We will not have an issue for September. Look for our next 5 to be published Oct. 5!
This is philosophy;
Adding up stars, infinity of them,
With limit calculus, I think about my existence,
Which seems like a mere speck on a scale of
Infinitesimals, probably a jello molecule
On prokaryota colossus. .
A reason behind motion:
Why y represents vertical movement
Is because people invent variables.
I am a humanist; call me
Carl Rogers. Talk on a walkie-talkie
To test space-traveling
Radio waves sinusoidal
Through galaxy unlike rare minnows
In a speciation experiment.
Control is the essential problem;
We don’t control, but
I dance to Darwin’s stereo,
Galileo getting up with polio to
Dance. Mushy joints splattering like
Quarantine apocalypse I can imagine.
That’s why everything is bogus
And is never actually law.
Mike Yim is a student attending Santa Margarita Catholic High School in California. He has won a few recognition/awards like regional recognition in Scholastic Art and Writing Award and a national recognition in Live Poets Society’s National High School Poetry Contest. His works are published by Live Poets Society,Polyphony H.S., and Teenage Wasteland Review.
The sidewalk ends 5 meters to my left. After that there’s only a dust gulch caking into an open gutter. Itsurprises me that in this harsh African sun that any moisture would be left at all. I sit, five meters to theleft, by the army cargo while my superiors chat with the local chiefs. By the gutter, dark, spindly children play with the ugliest soccer ball I’ve ever seen.
In clothes the color of a dried, rasped liver, the kids grip the misty gray ball and hold it to their faceswinking at me. It could be the sun for all I know. The biggest one throws the ball down the gutter into the gulch beside me.
They say it’s bowling.
My thin lips involuntarily draw into a smile which is mimicked by the thick lips of the children. That’snot bowling. I say. Bowling is for Sunday afternoons with rocky road ice-cream and not-dead or dyingfamily. But I don’t say the last part. Instead I get up. Let me show you.
The children shyly shove me their ball. Standing in my military boots, dark beret lopsided on my head, I walk to where the sidewalk ends.
I lay in bed, cuddled up
with your expired scent.
Beneath layers of tasteless
winter wear, your name
was stitched on the left of my chest.
I squinted at the once-
purple, lively lilac bundle
you gave me
last spring, telling me,
“They represent our youth.”
Then I glanced at the heathers
and heard your voice:
“These embody my admiration
The day was dreary
but the sun was emblazoned
on the center of the Boreal Forest,
its deer and raccoons.
The hibiscus absorbed
all the life I carried.
And the only way I was able
to discern your near-perfect
eyelashes and wrinkled forehead
was on this wet pillow
where I planted my head,
and where I will revolve.
Indecisive winds ricochet off crisp waves
onto trees that sway left and right
like Stevie Wonder. The sky bleeds
a perpetual hue of blues, accompanied by
abstract, white clouds splattered tediously
along the canvas. In contrast, an immense
lighthouse faithfully provides great shade
for a bed of iron gates.