Collective Unrest

 

21 buried sunsets

August 29, 2018

for France & Lebanon, following the terrorist attacks

a.    it becomes

          violence


b.    a border

         sings

      a prayer

         of negation


c.    too late


d.    a scarf

         layers

      a bloody neck

         in

      diseased warmth


e.    nobody

       looks at the ground anymore


f.    there is

         no ground 


Michael Prihoda lives in central Indiana. He is the editor of After the Pause, an experimental literary magazine and small press. His work has received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net Anthology and he is the author of eight poetry collections, most recently Years Without Room (Weasel Press, 2018).

Please follow and like us:
error
Newer Post

Resist

Every day we awaken to some new atrocity, scandal, misuse and abuse of power at the hands of men. Every day a new tragedy, trauma, act of white male terrorism. Each sunrise piling fear atop compounding fear. We awaken to…
Read
Older Post

Five

People would rather feel right than be right. There are people who will tell you two plus two equals five. They believe it when they say it. A man, fifty years old, you could set your watch by him once.…
Read
Random Post

Social

The restaurant is dark-walled and dimly lit with stained glass chandeliers that give it a medieval vibe. I half expect to see the waiters pouring wine into goblets rather than the ordinary stemware that sparkle on tables between diners. I…
Read
Random Post

Seventy-First & Everybody Else

for Harith Augustus My heart thuds the panic of a death sentence kicking it into view, policeman on my television flooding streets they call problems, their batons bludgeons cudgeling bloody people screaming for their lives, another neighbor toppled early to…
Read
Random Post

Upon Discovering You Have Begun to Lurk in the Neighborhood, I Complete This in Finality

(After seven years) you violated the ultimate human(istic) agreement: I keep to my side of the bed, you keep to yours. Staring at your constantly-fading face and evaporating outline, if I learned anything, it’s that I was made for better…
Read
Random Post

The Mouth of Lynnhaven

It is said that witches ride in eggshells downriver to deliver babies out of wedlock, under cover of night, that witches turn into hares to escape the grasping fingers of men with scythes for eyes and briars for tongues. Of…
Read