Gnashing Teeth Publishing

| words that get in your teeth

We The People Thank You (Falettinme In Traduce My Self, Again) by Daniel García Ordaz

We the people willingly wrote ourselves
into a constitutional corner—
a colossal conundrum of corrupted consummation,
a Cain-enabled Original Sin
of biblical proportion.

The Virginia Compromise left us compromised,
incomplete—
a three-fifths fraction that fractured our nascent faction
replete
with built-in failure:
a self-inflicted wound,
an aggravated assault
of our own fault,
a festering sore fantastic,
a crack in the American core romantic
conception of the birth of our nation
that left us limping along
with the right of the strong
in the race for a new kind of station.

The accord left our land in discord,
a nation divided against itself—
the dye cast for a future conflict
of uncivil proportions—
uncivil distortions
pitting the rights of the state
against of the rights of man’s fate.

The vestiges of hate
that permeate the roots of our founding
permanently relate to the source of our floundering.

But great expectations have ramifications.
Houses built upon on the sands of discrimination
Must crumble and fall into desolation
To make room for edifications
That foster equal application
of the Articles of Confederation.

young woman with red hair smiling at the camera with a white paper umbrella behind her

like pretty tulips by linda m. crate

everything has been hard and heavy, as of late; in my world and the world at large— so yesterday i was drinking in small wonders like pretty tulips dancing out

What I Can Offer You by Rich Orloff

I cannot fix your pain I cannot solve your problem I can’t prevent the sorrow you’re feeling Or even guarantee I’ll make you smile However, because I’ve known Joy embracing

by Natalye Childress

*this poem is in .jpg to preserve formatting *this is the unformatted text of the poem after rainer maria rilke you, the poet, have become world weary, word-wrought. and god

guy with a dark beard and moustache wearing a black graphic tee

Orchards of Udders by Jon Wesick

dripped on the blanket while air rustled tamarind trees. Chekhov drank a Thai iced tea and plummeted out of this poem. A flock of circles twittered in the hacksaw bushes

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