did he served the Greater Community. Except for the War till the day he retired He worked in a factory and never got fired, But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc. Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views, For his Union reports that he paid his dues, (Our report on his Union shows it was sound) And our Social Psychology workers found That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink. The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way. Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured, And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured. Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan And had everything necessary to the Modern Man, A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire. Our researchers into Public Opinion are content That he held the proper opinions for the time of year; When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went. He was married and added five children to the population, Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation. And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education. Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd: Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

Out of the wake
and into
the everlasting dawn
where the sky sinks low
and the earth goes on
and on
for miles upon endless miles
of plastic bottles
and scattered pills.


This
is the paradise you
hoped for -
the hidden heaven
you were told to dream of;
but the promised land
came with a price,
    and the gardener
only has
two hands.

Writers


Writers are people who feel deeply. Their skin tingles at a drop of rain, their hands soak up texture like a sponge to moisture. A meaningless moment can be the brink of a story, or a springboard for reckless abandon. And so the mundane becomes the spectacular and the real remains surreal. A writer does not walk but press forward, neither do they desire but hope, breathing the world in more deeply, their lungs filling with inspiration. Yet, on their brow lingers perspiration - a writer's constant companion.


Is this why we are so troubled? Do we feel where others cannot? Do our genes contain more sensory receptors than the rest of the population? Are we translators for the people? If these things are so, then perhaps we did not choose to write, but were born to.

The Fear of the Fire

“I will not die an unlived life. I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire. I choose to inhabit my days, to allow my living to open me, to make me less afraid, more accessible, to loosen my heart until it becomes a wing, a torch, a promise. I choose to risk my significance; to live so that which comes to me as seed goes to the next as blossom and that which comes to me as blossom, goes on as fruit.”
-Dawna Markova


There is infinity in our waking hearts. Draw me from the dream which traps my eyes. Enlighten the blissful slumber of my youth so I may sleep no more and yet while unsleeping remain young forever, and exceedingly wise from infinite observation and rendering. To loosen the heart until it alights as a torch and flies upon the wing of ultimate Desire, is to choose to risk our own significance. To dare to humble ourselves when we, above all, deserve the credit. To desire to let the Other be first. To remain last and to truly believe that last is never least.


Let us live as seeds and blossoms and fruit, in many harmonies, yet one in sound. Without the one, there is no other. Let seeds be seeds, and they will blossom, let blossoms be blossoms and soon they shall bear fruit. For though the tree has lost its leaves, its fruit will return in season. Do not lose hope, my beloved. Rain will come again.

Drawing Lines


The dust unsettled; banners drawn.
Spaces taken; pace predicted -
Some may never make it past the start.


Hooves are stamping, aligning with the dawn.


Bridles clink as riders mount to check their tack;
Each stall is set and narrow,
Booths for bets and brawls.


Their movements swift,
Their breathing hard and hot.
He who comes last shall forever lose.


Anticipation is an open gate.

I am your rebellion:

A single step beyond the fence,

Two inches past the starting line
Is ample grounds for gunshot.