Ondine trawler in a sea of sounds.
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ALT Mark Rothko Some of us would take the South Shore to Chicago to see art. We'd stand in front of large canvases in palatial museums, speaking to each other in invented languages. We wore solid yellow shirts and red pants, with a rope belt demarcating the blocks of color, befuddling the critics. The art, we saw, was good. We swallowed it down hungrily, without filter, like drinking water straight from the creek, no matter the risk, because it tasted so sweet. We rode the swaying train home at sunset, the smokestacks of Gary shooting flames into a sky already clanging orange. The city had been a dream. Home, too, a dream, black above, silver-gray below, floodlit by buzzing security lights.
ALT Fuck Your Lecture on Craft, My People Are Dying BY NOOR HINDI Colonizers write about flowers. I tell you about children throwing rocks at Israeli tanks seconds before becoming daisies. I want to be like those poets who care about the moon. Palestinians don't see the moon from jail cells and prisons. It's so beautiful, the moon. They're so beautiful, the flowers. I pick flowers for my dead father when I'm sad. He watches Al Jazeera all day. I wish Jessica would stop texting me Happy Ramadan. I know I'm American because when I walk into a room something dies. Metaphors about death are for poets who think ghosts care about sound. When I die, I promise to haunt you forever. One day, I'll write about the flowers like we own them.
