I am still mute, so kiss me
And put words in my mouth
I imagine I shall agree without hesitation
Let this be done in the rain
For my eyes will inevitably speak
Khalil Anthony Peebles
today’s mantra. Find the magic and stay there. You’ll see how far you’ll go.
لو عَلِمتُ أن السعادة تكمن في اجواءٍ إلهية
“ما كنتُ التفتُ إلى من اذكرهُ “تَعاسةً صحراوية
لو علمتُ أنني سَأقَعُ في حُبِ نفسي
ما كنت رأيت غير نفسي سويّا
Au nom de Dieu, vous cachez-vous
Vous utilisez son nom comme un prétexte
La division de l’humanité est votre coup
Mais on restera unifié quelque soit le contexte
Flip the pages, seize my words and light
Change the sequence of the letters I write
Shape them however you would please
& mull over the quintessence they reveal:
Marissa J. McCants
I could feel your nickel eyes, over right shoulder, down my thighs.
How young you thought me, how fragile a moment
when alcohol only lets you remember so much.
A prism of hellos, clinked glasses, spilled wine, and laughter,
We hide in heaps of rubble,
Emerge from our own ghosts,
And blanket our fears with faith..
Mpho Mmathapelo Molekoa
Who thought withdrawal symptoms would not show?
Who thought whispers could not be heard?
Abdul Fattah Ismail
Because The New York Post has good copy chiefs
That make believe the lie that All Lives Matter
While they post political cartoons of our president as a monkey with a gunshot in his chest
Talmbout, it was a joke.
Revolution Books’ newsletter dressed up Trump as Hitler
But they didn’t do the obvious clapback
Because good jokes burn inside
Like a reward
The day started with, continued to, and ended with rain. A single grey cloud hung over the Parisian expanse. You spent the morning hours on the sofa refreshing the Facebook feed, consuming stories of other people consuming the stories of others. You spent the afternoon scanning Netflix in search of it, too, but there was a new article YOU HAVE TO READ THIS on The Atlantic, Donald Trump was live-tweeting, and Frank Ocean had just broken his silence on Tumblr. Spotify beckoned you to discover, too, but you’d also promised to read one of your friend’s poetry books and it had been a year now and the email was still marked unread at the bottom of your inbox.
...through fibrous wires encased in plastic,
the veins of some vast, active, universal machine,
organ of forever changing dream states;
and also, in part, made of the listening self, not you,
the listening being who has abandoned
chores, history, insecurities and frustrations,
The social worker here says I don't have
any money left to pay for my funeral