When the Radical Lands a Desk Job (Taylor McCleery Sloey- Lafayette, LA)

Sixteen months ago-
You stopped speaking
To put your hands to work
And from this silenced tongue
have gained nothing more than lost convictions
and a shocking
lack of praise and support
Reverberating from the
the dirt embedded in the cracks of your hands
It doesn’t sing the way you used to
You used to spit dynamite from a soap box weekly
Igniting every wick that heard it
You used to write angry poetry, and paint
Wear obscene clothing just to get a rise out of old people
You used to throw rallies for Africa
Fuck- you used to care about Africa
And you used to promise yourself- that you wouldn’t be one to become a silent complacent
So darling- SPEAK
Because trees falling in the woods don’t make a sound unless you do-
open your throat and let the words free fall out of you
The way unprovoked rage used to when you were a teenager-
Like- sloppy public kissing when you’re drunk enough but old enough to know better
Like- how you used to write songs for every boy you fell for and another when he fucked you over
But before you got fucked over so many times that you ran out of melodies
Let it flow-
The way optimism used to before you knew heartbreak
Child, your eyes are blue
too young for cynicism
and these newly forming lines in your visage
Were only put there from laughter
And too much time in the sun
And you’ve loved every second of it
Right down to the scars on your feet
So sing-
No one’s waiting to turn you down

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Louisiana Words Remembers Jorge Arturo

There’s nothing that hurts more than when we lose someone from our Louisiana Words family. But, the beauty of our writing movement is that the words of our loved ones live on with us. On June 20th, 2023, Louisiana Words Allstar, Jorge Arturo, moved on from this world leaving our hearts broken. He was a charismatic and talented human being. Jorge resided in New Orleans, LA and had been active on Louisiana Words for over a year. To honor Jorge’s life and work, we will be sharing his writing and live performances all Summer 2023. Please help keep his spirit alive by sharing his work. We know that Jorge’s words will connect with our readers and we hope to keep his spirit alive. Jorge’s first submission: “The Dog Show” debuted on February 6th, 2022 and is his most successful piece to date. In 2022, Jorge spent 10 weeks in the top with “The Dog Show,” “Weavers,” “They Say Love Kills, This Time It Really Did,” and “If Hell is Real, It Looks Like an Airport.” His last piece was “Fairy Tale

The Man Under the Water (TK Craft - New Orleans, LA)

Sitting at the edge of the small motorboat, Jordan willed himself to take deep slow breaths. Every time he opened his eyes and looked out at the endless water; panic began to overcome him. Against the vastness of the ocean his small frame felt like almost nothing, this sense only made his fear grow worse. All he could do was stare out at the still surface for what felt like hours trying to gather the strength to jump into the depths. When he was fifteen, Jordan almost drowned in the ocean. He hadn’t been particularly frightened of the water till that day. In fact, he had no real emotional connection to it at all. He’d taken swimming lessons every summer so when the riptide carried him further out to sea he didn’t panic. He just reoriented himself to the shore and dove down to begin a swim towards land. That’s when he saw him glistening in the depths. Jordan was proud of himself for sitting on the edge of the boat as long as he did. He spent the

Ash Wednesday (Brian Falcon - New Orleans, LA)

It’s forgettable- the number of times I was called a “fucking faggot” as a kid. As a former child of god, I wasn’t expected to know what those words meant. I was taught that repentance was vital to achieving everlasting life. My momma made me go to church every Sunday. I said my prayers as I was told. But I eventually learned that Catholicism was never my sanctuary. Christianity was never my safe-haven. God never stopped the cheap shots. He never once prevented the harassment or pure embarrassment that I felt from the words of my “kin in Christ.” Now, picture me- a helpless faggot, blinded by the incandescent lights of an old catholic church. I was home from college spending Spring Break in my former hellscape. So, naturally, my momma yet again made me go to church. This time, on a Wednesday. It was Ash Wednesday. When I was among the folks from home, I felt out of place. So much that I’d imagine camouflaging myself. Like saber-tooth in hiding. But the difference? I had a far more i

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