Collective Unrest

 

death valley vacuum

September 3, 2018

for those who never came back

 

they raise a gun.

they raise a hand.

one of them goes off.

i think of raising a child

or the lemon tree on my porch

in this climate.

all the heat comes from many sunbursts.

what use are flags

on a windless day?

 

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

holes in the curtain 1 & 2

holes in the curtain   nothing knows how to begin, without a voice.   a face like a gash in the windshield of the universe.   rotating, rotating. we think we inhabit a sphere,   something perfect, something close to…
Read
Older 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
Random Post

One's Stance on Resistance

Our rights are never permanent they sway to whims of economy When all becomes automated we may lose all autonomy Resistance, sorrow, and pain genetically stripped away Barbaric cruelty normalized throughout human history Savage apes that harnessed fire, charcoal, language…
Read
Random Post

We Are Not Alone

Reflections 01/29/2017 I have lost faith in humanity and in turn, it's as if humanity has lost faith in me. The need to bear witness is urgent. You can feel that a modern-day holocaust is imminent. There's a haunting chill…
Read
Random Post

Her Name Was Juliette

TW for school shooting and death   They knocked down the oldest house in the neighborhood a couple weeks ago. It was white with grey stone layering and an orangey-red Spanish roof.  It had a jumbled and unstructured design, with…
Read
Random Post

The River's Story

One step more, the river floor constituted of pebbles below me, slips between my toes. They are tortoiseshell, black, slick with fur and the few ivory stones pocked with beige blemishes.   The canopy a spectrum of greens shielded us…
Read