<\/p>\n
Quiet Places from Hereafter<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n There are places from here-on-out<\/p>\n that sit silent like patches of grass<\/p>\n over an ancient grave. The women<\/p>\n ghosts of love-lost\u2019s past float in, out<\/p>\n in and out of the rooms that are made<\/p>\n from bricks of sky. It is not hard to save<\/p>\n a minute here \u2013 they circle the air thick<\/p>\n like hands of clocks with Elephantitis or<\/p>\n perhaps they lie like solemn tuxedo dancers<\/p>\n who can no longer dance and wish to fly.<\/p>\n These imaginings are happening impromptu<\/p>\n within these quiet places of the mind, where<\/p>\n in time there will be wreckage of cloud ships,<\/p>\n and rain, with its small hands, can never<\/p>\n ever be small enough to find us.<\/p>\n *\u00a0 *\u00a0 *<\/p>\n The Poet\u2019s Hands<\/strong><\/p>\n \n Hands are common\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 They<\/p>\n Have, perhaps, never been<\/p>\n A rarity.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 What a world<\/p>\n <\/p>\n A world with no hands<\/p>\n It would be a land of no<\/p>\n Music, structures, destruction<\/p>\n <\/p>\n There would be no wars fought<\/p>\n And there would be no blame\u00a0\u00a0 No<\/p>\n Fingers to point\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 but no love made<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Cue the poet to look for his pair<\/p>\n Hidden within the sock drawer\u00a0 or<\/p>\n The closet space\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 maybe even the gun safe<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The poet would know hands are dangerous<\/p>\n The poet would know their capacity for love<\/p>\n For war\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 for creation\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 for combat<\/p>\n <\/p>\n For making music flow like streams from<\/p>\n Guitar strings \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 for heart-thud drumbeats<\/p>\n For violin moonlight\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 for gospel piano<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Raising the dead\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Hands can do that too<\/p>\n Poets hands are special only in their<\/p>\n Self-awareness \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Unremarkable, and yet<\/p>\n <\/p>\n godlike in the way \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 they work<\/p>\n *\u00a0\u00a0 *\u00a0\u00a0 *<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n How to Create a Universe<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Know, first, that You will have to leave.<\/p>\n You cannot touch that which you have finished.<\/p>\n You will not be able to save that which falls<\/p>\n nor lift up that which thrives and shine it with light.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n That being said<\/p>\n You must first give<\/p>\n Your own radiance<\/p>\n to the creation as if<\/p>\n it were You being<\/p>\n created, as if it were<\/p>\n You being born.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n When You speak, yell. When You finish,<\/p>\n Your voice will be so hoarse You can only whisper.<\/p>\n When You think the idea, give it a name.<\/p>\n Only then will it become a reality, and breathe.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n That being said<\/p>\n You must now turn<\/p>\n Your own back<\/p>\n to the creation as if<\/p>\n it were You being<\/p>\n shunned, as if it were<\/p>\n You being broken.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Even if Your creation asks, \u201cWhy do You not stay?\u201d<\/p>\n or<\/p>\n Even if Your creation asks, \u201cWhy did You create me then?\u201d<\/p>\n say<\/p>\n \u201cI have left you to figure that out.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n That being said,<\/p>\n You must now go<\/p>\n Your own way<\/p>\n for the creation to<\/p>\n realize that it must<\/p>\n feel alone in order<\/p>\n that it may fix itself.<\/p>\n *\u00a0\u00a0 *\u00a0\u00a0 *<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Pissing into the Wind<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Telling another human being to believe is like pissing into the wind: you never look great after you\u2019ve committed to the action.<\/p>\n The wind smells rank and damp with salt and excrement.<\/p>\n The laughter of a man with dark hair and wings is always shrill. And<\/p>\n You are always left soaking wet with shame, and the stain of apology is never going to come out clean. You will always be remembered as a shmuck and the wind will never blow except from behind.<\/p>\n Plus, the human being will never be willing to suspend disbelief as they will be too busy laughing at how your shadow hides its face in its hands.<\/p>\n *\u00a0\u00a0 *\u00a0\u00a0 *<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Honey and Coroners<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n The bees are disappearing and so is my mind.<\/p>\n It is like this when winter is on a nation\u2019s floor<\/p>\n nestled in the corner of every home and<\/p>\n on the inside of every locked door. There is a secret;<\/p>\n there is a thrill of cold chills and the shrill<\/p>\n love of whispers \u2013 the perfume of gossip \u2013<\/p>\n makes every town look normal. I guess<\/p>\n that within all this vanity there is<\/p>\n a new definition of insanity and it is that<\/p>\n which we call fucked-up in the head,<\/p>\n or the recently found dead who have long croaked<\/p>\n and they had died over a lack of sweetness.<\/p>\n A lack of sap on the tongue makes for a dry palate<\/p>\n and the bees are gone, and so is my mind \u2013<\/p>\n thought a ghost at the windows ledge .<\/p>\n I have yet to see one golden sign of spring<\/p>\n and never have I ever wanted one more than<\/p>\n now. The time to search those floors and corners and doors<\/p>\n is here, for the coroner is getting antsy and the bees,<\/p>\n they will come as soon as the fresh<\/p>\n earth has been turned and loved ones buried and or burned.<\/p>\n Perhaps then the bees will come again, rich and with honey.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n *\u00a0\u00a0 *\u00a0\u00a0 *<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Samuel J. Fox is an aspiring jazz musician with no singing abilities. He wants to teach people how to think critically because he believes people are losing the ability to do so. He lives in a small town named after a giant guardian of the Cherokee Indian race. He has been published in Dimensions, Nomad, and 13 Magazine<\/em>. He is twenty-two years old and currently is working on a Bachelor of Arts in Literature studies.<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Quiet Places from Hereafter There are places from here-on-out that sit silent like patches of grass over an ancient grave. The women ghosts of love-lost\u2019s past float in, out in and out of the rooms that are made from bricks of sky. It is not hard to save a minute here \u2013 they […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":934,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2363","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\n