by normal

because history is stubborn & unkind &
because our urns & gravesites grow hungry &
because we make love in the crosshairs of missies &
because the sun grows angry teeth &
because the wrath is bellicose & the power of
the very few remains smug within its shell &
because the eyes of the very many refuse to open
& because i report to you today the bombing of my memory
& because today there are no ancient faces & the builders
of bronze & stone have lost their legacy &

today the trees come back to haunt us in their printed hands &
today out of respect for my sanity i withdraw my gaze
upon the Big Picture &
because the angels have gone crazy &
timecapsules are fueled by their own feral shadows &

because the human soul remains still eager beneath
the avalanche &
i hold to baby’s little toe as if it were god’s &
the human infant remains whole within its yearning
& because i refuse to accept the principles of doubt
& because i resist baring my flesh to the claws of
my personal prophecies &
your personal prophecies &
their personal prophecies

i leave these words to you.

by normal

& i am eating my morning yogur
days will be otherwise;
days of loss, mindlessness
& looming death

but i am not yet compost.
today is exhilarating
the oil in the arteries burns clean

so i live today as if it were
the one-day life of a mayfly

& i am eating my morning yogurt, nuts
& berries.
no creature has been murdered, tortured
or starved for this meal.
the karma is in place, or

so i am led to believe.

by Justin Lowe

she leaves lights burning,
she leaves doors clapping in the wind,

she mumbles to herself
while she pats crumbs on a plate,
and yes, at night she laughs herself to sleep.

but she only stacks chairs against her door
when she hears us talking,
and I am done with talking.

by Justin Lowe

she keeps having to gather
up the hem like a drunk bride.

it has become second nature already,
a reluctant genuflection to the gods of sand and sea.

it is the sheerest cotton,
the kind the wind likes best.

when we reach the water’s edge
she arches her back and throws up her arms

and lets the wind take it from her
while the sand hisses and the little waves titter.

She came to stay

complicating matters this long, grey week
has been your unwavering conviction
that the girl has to go.

you have made her, thus, your problem not mine.