by Warren Gaston | Oct 17, 2020
Here’s the situation: -the scab has been ripped off wounding white racism, -the Gulf Coast is ravaged by hot ocean hurricanes, -the parched forests of California are fevered with fire, -covid-19 is ravaging the planet cough by cough, -right-winged militias have sensed...
by Warren Gaston | Oct 12, 2020
*HINT: This poem is not about shoes. My shoes no longer trust my feet to guide their lives. They crave autonomy from my ambulatory mind. In the beginning, they were quite content to be tied to my body by the strings of will threaded through the eyelets of convenience....
by Warren Gaston | Oct 8, 2020
The second to last time I saw a living fly, the fly was on my neighbor’s cat. The cat was dead.
by Warren Gaston | Oct 3, 2020
In his hands he held two small stars, hatchlings fallen from the nest of sky. His palms burned with stellar storge*. He thought himself lucky. How often do you get to comfort what you love? He himself had been lost once in a strange land. At night he released them...
by Warren Gaston | Oct 2, 2020
In the interest of fitting into polite society, I was given a list of what I could not say. Seventeen pages single spaced. Not vulgar things. Things that might cause thoughtful pain. I ate the list as if it was communion bread. For years I was nourished by forbidden...
