Nobody’s Perfect …And That’s Perfectly Fine (Louis Toliver Jr-Swartz, LA)

What if I told you the secret to life was acceptance, that’s it
To accept nature, life, and humanity for it is, so don’t quit

I am not perfect, you are not perfect, we are not perfect
It’s ridiculous to think that we spend so much time searching
I have no clue what we are searching for, maybe to be “whole”
But I know no more than you when it comes to life and such

My words are not perfect, don’t you see, I don’t always rhyme
Still, to express oneself helps connect to others in their time
Don’t strive to be her or him or them or all that isn’t like you
Live to be your fantasies and desires that don’t make you blue

Nature, as often as it creates, also destroys what is not perfect
But let us be better than our nature, embracing imperfection

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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 mo...

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I know how this should be: I've seen it, you see, In soap operas, Movies. Your eyes are closed, As if in sleep. Perfect peachy skin Atop a snow white pillow Under flawlessly matched sheets. The heart monitor, Quiet bleeps. The ventilator, A steady hiss. None of that is this. Your eyes Stuck open Seeing without sight Yellow sclera Dumb tears streaming. Tubes, taped to your face Delicate skin torn Where nurses Repositioned them To feed you To heal you You never liked being told What to do. Your whole torso spasms Spastic, Every 40 seconds. A machine Forces your lungs to act. Your hands are warm From hemodialysis But don't respond When we each grab one Give it a kiss. We spend the day Brushing your hair Telling stories Singing songs. Praying prayers. You're not there. Hospital staff Are more lovely If less pretty Than on TV. When the time comes They gently walk us From the room Close the curtai...

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