Ars Poetica

Untitled

By Zinzi Clemmons

What does a black baby's face look like when it's bloated with sewage?

I'm sure it looks something like Emmett Till's face

On the day of his viewing.

Some cried and many nodded.

It takes awhile for it to get that way

Many blows

Many days cooking in New Orleans'

Nigger Soup.

I've never seen Emmett Till's face

I've been too afraid to turn the page and have it greet me

Again when I close the book

And again when I close my eyes.

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The Arsonist

By Skott Kolp

An orgasm is a smoldering

barn, in the midst

of a flaming orchard

where I left

the lit match.

From Notes To An American

By Scott Kolp

Someone's always stealing your inventions, always filing the patent before you. The television plays their infomercials into your sleep. In your dreams, the thief is a small, scrupulous Asian man who sneaks around the bushes outside your house. You rarely ever see him, but you always see his flashing glasses reflecting the sober yellow light coming from your work lamp. The dog, meanwhile, shits in the bathtub upstairs.

Circumstantial

By Paramvir Sawhney


The tree

Held
Up

By wind

These
Thoughts

Here

Themselves
Are leaves

Leaves themselves

And

I standing

A volley of hope!

To cling

And be

Clung on too

There's

The dream 

I'll never

(Want 

 To) Wake from.

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