Marcus Wicker
Earth is reeking. And we obsidian-backed, winged
cling to the funk in a language that never fails: Peace vibes.
Wonderment & all that pimp shit. An ambrosia we invent
to savor roses through the stink. Like witchgrass effacing
a wheat bed with a gangster lean, bias paralyzes
their country—white flame searing through red & blue cells.
Branded into whosoever drinks. America, the perforated
straw in a single fold; stop creasing my visage with grief!
If only in the beginning someone said: I wish us the sun
& everything under it. Perhaps then we'd survive by friendship,
happiness, justice, love. Say: Together we can do the necessary.
If only from the jump pled everyone at the house party:
Mothership, teach me how to be neighborly. How to gather light
in. Then release. Mother, please teach me how to be human.
from the journal THE HOPKINS REVIEW
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Cover image of Eileen Myles' book, Chelsea Girls
A Conversation with Eileen Myles

"Some things I know in advance I won’t share, maybe will never share. But other things—like, my mother died in 2017, and it really changes what I can write. It’s not that my mother read my work (that I know of). Pretty early on, it was clear she was not reading it. But the fact that she was in the world meant that there were things I wouldn’t say. And then it changes."

via LOS ANGELES REVIEW OF BOOKS
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Cover of Jessica E. Johnson's book, Metabolics
What Sparks Poetry:
Jessica E. Johnson on "Of Daylight Saving Time, MyFitnessPal, and Indoor/Outdoor Cats"


"I want to weave in my long, stubborn opposition to hierarchy, noting how eyes trained on hierarchy and classification will miss what is rich, intricate, and inherently valuable in favor of an arbitrary metric. Rich, intricate, valuable: the adjectives call up the sword fern, mahonia, and yellow stream violet that grow under the tall, broad cedar I love and try to listen to, the whole system around her unsuited to commodification."
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