Wed, 02/20/2019 - 23:09 -- kelbel4

Summer’s here and the Sun’s Glare

Brings little children—aliens—

With tinted vision to live in a

Body [of water] that is not their home. They see reaching arms

Fail to save them from the smirking smile of the Sun.

While in and under and around and in inner tubes

Trying to avoid the call of the first crow, “[sq]walk!”

The crimson-red ball uselessly sitting on the edge.



O-lfactory, cartilaginous, sensory details

ABsolutely no idea why learning of blood and tissues,

Closing lockers, or doodling pictures

Will help to help a world so dire in need of help.

But the box is cozy.

And so I’ll lounge with the girl who cries in the bathroom

The teacher who molested his student the lonely

 the lost.



And all is right and strange and wrong and normal

And the book has fallen open

You could open it to any page [no, wrong page]

But on this random day,

this random page it reads

Angry guns preach a gospel full of hate /

Blood of the innocent on their hands



Desks are better shelters than walls.

I should have worn my rainboots to school

As the puddles of blood are splish splashing

Onto my white jacket. Fuck, that will leave a mark.

Nothing is sacred

Except the chivalry of holding doors open—

 Books and guns. Guns and books.

And we are drowning in our box.



Is this how she feels, Drowning?

That clock was always two minutes slow

But I can hear [I can’t even hear my own whistle] her heart

 ticking even slower.

Water goes in when it is supposed to take away

And little alien’s eyes are not shielded from the sun.

Thrashing, twitching, purple lips, volcanic blood—

Her accepting hand, stained crimson.


Children look peaceful lying

In puddles of themselves.

This poem is about: 
My country
Our world


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