Collective Unrest

 

Freed

December 19, 2018

We like ourselves better grabbed by the throat,
so we are letting go of freedom

the same freedom that unsheathed
swords to keep our shores safe

the same freedom that ignited
two people power revolutions

the same freedom that people
now have gotten tired of

the same freedom we now say,
we have too much of

what an incredibly stupid notion
for us to have

the problem is not freedom
the problem is not democracy
the problem is us

because we don’t know what to do with freedom.

 

Vincelle Yasa is a heap of flesh and bones born and raised in the Orient. You can find her treading along pages or breathing in sunsets or unearthing magic in everyday traffic. High five her when you see her, she doesn’t bite.

Please follow and like us:
In category:
Newer Post

Slow Information

*Previously published in Alligator Jupiter, Fall 2002, and Poets Against the War, March 2003 You decide to paint something, a portrait, say, of Hitler reclining. Grove of red roses. Blue sky padded with glowing white cumuli. Your daughter’s doll between…
Read
Older Post

American Blackshirt

Previously published in Edge City Review, 2001   He crouches, shadowing shadows behind an insignificant bush. Suburban streetlamps fail to flush him from his lair. Behind an insignificant bush, he is still obvious, in dark as in day. To flush…
Read
Random Post

May of Another Hard Year: Some Thoughts

Click on the link below to access the PDF for Michael Farrell Smith's visually-formatted lyric memoir essay with erasures, May of another Hard Year: Some Thoughts. May of another Hard Year: Some Thoughts     Michael Farrell Smith (formerly Mike Smith, and…
Read
Random Post

Go Ask Alice

Once, only a few months ago, there was a little yellow house in our neighborhood. It stood only a half block from our apartment, just up from the corner where the Tuba Man's Bar sign glows in pink and yellow…
Read
Random Post

One Thousand Women and the Way Home

i wanted to follow them, the women in white. i wanted the women & their billowing dresses to carve a path through the water, ghost- like silk clinging tight to their curves. by now, they perform the ritual of our…
Read
Random Post

1920

A ray of sun struck the copper’s badge and bounced off, lighting up the voting box inside H. L. Drugstore in me South Bronx Neighborhood. Now washed and mended, I wore the same blood-splattered dress, patched at the cuff, tattered…
Read