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Literature Text
The array is the largest of its type
and they built it long, long ago.
A solid hundred miles on each side,
this block of radio towers and satellite
dishes is a forest of intermeshed metal
legs and antenna caps.
Tribes of people now live inside it,
building shelters beneath
the towers they find sacred, praying to
silent voices above for luck
when they hunt the beasts which swing
through silver boughs.
At night, they look into the sky
and tell stories about the constellations
of blinking red stars.
and they built it long, long ago.
A solid hundred miles on each side,
this block of radio towers and satellite
dishes is a forest of intermeshed metal
legs and antenna caps.
Tribes of people now live inside it,
building shelters beneath
the towers they find sacred, praying to
silent voices above for luck
when they hunt the beasts which swing
through silver boughs.
At night, they look into the sky
and tell stories about the constellations
of blinking red stars.
Literature
Tumbler
‘Twere’nt long ago, when I started tumbling. Hot dry winds rose around me and the base of my stalk went snap and I began to roll. Finally free of my roots, ready to roam the deserts and plains. Catch a glimpse of the tall orange buttes in the northern plains, as they had been described to me by other holy rollers.
Maybe even catch a view of people. Heard lotsa stories ‘bout them people, even though I saw one on a horse when I were but a sprout. People were always in’eresting, usin’ us for shootin’ practice, something to kick, something innocuous and ubiquitous to say, “Yeah. You’re alone out h
Literature
Suffocate
“I didn’t want him,” she says. “I wanted something, something I saw in the eyes of Libby, Sam, Sandi, and Agnes. Something that would have made our new world, our safe world, a home. Children were a part of that world and so I found myself a child. Perhaps, I thought, I would love him and everything would fall into place. Perhaps with a child I could be content with safety, and normality, and a world without knives taped on mop heads.” A cold smile. “I still catch myself thinking that. I still think that maybe tomorrow will be the day where I can fall asleep with the lights on.”
Carmen’s featur
Literature
Why I Laughed at His Funeral
Was dull, as funerals
go.
It was nothing I could help, the sound of it
left me. And in the moving crowd of black
around collars and scarves and
the formless grays of our town
, bowel movement of black,
broken by a laugh, then two, then
a whole cascade. Who is to say
I wasn’t mad from knowing the truth
or wanting to, not knowing enough?
Bobby Sweethouse died
throwing himself off the school roof.
His mother was the first to collect his remains,
ashamed almost to see
all the mess her boy had made.
Many of my friends had said,
he deserved this for being a queer,
or something along those lines, I’m sure
they could pull whatever th
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hope to work on this one later, so let fly with any comments or critiques!
hope to work on this one later, so let fly with any comments or critiques!
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Primitive future?