http://marcopoloartsmag.com Marco Polo Wed, 12 Jun 2013 11:38:13 +0000 http://marcopoloartsmag.com en http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/It-s-Cut-Up http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/It-s-Cut-Up Wed, 12 Jun 2013 11:38:13 +0000 Marco Polo 5801995 <img src="http://payload175.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5801995/fifth film video_905.gif" width="900" height="450" width_o="900" height_o="450" src_o="http://payload175.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5801995/fifth film video_o.gif" data-mid="31372925" border="0" align="left"/> Boston Johnson is Boston Johnson but not really. His birth name is Matthew Johnson. There are too many Matthew Johnsons; so they call him Boston. He is a filmmaker, writer and doodler. He lives in Massachusetts with mixed feelings. Film © Copyright Boston Johnson 2013 Boston Johnson is Boston Johnson but not really. His birth name is Matthew Johnson. There are too many Matthew Johnsons; so they call him... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/Richard-III http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/Richard-III Wed, 12 Jun 2013 11:38:11 +0000 Marco Polo 5801991 <img src="http://payload175.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5801991/fifth film video_905.gif" width="900" height="450" width_o="900" height_o="450" src_o="http://payload175.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5801991/fifth film video_o.gif" data-mid="31372911" border="0" align="left"/> Boston Johnson is Boston Johnson but not really. His birth name is Matthew Johnson. There are too many Matthew Johnsons; so they call him Boston. He is a filmmaker, writer and doodler. He lives in Massachusetts with mixed feelings. Film © Copyright Boston Johnson 2013 Boston Johnson is Boston Johnson but not really. His birth name is Matthew Johnson. There are too many Matthew Johnsons; so they call him... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/When-I-Think-of-Bones http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/When-I-Think-of-Bones Wed, 12 Jun 2013 10:49:37 +0000 Marco Polo 5801677 <img src="http://payload175.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5801677/N E W E S S A Y_905.gif" width="900" height="204" width_o="900" height_o="204" src_o="http://payload175.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5801677/N E W E S S A Y_o.gif" data-mid="31371198" border="0" align="left"/> When I Think of Bones When I think of bones, I think of small children fallen from trees, strong men crushed in accidents, young Africans in skeletal starvation. I think of Halloween with gruesome skulls leering and white strips eerily sewn to black pajamas. When I think of bones, I remember a story I read in Mrs. Bowdoin’s seventh grade English class about a man stranded with his sled-dog team on an ice floe. After slaughtering and sleeping in the warm carcass of one of his faithful companions, he attempted to signal rescuers by making a bloody banner from the bones, a bit of cloth from his shirt tied on the end. The odd thing is—bones are alive. If Van Gogh really did slice off his ear, the cartilage never would have grown back. When your grandmother has walked one step too many, and her knee-knobs ache from rubbing together, the knee jelly will never come back. When a woman in a third world nation has trouble giving birth and the doctor in desperation slices the cartilage of her pelvis, it will never heal. Yet bones—mineral-rock covered bones—are ever growing and changing. In the very beginning, bones are nothing more than strips of soft chondrocyte cartilage cells that grow up to make arms and legs and wrists and toes. Little chondrocytes soldier-march into columns, and all at once a tide of calcium washes over them and they are frozen where they stand. Death comes inside the barricade. After the chondrocyte remnants washed out, crisp-coated scientists noted the newly vacated graves and named them Latin “lacunae” or “lakes.” Great slinky vessels splash in and thin yellow nerves worm in and out. Every crevice, every dent, every hole is prepared exactly as it should be—they are the same size, shape, and in the same place in every single bone in every person we would label human. Osteoblasts, the true bone cells, begin to line the shores of the lakes, building the bones large; yet in no time at all adversary osteoclasts arrive, tearing at the new edifice until only a delicate lace remains. A new family of cells—the hematopoietic line—arrives on the scene, bag and baggage lodging in the lace. Carefully they begin to spin out the body’s blood supply right there from inside the bone—red blossoming from white. Yet bones are strong. They hold us upright, proportioned, together. Bones have never been the static scaffolding on which we are built. Each day they change a little. Whenever the heart—muscular and steady—contracts, it consumes a little calcium. When there is no calcium to be found, the kingly heart must demand it from the bones—stripping from them the very mineral deposits that give bones strength. Each day, osteoclasts strip a little bit more from them, another day only to give it back—giving and taking according to the body’s great need for calcium. Think about this: whenever you take a breath, your ribs heave out, away from your body only to squeeze back in for every exhalation. Thick roping muscles find their origin and end on the bone’s slick surface. And we have not begun to talk of the way the bones fit together better than hand in glove. Slick joints, tight seams. “Articulation,” the doctors say when they try to describe how the bones speak to each other. Speak their names: metacarpals, malleus, maxillary arch, talus, triquetrum, trapezoid, stapes, scapula, sternum. Capitate shaped like a head, lunate formed to the likeness of the moon, pisiform shaped like a pea: the universe converses inside your wrist. By looking at the angle of the pubic arch of the human pelvis, you can determine if a skeleton belongs to a man or woman. A male’s is 90⁰, a female’s is 120⁰. The iliac crest of the pelvis forms the top of the hip bone and the head of the femur rests perfectly in the pelvic acetabulum, or Latin “vinegar saucer” to form the hip joint. In 8th grade I sat next to Mackayla Jones. Occasionally her hip handed her worry, but she was a constant of our class: sharp-edged, yet laughing. I remember when she told a small set of us about the day a year or so earlier her cousin had come over. They were friends. He asked her nicely. Then he began to tug at her shirt, her jeans. Confusion. Fear. Head swirling, she told him no. He picked up a baseball bat, heavy silver aluminum, and began to hit her with it, forming ringing bruises and the world was black and blue and silver and then he was gone. They are still friends. She has never told her mom. The femur head and acetabulum would not set properly together in Mackayla Jones. She had chronic hip problems of mysterious origin in 7th grade—only we knew why. In Cambodia there are great fields filled with the bones of the dead—where lives were swept out, given little more thought than the wind. Bones cover the ground so that you cannot step without meeting them, they form the dust you breathe in, fill your vision: small bones beneath the killing tree where men would grab a child by his legs, swing him in a great arc, and crash his skull against the trunk. Then they would laugh—to do otherwise would be to invite your own passing. Killing fields lie in Rwanda, Congo, Bosnia, Russia. They fill the world. Despair at the death of millions overwhelms us. “Dry bones” scientists observe, historians comment, neighbors sigh. Old Ezekiel knew better. The hand of the LORD was on me, and he brought me out… and set me in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me back and forth among them, and I saw a great many bones on the floor of the valley, bones that were very dry. He asked me, “Son of man, can these bones live?” I said, “Sovereign LORD, you alone know.” Pressure forms the diamond, a grating grinding bit of sand the pearl, Paul’s irretrievable thorn character. From the dry bones, life. Life. God forms life. “Dry bones,” the Creator cries, “hear the word of the LORD! … I will attach tendons to you and make flesh come upon you and cover you with skin; I will put breath in you, and you will come to life. Then you will know that I am the LORD.” When a child first learns to walk, it is hard hard hard. It is not just learning and untrained muscles that have, thus far, only stayed curled up in the womb or held in mother’s arms. The very bones themselves must change. Supports are thrown up and other areas thinned down to learn how to hold the weight—to bear this new movement. It is only through these stress lines the baby is able at last to stand. We stand. Tenacious toddlers, dogged school-children, determined high school graduates, flint-eyed parents, unyielding elders. “My mom told us,” 4th grade Brittany says, mussed brown hair flying, amber eyes piercing, “when someone hits you, you hit them back.” Hard-knocked and broken we find our way in the world. Standing does not come easily for us. At first warm-cheeked, tight-chested ashamed–embarrassed of our childish first steps: tottering forward, afraid yet electrified. Stress builds up, a howling gale, till our very bones bend. Yet the longer we strain, the more steady we become. Life in death, fragile yet strong: we have the responsibility to keep breathing—the dust in, into the dust. Give all, hard knocked, worn down, but strong. Lace inside, blood freely given, alive. Robin Hrdina graduated with her bachelor's in biology from Cedarville University and will begin her first year of medical school at the Virginia College of Osteopathic Medicine in August. © Copyright Robin Hrdina 2013 When I Think of Bones When I think of bones, I think of small children fallen from trees, strong men crushed in accidents, young Africans in skeletal... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/Closing-Time http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/Closing-Time Wed, 12 Jun 2013 10:36:20 +0000 Marco Polo 5801568 <img src="http://payload175.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5801568/fifth film video_905.gif" width="900" height="450" width_o="900" height_o="450" src_o="http://payload175.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5801568/fifth film video_o.gif" data-mid="31370768" border="0" align="left"/> Brian De Vore is a graduate from the Netherlands Film and Television Academy and the University of Westminster, in London. He lives in Amsterdam where he works as a writer and producer. Film © Copyright Brian De Vore 2013 Brian De Vore is a graduate from the Netherlands Film and Television Academy and the University of Westminster, in London. He lives in Amsterdam ... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/The-Moth http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/The-Moth Sat, 08 Jun 2013 14:01:49 +0000 Marco Polo 5776875 <img src="http://payload173.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5776875/FICTION FICTION_905.gif" width="900" height="176" width_o="900" height_o="176" src_o="http://payload173.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5776875/FICTION FICTION_o.gif" data-mid="31215289" border="0" align="left"/> The Moth The room is painted a creamy orange with a wooden ceiling and two skylights. The ceiling fan is on and the room is cool. It is December so no sun filters through. On the walls are portraits from distant times: school photographs, weddings, Christmas, Halloween. Some of the pictures, clearly, were taken professionally. In them are sad and happy children holding various props and toys. Among these are other heirlooms and delicacies displayed in decorative fashion including vases, fragranced wax candles, Mikasa glass and cherubim dolls resting atop mantels and shelves or above the fireplace. Fluttering, amuck in the corners of the easternmost skylight, is a moth. Its tiny wings in motion are the most graceful little things. At the far end of the den is a sliding door that leads out onto a pool deck. Adjacent to the sliding door is a small closet. The room is so incredibly still, save the maneuverings of the moth. The boy, Vincent, rounds the stove and enters the parlor. After collecting his game controller and sauntering towards the sofa, he notices the bug overhead. Its presence perturbs him. The boy reflects on this for a moment, seats himself and proceeds to play Xbox. While he waits on the loading screen, the moth whisks by his field of vision. The boy is bothered and leaves the room for a juice-box. When he returns, he sees that the moth has landed on the television. He approaches and the moth takes flight. The boy feels silly for allowing an insect to vex him, so he resumes his game. Some time passes, during which the boy forgets everything about the moth. The only sound is the boy’s vigorous and focused pushing of the controller’s buttons. Suddenly he hears a whisper. He looks up. He thinks that he heard “hey buddy, your cock is small!” He doesn’t know where the voice is coming from. He checks his peripherals. He gives up, dismissing it as a radio outside (or something) and goes to get another juice-box. He returns and resumes his game. “HEY! YOU! Your… Penis… Is… Micro…scopic!” This insult is delivered this time in an effeminate, Portuguese-accented whisper and Vincent is sure that it did not come from outside. The sincerity of the remark almost brings a tear to Vincent’s eye. He stares into space vaguely confounded. What is he to make of this? The only other living being in the room is the moth. As far as he knows, moths do not speak. It is impossible to continue playing. Just to be safe, he decides to kill the moth. Its lithe body has landed upon the grate beside the bellows. Vincent removes his sandal and tiptoes over carefully. He makes sure he does not cast the shadow of his shoe over the bug but he misses, and it flies away. “Damnit!” the boy shrieks, throwing his sandal at the moth. He is nearly exhausted when the moth lands within smacking range, several inches from his grounded feet. Vincent winds up with great vitality. Just in time the moth opens its mouth. “You may easily choose to kill me,” the moth whispers, “but it will not change the fact that you have a small penis, you pussy.” Vincent cannot repress his tears. “I hate you!” he screams. He stomps his feet. He throws the controller at the wall and turns off the game. Antonio Prata 's poetry has been published by The Literary Yard. © Copyright Antonio Prata 2013 The Moth The room is painted a creamy orange with a wooden ceiling and two skylights. The ceiling fan is on and the room is cool. It is December so no sun... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/Detritus-Bloom-1 http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/Detritus-Bloom-1 Sat, 08 Jun 2013 11:36:00 +0000 Marco Polo 5771565 <img src="http://payload173.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5771565/POETRY_905.gif" width="900" height="236" width_o="900" height_o="236" src_o="http://payload173.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5771565/POETRY_o.gif" data-mid="31183250" border="0" align="left"/> Detritus Bloom 1 After the mud of lovers’ tracks, hand bones metered into lines to wash themselves white with the bar of lavender soap from my June in the sud. My reflection clings in skin cells to a towel in the bathtub. It’s there, folded & tucked in like a book. My palms sweat the water weight of memory through time’s puckered derma Julia Stacy is a young poet and recent graduate of the University of Georgia, where she studied English and French. She lives in Athens and writes short poems. © Copyright Julia Stacy 2013 Detritus Bloom 1 After the mud of lovers’ tracks, hand bones metered into lines to wash themselves white with the bar of lavender soap from my June in the... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/Cubist-Aquarius http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/Cubist-Aquarius Sat, 08 Jun 2013 11:35:59 +0000 Marco Polo 5771572 <img src="http://payload173.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5771572/POETRY_905.gif" width="900" height="236" width_o="900" height_o="236" src_o="http://payload173.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5771572/POETRY_o.gif" data-mid="31183271" border="0" align="left"/> Cubist Aquarius How a haircut got you. Dip of veil in a floating ink pot. A serif hair flick: “Check!” Your January afternoon blue and shadow stone crinkled soft as the napkin I dropped with peals of laughter (at what?) Julia Stacy is a young poet and recent graduate of the University of Georgia, where she studied English and French. She lives in Athens and writes short poems. © Copyright Julia Stacy 2013 Cubist Aquarius How a haircut got you. Dip of veil in a floating ink pot. A serif hair flick: “Check!” Your January afternoon blue and shadow stone... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/Blue-Eyes-White-Dragon http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/Blue-Eyes-White-Dragon Sat, 08 Jun 2013 09:01:28 +0000 Marco Polo 5775747 <img src="http://payload173.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5775747/FICTION FICTION_905.gif" width="900" height="176" width_o="900" height_o="176" src_o="http://payload173.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5775747/FICTION FICTION_o.gif" data-mid="31208864" border="0" align="left"/> Blue Eyes White Dragon Wh3n 1 m3t h3r onl1n3, 1 kn3w th3r3 was som3th1ng not qu1t3 r1ght about h3r. Sh3 k3pt ask1ng wh3r3 1 was at, ASL was bl1nk1ng l1k3 a thousand t1m3s across th3 scr33n so that 1 couldn’t s33 anyth1ng 3ls3. 1 th1nk 1t was som3 k1nda mors3 cod3, l1k3 that 1 was suppos3d to know what sh3 was say1ng just 1n th3 numb3r of t1m3s sh3 bl1nk3d 1t across rath3r than 1n th3 actual cont3nt of what 1t was say1ng. 1 look3d at 1t. 1 r3lax3d my 3y3s. Y’know l1k3 wh3n you look up clos3 or too clos3 at a TV and 1t just looks l1k3 a thousand gr33n and r3d and blu3 l1ttl3 dots and 1t k1nda burns your 3y3s but you k33p look1ng clos3 anyways. Y3a 1t was l1k3 that 3v3n though 1t was hard to t3ll what sh3 was g3tt1ng at from h3r l1ttl3 prof1l3 p1ctur3 or 3mot1con or what3v3r. 1t was hard to t3ll what sh3 was try1ng to g3t across. Sh3 just k3pt ask1ng m3 wh3r3 1 was at but 1 just thought why do you want to know wh3r3 1’m at 1t says r1ght th3r3 1n th3 l1ttl3 box Arl1ngton V1rg1n1a why do you k33p ask1ng wh3r3 1’m at 1f 1 alr3ady sa1d 1ts th3r3. Som3th1ng d1dn’t f33l r1ght but sh3 was attract1v3 1n th3 way that’s hard to p1n down y’know, l1k3 lara croft or som3 sh1t but w1th that mor3 fantasy v1b3 l1k3 patch3s on h3r sw3atsh1rt and not afra1d to w3ar cargo pants w1th noth1ng 1n th3m b3caus3 sh3’s a g1rl 1 always 1 l1k3d that wh3n a g1rl wasn’t afra1d to look l1k3 a boy 3v3n though soc13ty told h3r oth3rw1s3 1t was forward th1nk1ng 1 l1k3d that k1nd of th1nk1ng. So why d1d sh3 3v3n want to know wh3r3 1 was at, l1k3 1 was gonna m33t h3r outs1d3 of som3 groc3ry stor3 w1thout 3v3n know1ng h3r and wand3r around ask1ng for h3r and s331ng 1f som3th1ng was up and look1ng l1k3 a fool but mayb3 hav1ng a b1t of payoff but who knows. W3ll mayb3 1 would do that but 1’d hav3 to know what sh3 was up to f1rst or why sh3 was ask1ng or what sh3 was ask1ng for. Th3n 1’d wa1t y3ah mayb3 1’d wa1t 1 don’t know. But 3v3n h3r nam3 was crypt1c—altch1ck88—y’know, l1k3 normally you can t3ll what a g1rl’s about from what k1nd of l1k3 fantasy f1gur3s that th3y put 1n th31r nam3 l1k3 l1ttl3_1c3_dragon or naruto_bab3_77 and you’d know k1nda g3n3rally know what camp th3y w3r3 1n, what th3y w3r3 look1ng for 1n guys, l1k3 th3 spl1t mop-top an1m3 ha1r, y’know, or som3th1ng mor3 stra1ghtforwadly LARP-1ng, w1th l1k3 som3on3 fall1ng mor3 3as1ly 1nto th3 camp of l1k3 a kn1ght or a squ1r3 or 3v3n som3on3 sk1nn13r l1k3 m3, y’know. But th3r3 wasn’t any 1nfo or sugg3st1ons l1k3 that. 1t was too g3n3ral, wh1ch, y’know, how do you 3v3n know what k1nd of alt that’s r3f3rr1ng to, or l1k3, prop3rly p1n 1t down 1nto th3 r1ght sub-cat3gory? 1t do3sn’t f1t and was sort of 1nfur1at1ng, wh1ch mak3s 1t l1k3, wh3n sh3 asks m3 to m33t, or wh3r3 1’m at, mak3s m3 f33l crazy to show up and not know what’s gonna b3 th3r3 or what’s 3xp3ct3d of m3, l1k3 th3r3’s gonna b3 som3on3 w1th a buck3t of pa1nt or som3th1ng to throw on m3, cuz, l1k3 you hav3 to b3 sur3 w1th th3s3 th1ngs, 1t 1sn’t a jok3. Cuz som3t1m3s aft3r 3nough of th3s3 th1ngs happ3n you don’t 3v3n want to go onl1n3 no mor3, you don’t 3v3n want to go back to r3al l1f3 b3caus3 that’s alr3ady b33n sucky for so long, and you know you’ll just want to tak3 1t out on 3v3ryon3 anyways. 3v3ryon3 has th31r l1m1ts but p3opl3 th1nk 1f you put 1t 1n a d1ff3r3nt 3nv1ronm3nt you sudd3nly mag1cally w1ll hav3 a h1gh3r tol3ranc3 or som3th1ng though that 1sn’t usually th3 cas3. On3 t1m3 th3r3 was 3v3n a g1rl wh3r3 you know 1 g3t to know h3r onl1n3 and sh3 s33m3d fr13ndly 3nough and on th3 sam3 pag3 as m3 m3taphor1cally sp3ak1ng and l1k3d th3 sam3 you know samura1 f1lms or monst3r plush dolls or what3v3r, and 3v3n l1v3d n3ar m3 wh1ch always mad3 m3 n3rvous or s33m3d sk3tchy but th3n at that t1m3 1 f3lt l1k3 1 had to do mak3 a mov3, had to do 1t cuz 1n RL th3r3 had b33n th1s ch1ck who 1’d b33n 1nto and had follow3d h3r around for th3 b3tt3r part of a day wa1t1ng and not cr33p1ng or anyth1ng but just wa1t1ng to talk th3n jump3d out at h3r from b3h1nd a plant3r and ask3d to y’know go out or what3v3r and th3n 1 r3m3mb3r3d sh3 gav3 m3 th1s look th1s look l1k3 sh3 was go1ng to h1t a sw1tch and op3n a trap door and 1’d fall l1k3 a thousand f33t and hav3 a sp1k3 go through my h3ad and th3 blood would ooz3 out l1k3 from a v1al, so now 1 was l1k3 w1ll1ng to try anyth1ng, or do anyth1ng that m1ght g3t m3 out of that hol3. But 1nst3ad wh3n 1 was talk1ng to th1s n3w ch1ck that 1 thought 1 could g3t along w1th, and sh3 s33m3d to r3ally g3t 1t, and b3 so warm and l1k3 ch1ll, y’know, l1k3 outs1d3 of anyth1ng that g1rls ar3 l1k3 1n RL, that 1 just, y’know, l3t 1t all hang out wh3n w3 w3r3 chatt1ng onl1n3, and w3nt furth3r than 1’d gon3 b3for3, and th3n aft3r w3 had f1nally gon3 across th3 boundar13s and bas1cally don3 1t th3 follow1ng w33k som3 asshol3 who us3d to st3p on my sculptur3s 1n Art class pr1nt3d out and post3d up th3 transcr1pt of m3 talk1ng w1th th1s g1rl about all th3s3 loos3 fantas13s that 1 had b33n stor1ng up for a c3rta1n day and had blown on3 n1ght on h3r, and th3r3’s no way h3 woulda had 1t unl3ss h3 was that sam3 g1rl, y’know, 1n d1sgu1s3, and th3n 3v3ryon3 aft3rwards had look3d at m3 l1k3 a fuck1ng psycho 3v3n though 1 kn3w d33p down 1t was just a transcr1pt1on of what th3y w3r3 all f33l1ng and just too pussy to say as stra1ght up as 1 d1d. So und3rstandably 1’m a l1ttl3 h3s1tant r1ght now or just not w1ll1ng to 1mm3d1at3ly go all 1n for 1t, though th1s ch1ck, 1t m1ght b3 d1ff3r3nt y’know, sh3 s33ms d1ff3r3nt, and th3 alt part of th3 nam3 just k33ps bl1nk1ng up th3r3 and 1t mak3s m3 want to forg3t about 3v3ryth1ng 3ls3, mak3s m3 want to go for 1t 1f 1t st1ll 1s poss1bl3 and god h3lp 3v3ryon3 1f 1t 1sn’t so that wh3n that m3ssag3 pops up aga1n th3 sam3 l1ttl3 m3ssag3 that looks so 1nnoc3nt and small ask1ng for locat1on 1 m1ght just g1v3 1n, m1ght just do 1t so h3lp m3 god. Casey Michael Henry has previously published in The Fanzine, 3:AM Magazine, and The Huffington Post. He is currently finishing a novella entitled The Topiary. Additional work may be found at caseymichaelhenry.com © Copyright Casey Michael Henry 2013 Blue Eyes White Dragon Wh3n 1 m3t h3r onl1n3, 1 kn3w th3r3 was som3th1ng not qu1t3 r1ght about h3r. Sh3 k3pt ask1ng wh3r3 1 was at, ASL was bl1nk1ng l1k3 a... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/Aubade-2 http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/Aubade-2 Thu, 06 Jun 2013 13:17:48 +0000 Marco Polo 5604381 <img src="http://payload165.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5604381/POETRY_905.gif" width="900" height="236" width_o="900" height_o="236" src_o="http://payload165.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5604381/POETRY_o.gif" data-mid="30229662" border="0" align="left"/> Aubade 2 This still dark earth, only a streak of hope in the east when I open the windows on the whited world so frozen nothing shivers, nothing Hopes except me: I want to open the quiet of the morning, streak it across the longside of the world, until the worries dwindle to nothing, And the fears that seize the world break like films of ice into nothing— a silent hope like the roses that streak the winterscape, dark gashes open In the world’s rough hide, streaked with nothing that won’t melt, then open. Jared Pearce's recent work can be read at and in Literary Juice, de la Mancha, Earthspeak, The Kerf, and other electronic and in-print sources. He teaches literature and writing at William Penn University. © Copyright Jared Pearce 2013 Aubade 2 This still dark earth, only a streak of hope in the east when I open the windows on the whited world so frozen nothing shivers, nothing Hopes... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/Luxury http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/Luxury Thu, 06 Jun 2013 13:17:46 +0000 Marco Polo 5604398 <img src="http://payload165.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5604398/POETRY_905.gif" width="900" height="236" width_o="900" height_o="236" src_o="http://payload165.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5604398/POETRY_o.gif" data-mid="30229799" border="0" align="left"/> Luxury I’m so tired of having To eat like every other Living thing, I have Fasted, thirsted, metaphored My way against my Grain, my herd, my metaphysics, But in the end still sold Out for pottage. I know I should hold Still, comparing children in mines, Nations in drought, to the easiness I Enjoy and which bores Me into wanting a new Jerusalem On my plate. Jared Pearce's recent work can be read at and in Literary Juice, de la Mancha, Earthspeak, The Kerf, and other electronic and in-print sources. He teaches literature and writing at William Penn University. © Copyright Jared Pearce 2013 Luxury I’m so tired of having To eat like every other Living thing, I have Fasted, thirsted, metaphored My way against my Grain, my herd, my metaphysics, ...