The Box (Rachel Perry - Lafayette, LA)

“Did you think to switch on the box last night?

Did you get a chance to witness what went on?

The monkey eating crackers, blessed by that poor nun

who right before was sued by her own father.

You didn't get to watch, you say?

Well boy did you miss out.

You couldn't take a minute break?”

to me my comrade questions.

“I suppose that I couldn't,” I answer a bit perturbed.

“Much too much to do within this world.”

Both the nun and monkey seem to me somewhat absurd,

but I'll not criticize the likes of others.

“You really should take note

of all the fun that you are missing,

neglecting the friendly dial

that adorns your TV.”

The rage within me grows

so much I scarcely can control it.

Were I a more violent person

One might need to be afraid.

“Don't you see its utter nonsense!

This great fun of which you speak.

It is taking life and

shrinking it to a screen!”

My comrade backs off quickly,

His hands both forming sheilds.

“No need to get defensive.

I was only poking fun.”

I do my best to tolerate

the activities of the masses,

but perplexing will I always find

he power of these little boxes.

These little boxes that bring us drama

though our lives are far from simple.

They make us cry for unreal folks

while real folks outside are dying.

How do they prevail

With such an artificial spectrum?

The Earth provides amusement

for all five senses?

You steal my conversations, box,

by showing nuns with crackers.

I try to talk to people

but your screen pulls them away.

O you wretched box! You steal

the vigor of our children.

You shrivel the precious brains

That should be growing in their skulls.

If the choice were mine, I'd take you all

and place you in a capsule.

I'd tape it up and buy a shovel

to dig your secret grave.

See what audience you'd find there,

Box, what species you'd enslave.

I reckon you would take the worms

but at least I'd have freed my own.

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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