The Hour of Confusion (Chase Miller

The Hour of Confusion (Chase Miller - New Orleans, LA)

It’s that time of night again. That late hour of unstoppable thought where one tries their hardest to enter the land of sleep, yet an immovable force blocks their path. Like a bright light that will not seem to go out when one's eyes cannot seem to take anymore of it. When the mind is an endless raceway of cars and the constant race of continues.

The heart lingers on the past. What has happened seems to happen again. It recreates a truth out of half a lie. Appreciating. Wishing. Hoping. Yearning. The desire seems to flow like a river. Pulsing and thriving with an energy that could fuel a thousand galaxies. Yet something so lively is only a shadow of its former glory. The truth seems to lie only in the past, and the lie can only be the future. But is that really the best answer?

Surely, there must be a bright light out there. A beacon of hope in the treacherous night. Something that can be clung on to. Something that gives courage. Something that pushes one further and further. There is a future, however, and it is painted so brightly. Yet before we can reach it, will those colors fade throughout the flow of time?

The true image however is the one that is created by the very power of our being. What one materializes in their life. That must be the truth. That must be the very beacon that one continues to see.

If this is what really stands, then does that very desire really seem that significant? Why grasp expectation so tightly when solid action seems to be the only solution?

So then, which should one follow? Reality or expectation? Truth or lies? Action or hope?

Of course, isn't that one of the many decisions of life?

Comments

Come Hither (Annette Redmond Walters - Lafayette, LA)

I meant it not this way but the tears just flow and my makeup smearing all the more, leaving behind that familiar filthy residue. I may have begun to drive myself away, dragging you down as well. But it's done, I've flipped the switch and now it's dark once more. How painful is the music to my ears, I can't stand to be alone in it, yet here I am again. I pray you fly back and safely and warmly to me, though I fear I've dug the grave too deeply. As the dirt shifts within my soul, I choke on those loving words I'd meant for you. All the fragments of light I see becoming smaller and I wish to be near you in your embrace that might make me feel the warmth I'm missing. And in reality, I doubt I'd breathe another breath without you. So come hither and quickly soothe my dying heart, you are the only cure I know. I cry and cry again, come hither to heal and love me. Come hither and help me dry my tears.

Let That Fucker Burn (John Chenvert - Napoleonville, LA)

Let that fucker burn. Let the fire crackle like the whips once did— like bone meeting leather, like screams swallowed by the trees. Let the white columns crumble to ash. Not as tragedy— but as truth, unearthing itself from beneath generations of silence. Nottoway is not a mansion. It’s a mausoleum. A lie carved in stone to honor the hands that held the whip, not the backs that bore it. They called it the “White Castle.” A place of beauty. A place for weddings, for photo ops, for pretending that horror can be made elegant if the curtains match the guilt. But no paint can cover what happened there. Blood doesn’t wash out with white linens. And pain doesn’t forget just because you renamed it history. I’m not Black. And I won’t pretend to carry that weight. But I also won’t ignore it. My people—the Guanches—were taken too. Our language silenced. Our land stolen. Our names nearly erased. So yes, I know colonization. Yes, I know what it means to be disappeared. But I also know this— my skin ...

The Peculiar New Room (Nick Perere - Baton Rouge, LA)

A peculiar fourth room has appeared in my three bedroom abode. High ceilings Higher than any ceiling in the house Perfectly pristine whitewashed gallery walls The largest window one can imagine Stretching from floor to ceiling Wide as an ocean’s horizon Revealing the lushest greenery and the bluest skies. I am meant to show masterpieces here. But in one of the corners o f the perfectly pristine whitewashed gallery walls i s an ugly patch of dirt. Dirt darker than charred coal. And the dirt is crawling And multiplying. With their spindly legs and dangly antennae Vermin covered in filth and willingly ready to spread their germs Scuffing the perfectly pristine whitewashed gallery walls. But I have to move on, I have a gallery to exhibit. Smile and act as if nothing is wrong. Come. Enjoy the show. Enjoy the artwork hanging Upon the perfectly pristine whitewashed gallery walls.

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