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The Morning After
The Insurrection
something about eternal vigilance…

It would be over on Election Day
They said
It was not over on Election Day

It would be over when the votes were counted
No one prone to sunburn could remember
How to count
It was not over when the votes were counted

It would be over when the Senate met in the marble city
Radicalized veterans stormed the Capitol
It was not over when the Senate met

It would be over if we cancelled Christmas
If we cancelled family, friends, and vectors of death
It was not over when we wore masks on our faces

It is never over, when the putrid spunk of thin, blue, line America
Leaks as goo
Onto
Zoom-grade classrooms, reeking of gunpowder

Sweet cordite Nashville and Washington echo
Twangy denial and impotence

It was going to be over when the Republican Guard fell
When Saddam was hanged
When Osama was shot
It was going to be over once the law was changed
And the “Whites Only” signs were burned

It was going to be over
When the bells rang
Eleven-eleven-eleven
The clocks are all ringing 13
When the wall was torn down in Berlin
It was going to over

We look for love and prepare for its end
With the same haphazard magic
The same worn out prayers

If we could just talk to each other
When we all had the Internet
It was going to end, remember?

Nothing ends until the last drop of money is milked
From every scorched and brutal bloom
BOOM!

Do not count on tasting any of the spoils

They said it would be over
The morning after the insurrection

It was not over
The morning after
Midnight motions, un-seconded and bested
By the weakest minds in the room

hot july night by eric short

In your bed, pretending to sleep, secretly counting fan blades like flower petals, wondering He loves me, He loves me not, He loves me. Thank god there are five.  

A Closet Story by Jo Matsaeff

I remember dressing up as Salvador Dali for a Carnival parade at school somewhere between 2009 and the end of my teenage years.   My young face, rounder than it

Marlee Head Headshot

The End by Marlee Head

Grief is the silence that burdens the sound — one house, two homes two minds, the bones of all that hurts and remains.   The moon is hung with echoes

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