Blog Post / Fall 2016 / Issues / Poetry / Poetry 2016 / Volume 47

Home of the Brave–Paul Lubenkov

Just look at these freaks they’re nowhere and everywhere half

in love with their great hunger and stuffing themselves with

succulent meals of soft white food but what do they care they

don’t care about towers of silence the great perishing trees how

even on the clearest days something is always blurring the sky

why they don’t know grunt from gravy these freaks these weirdos

and even though once and with rubber gloves I approached their warm

temple of sleep to amaze them by crying, Lo! Practitioners of Peace,

Arise! but I was nothing to them if not something escaped from

The Ed Sullivan Show and raving around with my own banner these slick

scars on review which they were unable to see so well or appreciate

pain betrayed as they are by an obvious absence of clear direction

within their eyes the blue spilling out into rivers seas skies whatever

remains to accept it and so cannot see what the moon is about its

gross flatulence smearing across the recently featureless land in thick

layers like mayonnaise over which and in great disgust the last butterfly

screams its final scream and barbarous tongues grow teeth to say

the clarion calls to violence rise are rising have risen at last. Listen:

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