He knows he has nothing to fear from Court to ballot-box. A woman-Turk-academic? Nothing to no one, meat to howling Christians. Beautiful.
They know – masked ICE agents stalking intelligence, scenting terror: the red-hats want this, want it bad; make it scream, haha.
America knows “YOU’RE FIRED!” as the show goes on because no one cries over spilled milk and breaking eggs is the business of America is WWJD. “WWJD!!!”
Rümeysa means shining star accomplished graceful and noble –
next?
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“If we lose freedom of speech, it’s never coming back.”
You can read my latest poem collection, Late-Night Lucid, through your local library! For free! Through Indie California, library patrons throughout The Golden State have access to an electronic version of the book that already has one 5-star review on Goodreads. (It’s the only review; we all have to start somewhere.) I am proud to have had my work selected by an organization whose purpose is the promotion of independently published books and their authors, and am delighted that you have access to it through your local California library. Suits my ethos.
The Indie Author Project (IAP) is a publishing community that includes public libraries, authors, curators, and readers working together to connect library patrons with great indie-published books. IAP has helped hundreds of libraries engage their local creative community and assisted in getting almost 20,000 indie ebooks into their local libraries. Most importantly, the project has worked with top curation partners and librarians to identify hundreds of these as the best indie ebooks available to readers—so they can be sustainably circulated to library patrons with confidence.
For more information — and instructions for independent writers wondering about how to participate — click the State.
Happy reading (and writing)!
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“Libraries are one of the few public spaces where you’re allowed to exist without the expectation of spending any money.”
[note: best if read on a device that preserves indentation/spacing]
“After everything he’s been through…” “Sports’ll knock some sense into him. Teach him something.” “He’s smart – he’ll figure it out.” “Just don’t say anything. You always say something and it always lands wrong.” “Life is going to hit that kid sideways.” “He says he wants to go to Japan. Live there. What’s he think he’s gonna find? Big mistake.” “Football? Right. Cheerleader more like it.” “You’re one to talk. Exactly how many times you land on your back?’” “He’ll find his way. He's gonna be happy. Gonna surprise everybody.” “How am I supposed to raise a gay kid?” “Maybe the swim team? Don’t they like that?” “You love him, you horse’s ass. That’s what you do. Every single day of your life. You love him.” “You always defend him.” “You’re supposed to be a teacher. Shut the fuck up.” “You’re supposed to be his father. Act like it.” “I’m that boy’s Grandma and I say he’s gonna be fine.”
I wonder where my hand is in all this, this marsh where moss floats and webs stay put, bugs plane pond-skin unafraid of the sleepy-eyed frog just back from the edge and full. Here is safe and here is calm; nothing ever happens here that wasn’t fore-ordained, announced by ripples or sudden silence. It feels like death. Happiness would be a shock. No need.
I’ll bide my time, lay here wild, skim this unmade life, this greenish eden-bayou, this unfriendly not-mine as all eventually devour this man, whispering via mosquito-buzz:
I went looking for a feeling today, that one special feeling I once caught somewhere, maybe a river in Wyoming slipping by wild grass or a night when, still studying philosophy, I looked up from my book and noticed the soft-light of my little dorm lamp and loved it.
I hunt this feeling, trap it with Grandma's plastic tablecloth that was padded so no waterglass could be placed on it without almost toppling over and her tossing a tennis ball to a dog in the backyard, the distant sound of a train rolling down dark tracks as I slept.
I surround it and demand its name. It smiles at me and slips through the gaps and the hunt is on again for that feeling I'm looking for today, maybe walking down a dusty road in Sacramento and seeing a lizard dart off into the bush and then my shoes seemed quiet under the hot-white sky and for a moment I forgot where I was going.
Down deep it is dark and kind if kind means silence and peace so thick only the strangest skulls survive.
Up top, oh that’s the place to be — party that never ends — and prettiness from nowhere to end collapsed and still until — turbulence and dance and spray — spring into spacious sky
before falling deep into peace so beautifully thick — somewhere begins to dance.
This this is me not mine, not mine to keep or even borrow for this this is you not yours either, not yours to lend or swallow. All this is this in every way that matters as body belongs to earth but keeps getting bothered like a grandmother sitting on a toilet, sighing.
I used to think this was easier to find because you stayed put for ninety-six years. I got confused. This this doesn’t leave and is my brother now sitting on a toilet thinking he is alone.
Greg Beckman 